I wonder some days if I’m doing penance for losing most of my time with my son in the divorce. Like, even this horrible time is time. Right? I wonder how the layering of the audiobooks, the visuals, and the writing are blending together creating some altered state of mind in me. I am in a fit. A burst. A writing period with good energy and optimism.
We wait.
Either he’s going to treatment or some other place other than this. He’s being an asshole. He’s trying to be an asshole. I’m sure, I am the cause of much of his angst. I’m the fucker who won’t just let him chill out in my pad and be an asshole.
Two things I know. I will be sad when he is gone. His moment has given me something to push against. I am moving the boulder up the hill daily. But I am growing and stretching and writing. Contentment has a lot to do with creative flow for me. I am in the flow.
I am the writer I was hoping to become. I have arrived. Perhaps a bit late. But for me, right on time. I needed the seeding of the divorced dad stuff. I needed the fulcrum of my evil ex-wife. She’s still the arch-enemy in this one. (Note: I need to change that. She’s not the problem.)
Here’s what I also know: I am not my son’s problem. Counterpoint: he is not mine either. We are on our own journeys. He is nearly 24 years in. Mine is close to triple that.
I struggled. I’ve flopped and fallen. I’ve required heavy sedation. Then, I’ve spent years trying to wake up from the sedation. I wonder sometimes, if the molecules of Stellazine are still in me, still working their way out. A hot sweaty tennis match with pushed fluids. I am burning the blase out of my soul. Or, I’m just making shit up.
What if I just continued to live my life? What if I just let him have his own time and space? Didn’t worry about his attitude or mine, for that matter. I say “motherfucker” a lot more than I should. In the past, I was referring to “others” and “the man.” I don’t like it applying to my son. And I’m sure, he’s full of vinegar for me as well. Maybe he should’ve passed through this rebellious period in high school. He’s delayed. Well, shit, I’ve been delayed on everything.
What am I putting out? My vibe?
Shit. I’m starting to slow down a bit. Caught up from the summer break in New York. Back to job hunting. Praying for a just judgment against my last employer. Let’s see, what else? Continued inspiration on the writing front. Perhaps drum up some interest in the actual novel, now burning up on YouTube as I create mini-movies to go along with the audiobook.
What if I wind down? Feel my loss of a lover? Then my son moves out? Fails. Comes back. Moves out again. All the while, money is draining out of me.
Is it mania that is writing this much? Should I put my focus back on “earning a living?”
This is what I want to do. Be doing. Am doing. Do.
I write.
I listen to things in my soul, in my memory, and in my living moments. I seek triggered memories. I give them voice. I relight the areas of my brain storing my existential desire for a relationship with my dad. A relationship that wasn’t possible while he was an active alcoholic. Now, I’m trying to force-feed my son the 12-step program? Okay, he did have a drug problem. He is in need of some major rework.
A reboot and relaunch is all he needs. He will finish college. Get a job. A girlfriend. He’s just in the backwash of two hard years, some poor choices, and growing up. What if he is being helped by just being safe, loved, and fed? What if he’s been needing refuge for years? How was he supposed to reach me? His mom is insane. She has not made it easy on him. Ever.
What if this is a moment of reconciliation for both of us. Me with my dad. Having a connection with my son, the one I wanted with him. And what if he’s getting a new message? Dad is a good guy. Dad is giving you everything he’s got. Dad is allowing you to be an asshole. Dad deserves some thanks.
Tonight we watched a movie together.
One step at a time. A step forward is progress. What if we’re supposed to go real slow at this moment? There’s no urgency now. Next college window is January. What if we could all slow the fuck down?
The SSRI appears to have brought a little light back into his eyes. Let’s give it all a moment. All is right at the moment. He is my son. I miss my father. My father hated his father. Let’s undo some of that historical damage by stopping the bullshit here. We don’t have to be aligned. How about tolerance? Hopeful?
Something is changing. With my creative life. With my career. With my son’s progress toward launching. Everything is mixed up and complex in some non-linear progression. That’s okay. I can let that be okay. I can give my son the peace I never had with my father. I can allow the writing and the historical spelunking to heal me too.
A young man, from the looks of his profile, commented on one of my posts about my son. “My dad never supported me…” he started. Then he veered off into a slam of me and my attacks on my son and how I was being just like his dad. Hmm.
I take this under advisement. I know this is sensitive stuff. I also know my kids don’t read me. Ever. They’ve sworn it off. I don’t share it with them. They don’t Google me or want to hear about my audiobook. Either way, I’ll keep cross-examining myself for anger and vitriol. Yes, it’s charged, yes, I’m upset, and yes, it’s about my son’s malfunctions. But that doesn’t mean I’m abusing him.
I’m also not doing this to cleanse my soul. I am living a hard moment. Creativity is one of the ways I process high drama and my own reactions to craziness in any form. Even my own.
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