Notes on the Spectrum Dives into this frightening moment: Love Against Probablity
I am alone. God/Jesus are not answering my repeated calls. Or…
Shit. Perhaps they are, I just don’t like the answer.
My life is not going to be complete when I find a perfect mate. Soulmate is a fictitious term. Love and relationships are work. When one partner opts out, it’s over, regardless of the left party’s efforts or pleas. When a child goes dark, slips into something dangerous and uncomfortable, there are things we can do, as parents.
My dad was a raging alcoholic who destroyed his livelihood and ultimately his life by continually making bad decisions. My son is making the same hard choices. Turning toward drugs, guns, and oblivion. There’s no way to sugarcoat it. No escape for the wicked. The psychiatrist I spoke to yesterday summed it up. “There are three ways out of this. Death. Prison. Or rehab. That’s it. Give him my phone number, he’s got to make the appointment.”
Fuck.
I’ve ramped up my own selfcare network. Had a great talk with my psychiatrist of 15 years. I’m going to add some of the free mental health resources offered by my corporate job. I’ve called his mom. I am set. I am devastated. Sad. Lost. I will be more sad if he dies or goes to prison. A pretty and thin white boy in prison is a horrific image. Those are the consequences.
The doctor said something esle. “I’ve been doing this for twenty-five years. The longer you postpone the intervention, the longer he has to make a fatal error. Waiting is only giving the first two alternatives more time.
I guess the fourth option is he moves out, moves into his car, or in with his new coding, new gun, new hairdresser. He’s not going to be living here after Saturday. The date is based on my next available day off. The terms are to support me and my recovery from the fallout of busting my son for the third time.
I’m not going to inventory his fuckups. I told his mom and stepdad a few minutes ago, he’s probably passed out in some random place in my house 30 times over the last three months. He’s making really bad choices.
Last night as he was leaving the house at 8:30 he said he was going to trade guns with someone at a ranch nearby. Hmm. Here’s the text from him this morning.
I think the real question he wants to ask. “When are you going to be out of the house?”
Nope.
Interesting when you don’t get a reply to a text, right? Our kids do this to us all the time. They don’t like it when we don’t respond in a timely manner. LTC is a license to carry. We crossed that bridge two years ago as I was trying to pull him out of his shame spiral.
Nope.
See, when he pulls into the driveway, there is no way of seeing or knowing if I’m in the house or at work. He usually sits in the car and observes for a bit. Pulls out his prepper bags and walks around the house and in through the screen porch. He likes when he has my house alone. He can do whatever he likes. Go through more of my private stuff. Do whatever the fuck he’s doing.
He’s moved all of his weapons into the shed out back. He said a week ago that it was to eliminate the distraction of the guns. I came home from work at 9:30 pm a few nights ago. He was out in the shed. Banging on something. “Rearranging,” he said when I asked him about it.
He’s changed the padlock on the shed. It was a combo lock with the code 1984. Nice touch, knowing that’s one of my favorite books. Now it’s a keyed lock. I just escalated and put one of his cheap Chinese gun locks on the door. He can cut through it. But, now he knows I’m on to his bs. You don’t change the lock on my shed. Whatever you are hiding is no longer welcome in my home.
So, Saturday is my first day off. I will ask about the second phone. It’s go time.
Pray for me. Pray for him. Pray for the rest of the people in his orbit.
note: image panels created with AI
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