This is not a scripted show.
This is not fiction. It’s not exactly fact either. So much of our experience is guessing, mindreading, and estimating others. I cannot fathom my son’s current depths. I can, however, empathize and not give into his persuasion and lies. Nope.
The days he’s been hibernated zombie-like in my house are uncountable. One weekend and few days. He’s talking very little. Sleeping most of the time. Isolating in his airpods. Wondering the house at all hours, leaving the lights off this time, as if he does not want to be found or seen. I get it. I have been there.
It is hard watching your kids suffer. The same shit I suffered. The same journey I started in my teens he’s starting in his twenties. He is adrift.
I am lighting signal fires all around him. You could go here. You could do this. What do you want to do?
“I don’t know.”
Well, he says he knows what he WANTS to do, he’s just not making any moves to get there. It’s up to him. When you try for the reach around with one of your children you get resentment, backlash, and in my case absolute defiance. As his dad I suggest one thing I can be assured he’s going to go 180 degrees in the other direction.
Here’s a program, if you complete recovery you can come live with me. FAIL. Left a week early. His case worker, who spoke to me the day after he walked out of recovery said, “He was defiant from the beginning. Wasn’t participating. Missed appointments.”
In other words, my son was holding his breath for 30 days in recovery. He made 21 before he bolted. And how he actually got to my house, I still don’t know. We live 2 hours (at 90 mph) away from the recovery center. I’m glad he felt safe coming here. He lied to his caseworker about his plans, “My dad said I could live with him.”
He doesn’t want to live with either of his parents. Duh! But, he’s also not able to make the adult requirements of employment, sleep schedule, and adhering to the plan. Today, at this moment, he does not have a plan. He articulates no ideas about his future. He complains, like he’s a victim. “I have no car.” Um, right, about that. “I was in rehab for a month.” Yeah, again, “in” and “doing” are two different things. He is defiant. He’s also looking for my med bag.
He knows I have some sleep meds and an anti-anxiety med that he imagines would give him some relief from this sober-living bullshit.
Yesterday, I was finally able to get him to get up go to lunch with me. As we were moving stuff from my car, he noticed my med bag. About ten minutes after we got home he said, “I’m going to go get a haircut. Can I borrow your car?”
“Um, sure. With one parameter. One hour. No off-map escapes.”
“Okay.”
“Let me just get some stuff and I’ll give you the keys.”
I moved the med bag and handed him the keys. Or course, he pushed the limit and was gone an hour and a half. When he got back he was hopping mad. He never said a word. Didn’t say why he was mad. Sulked the rest of the evening as I tried to entice him to watch a movie or a concert video with me. NO. Just nothing. More zombie walk, now with a halo of “you bastard.”
I’m not sure what he is thinking. He’s doing everything he can to avoid accepting his current situation. I want to say, “These wounds are self-inflicted.” I don’t. He knows. He still complains about “no car,” as if he is entitled to a nice car, a place to live, and hey, if he can just finish his college degree a nice place to live, NOT WITH EITHER OF HIS PARENTS.
Except, that’s all he’s got left.
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