I want to imagine that I’m not the bad guy. That the divorce is not what caused so much trouble for my son. There was nothing I could do then to save a marriage with a woman who was withdrawing into a mix of resentment and rage about something. About the life and prosperity not turning out like she’d hoped. Like we’d hoped. Like I’d promised.
I’ve always been a man of big dreams. I was going to make it as a poet, a writer, and advertising designer. I knew better than to pin actual hopes on my music or my writing. Perhaps I could teach.
It didn’t all work out. As things usually don’t. While my big plans have often been well-intentioned, well-fueled with coffee and inspiration, our young family found ourselves behind on our mortgage, struggling to find things we liked to do together as a couple, and an obsessive attention to our children. She would write three-page letters to their teachers. She was certain she could be the influence that would finally get her son into the Gifted and Talented program in 5th grade.
Today, I’m imagining myself as a more tolerant an supportive dad than I am. Turns out, according to my son’s recovery coach, I’m emanating my emotions. Even as I am doing things like leaving food out for my son, buying his favorite junk food (at my own risk), and giving him a wide birth to go through his growing pains, I am emitting my own disappointment.
Part of this is true. I am pissed. I’m sad too. I say “that motherfucker” a lot. And I’ve recently been referring to my son as the Chupacabra living in my house. It’s not all in fun. I’m sure I am venting my frustration, my own disappointment that allowing him back into my happy home has not had the miraculous effect of sobering him up toward adulthood. Still…
I am turning a corner today. I will be more aware of my aura. I will repeat the letting go process with more intention and vigor. And most importantly, I will let my son go through whatever he is going through. My new box of Cheezits and bag of chocolate chip cookies, while dangerous to my health, are not going to influence him one way or another. My desire to leave my bedroom door open so I can see him, and maybe have a “hello” is part of MY NEED. I can let that go too.
I need to live my life in this moment with detachment from my son’s malady. Yes, he’s been experiencing “major depressive disorder.” I understand that one to my own molecular being. AND, I am (have to be) powerless over his actions and agency. I’m still hoping that my goodwill, my cooking, my engaging with him to watch a movie or go for a walk will pop him out of it.
I am seeing the upped dose of SSRI is having the desired effect. He’s going from fertile and wounded animal to lively and antagonistic. That’s the switch. From flight to fight.
And there’s a softening. I have to remember this too. “One good action today,” his coach tells me. “Today was a good day.”
It’s hard. My son is sober. The soothing drugs the empowering drugs are no longer providing the scaffolding around his damaged soul. He is raw dogging it in my music room. He’s asking to have a better desk. To put up blackout curtains.
“You’re not going to be here that long,” I said a few days ago. Emmination again.
The plan is treatment or a men’s sober house. I am tired of being his chaperone. If he were taking some positive action. If he were trying a little bit harder. If he would put the empty Gatorade bottles in the recycling.
“He’s doing that to fuck with you, man,” says the coach. “And it’s working.”
Okay, so I’m powerless over my own life. I get that. I need a spiritual program to help me feel connected. The algebra is not hard: I AM POWERLESS OVER MY SON’S ACTIONS.
“You guys are the enemy,” says the coach.
I hate being lumped in with my ex-wife and her husband, who are generally fucked up and making things worse. But, I also accept the truth.
It’s funny, recovery people always like (need) to count their years in the program. For alcoholics it is a the practice of staying sober, alive, for one more day. “Their goal is to walk past the bar and not go in,” said my Al Anon sponsor a number of years ago. “We have a different struggle. We’re addicted to high emotions. Drama gives us energy. We are attracted to the unavailable partners, in order to feel our own powerlessness and struggle. It’s how we were raised.”
I am in the process of reinvigorating my Al-Anon program. It’s as if I am trying to rescue my alcoholic father all over again, except this time the “qualifier” is on the other side, my son. (Qualifier is an Al-Anon term for the one’s who we blame for being in recovery. We don’t drink and drug. We attach to those people who remind us of our own powerlessness.
I did choose my son. I did raise him with all my heart and soul. I am still 100% invested in that process. And, I’m losing myself a bit. I keep thinking I can move him, make him laugh, give him hope. That does not come from our parents. It can’t. The request, the requirement, is too high.
Without a complete surrender, when I was 7 and asking Jesus to save my parents marriage and stop my dad from killing himself with alcohol, I probably would not be such an easy safety net for my son. He resents me. He also knows I’m his last safety hold on the side of the mountain that drops precipitously. With the coach’s coaxing, his mom has agreed that he cannot return to their house.
Ah, we’ve reached a squeeze point again. I guess we will go round and round as long as it takes.
That’s the other part. I’m impatient. I want him to get his shit together. I want him to wake up before noon.
To what? To face what?
He has no hope for the immediate future. In fact, we are putting options in front of him over the next few weeks, that are actually his greatest nightmare. Treatment. More rehab. All this talk about God. Old white guys talking about drinking and not drinking.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” he shouts.
And here we are. His coach, thankfully is Hispanic, so not an “old white guy.” Maybe that’s how he got into my son’s circle of trust. He’s wedged in a little bit of hope. He is advocating for my son. He’s advocating for my son to quit shitting where he’s living. My son did the pile of dishes he created, the other evening. I could hear the pots and pans being put into the dishwasher. I wanted to go help, show him which buttons to use for the right cycles. I was sad for him. I didn’t want him to be miserable.
But I can’t get inside his moment in the kitchen, finally understanding that he created the mess he is in. The dishes are a metaphor. You can’t avoid the pile of stinking dirty plates, the fruit flies, the lack of a clean bowl for cereal.
What I can do: return to taking care of myself. Being the me I want to be. Focusing on my issues. Harnessing my creativity and energy. Exploring the moment of not being in a relationship and the sadness and open-ended time it brings.
Somedays I understand the ennui of the world. Time is slow. And if you’re struggling for something to do, something fun, there’s going to be a lot of time to kill. I don’t have that problem, in general, but on some days, yesterday, I could feel the yaw of the long Sunday afternoon. I wanted to go get a therapeutic massage. I wanted to nap. I wanted to write or play a song. I tried reading. I did an audible chapter and promoted it. And I was still left with HOURS of uncharted time.
This is where people scroll, swipe, gossip, and watch reality television. Or drink. I let myself feel the uncomfortable unknown. I wanted to jump back into online dating sites for inspiration. Nope. I was bored. My creative thrust had tuckered out for a moment.
Perhaps even the looming idea of my own depression factors into this ongoing struggle with my son. How much longer can I just “take” it? Should I be talking to my doctor about adding a little something “on board” for the shitshow I’m navigating?
Nope.
I’m not “happy as I’ve ever been” but I am solid in my own autonomy. It’s me and my higher power against the world. I can learn and relearn that again. I can pray more often than complain. Perhaps, I’ll even join my son’s gratitude exercises. On my own, of course, he doesn’t need the pressure or perceived competition.
With my dad, there was going to be no competition. Though he was the reason I took up tennis (my ongoing passion) he didn’t play with me. By the time I was old enough and strong enough to give him a game, he’d had a heart attack during the finals of a tennis tournament. He didn’t play tennis anymore. He took up golf. And golf with him was a nightmare.
And my dad’s financial success was also a part of my journey that I struggled with. “Money does not buy happiness,” I said.
“Money troubles hit everyone,” I said, years later to my then-wife. “We can make it through this.”
I think she was pissed that we’d ever hit a rough patch. From my high-rise condo downtown, she must’ve imagined a life of a stay-at-home mom, painter, poet, and uber-mom. It didn’t quite work out that way. She resented even her part-time consulting job.
We’d agreed early on that she would stay at home with the kids until they were in school. And for the most part, that’s how things went. At one point, we were running a maid and a babysitter who cooked. I had the big job in a nearby town that took me two hours of drivetime every day. She was working 10 hours a week and volunteering at the kids’ elementary school each week. It seemed to me like we were close.
She was unhappy.
Today, I understand more clearly that she’s an unhappy person. That her struggles had a bit to do with me, but most of what keeps her underwater and thrashing is her own muddled thoughts, her own panic and drama, her own fears. She was raised by an insane mom and a stoic dad who did his best to accommodate the powerfully mad woman. My ex-wife never imagined a safe or happy home. So, even when she had one, she felt insecure and on edge most of the time. There was never enough time. Never enough money. Never enough success.
I wanted to be able to provide enough to give her the full-time stay-at-home status. But, that would’ve required some sacrifices. We’d need to move to a less affluent neighborhood. Maybe pay for private school instead of the blue ribbon one our taxes were going to.
We didn’t make the leap. I didn’t make the cut. In 2009, as the economy was in a death spiral, Dell, laid off 50% of my large global marketing team. I got a package. 6-months all bills paid vacation, with benefits and a bonus.
“It’s not enough money,” she said during a fateful lunch on my first Monday not driving into Dell.
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