Listen to this discussion free on YouTube: Production of Clouds discussion
The storm will run out of rain.
This morning, the cold front has swamped us with a rainstorm a bit more threatening than comforting. The grasses and trees are happy. My son’s car, no room at the inn, is wrapped in a silver tarp in the driveway. At midnigh,t as the roar of the rain woke me from my sleep, I went out and opened the garage to check on the storm drain. It was refreshing to go out into the torrent and clear the leaves and debris. The standing water swished through the gate, and the garage was saved from flooding. My son was sleeping in his room in his full clothes, his normal mode.
Steady through the storm has been my mantra for the last few years as life moved into a vicious period. I was fired from my big tech job by a manager who had little-man complex. His ignorant action just bought me a new car. Not the annual salary reimbursement I was hoping for, and not a Porsche. I am happy. Fk that guy.
My son I cannot jettison so easily. Over a year ago, I did just that. Drove him from my house (same bat movie, same bat channel) to the sober house. It might have saved his life. It certainly gave his mom and me a bit more breathing room. He was acting like a petulant teenager, refusing to take responsibility for his disastrous choices. No need to rehash book one, but the *worm oroboros” has come back to roost. While the situation is better, his choices are still suspect.
I can no longer speculate. I have to sit back a little. Give him some slack. Pay attention to my own journey. I can only control my actions, my words, my plans. My son must fend for himself. Today, within the warm confines of Dad’s house. Not ideal for either of us. But… A moment for us to reconnect, rebond, and find common ground. The common narrative we share. Mania. Depression. And the wild mood swings in between. It is only in the last six years that I’ve been able to unhook myself from the vomit comet ride of emotional variability. Or, garden-variety, bipolar depression.
That’s not all, however. In my case, there is still some deep traumatic healing I am processing, perhaps in my writing. I hope for my son to find an expressive outlet that is not guns and ammo. He’s a sweet kid who’s pretending to be hard with camo and end-of-the-world prepping. It is violence masquerading as macho masculinity that is more aligned with the Proud Boys than the Soft Boys. I’d like to bring music back into his life.
“Imagine if you took this much interest in music again? An activity that is creative, not destructive. A passion we can both share. An artistic dream we both share.”
I couldn’t quite get the full concept out at breakfast yesterday before I had to leave for work. He was back to fiddling with bullets.
I can’t change his course. I can’t really provide advice, he goes adverse. So, my role, as a parent, is to move forward with my own life in this tough time. I can’t tell him how to survive. I can show him.
Then, my role is to let go of any ideas of controlling or changing him. I can offer musical invitations. Mainly, I can go to work, seek a new job, and press on with my creative ambitions. I think all I need from him is genuine effort. Ceasing the joyrides between 2 am and 8 am.
He has some ideas of a plan for moving to an apartment in Round Rock, closer to his patron saint, the woman who is paying him to build her website and application. She’s apparently willing to produce pay stubs to substantiate his income so he can qualify. As I know, nothing will happen quickly. That is fine. I am enjoying the time to be near to him. To see him. To influence him with my own livelihood and optimism. He could use a new operating system, one with less anxiety and angst. One that doesn’t mirror his mom’s victim response to adversity. I’ll leave the recollections of her corpse alone for now.
The rain pounded us all last night. I slept through most of it. Managed the water risk in the early hours and went back to bed. He had a similar jolt, I imagine, to the sound of the storm. He covered his beater red car with a silver tarp. His camo poncho was hanging from a hook on the front porch. I was happy he was in his bed when I woke up early this morning.
My body, somehow, is already adjusting to the coming time change. I woke up at 4 am this morning. Tried to settle the cats and go back to sleep. My mind was ready to go. My shift today is not until 1 pm. I have a full day ahead of me before I have to report for my shift.
Last night, before I crashed out, I got an email from the most ambitious of my two job opportunities. A win. An invitation to an hour with the head of HR in Singapore. I’ve made it to the next stage.
Today, my plan is to get five publishing packages out. Just having the process in motion provides a lift, just like applying for jobs. I can’t get the new role unless I apply. And with my writing, a literary agent is unlikely to discover me, I have to reach out. Never give up. And reach out again.
Kind of like I do with my kids. Reach out. Let go. Follow up. Reach out again.
