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I can imagine, but not very well, the culture and society my father was raised in. As I cannot really fathom my son’s malaise and the complications of his life at 25. I have to use my own experience, growing up in the 70s and 80s like an unclear lens. I know I’ve been through similar struggles. I know my dad went through massive struggles of his own. I can’t even contemplate jumping back to his dad’s history and culture. A grand time.
Still, standing on the shoulders of my father’s father and my father, I have to do my best to comfort, encourage, and rustle my son’s self-destructive behavior. He leaves at night, between 7 and 9, depending on when he thinks I’m going to be home. The bathroom where he showers is usually still warm and smelling of one of his expensive cologne samples.
I didn’t sleep well last night, but I can’t put that over on him or his gun-fueled spasm. I woke up at 4 am. Fed the cats. Looked in the driveway, no car. I pinged him last night before I went to bed.
Wrapped in his blurry response was this, “i could probably do with some more focused (and expensive) therapy in regards to finding coping mechanisms to feel more ‘safe’ in my subconscious.” Ah, he’s hearing my message. Why the guns? What are you threatened by?
We went to dinner the other night. Watched two episodes of a show about a hit man that he chose. I was happy to be sharing an experience, any experience. I did not like the experience of being in my kitchen talking to him, seeing the pistol shoved in the front of his pants. I didn’t react or mention it. I think he does shit like this to get a rise out of me.
Oh, he’s gotten my rise. My attention is split between codependence: I want my son around, and comorbidity: several factors increasing the likelihood of death or disaster. I’m hoping to avoid his death or my own.
As my father ascended in the career path chosen by his father, his success and resulting wealth mad my father in a raging alcoholic. I know he liked a lot of coffee in the morning. The story is, he also needed a lot of alcohol to bring him down after work. My mom, not much of a drinker, began to complain. He would come home, via Century ski boat, to his mansion on the lake, four kids in various stages of disappearing, and his wife, waiting, with dinner.
The fights became more frequent and more violent. Occasionally, my dad would drive off in one of the other cars. His 450 SL was left at the boat dock for his water-road commute to the office. His disruptive behavior had massive effects on his children too. His older son, a Jr., became his punching bag for everything going wrong. Of course, my brother was bouncing off the sad satellites of our house, escaping from the shitshow whenever, however he could. He too became an alcoholic and masochist.
My favorite sister leaned into the summer of love sixties. Snuck out of the house with boyfriends for all-night parties. My other sister, the golden child, also began experimenting with cigarettes and beer, courtesy of her brother, two years older and wiser. They were a pair. She could get them both out of critical jams by arguing with Mom over the details. She was smart. She liked arguing.
I am threading a needle with my son. I know this time is critical for his development. He’s behaving like a bad teenager. He doesn’t have to sneek out, however, in my house, at the moment, he is free to come and go as he pleases. The guns are alarming. The number of boxes from Amazon arriving at my house, also alarming. Where is he getting the money? Why is he polishing and playing with rifles, bullets, and night scopes?
I try to inspire him back toward music. We used to dabble in music together.
“The guns are a destructive passion. There is nothing good being generated by your gun fetish,” I said to him at dinner. “I appreciate the energy, and that you’re not catatonically depressed, but it’s not healthy. I’d love to get you back into music in some way, like assembling blocks of beats into a new song. You used to dive headfirst into that playground.”
“Yeah, it’s hard to get set up again.”
“You don’t need a lot of gear. Learning one new sequencing software package could take you a month. Discovering your voice, your song. Giving your energy and struggle some outlet that doesn’t involve shooting and killing.”
I sense a moment. He loves singing along to the crazy angry songs as we drive home from dinner. “I could set you up to sing one of those Radiohead songs you love. Decks Dark or Daily Mail.”
We watch the show, gore and humor wrapped together. I go to bed at 10:30, he goes out. I don’t see him until the next morning when I find him sleeping in his garage workspace, curled over a rifle. Later in the morning he has moved to the screened porch for a cigarette, and he’s asleep in a painful position in the rocking chair. I leave for work after suggesting he go get in his bed.
When I arrive home, nine hours later, he appears groggy and confused.
“Did you sleep in the chair the whole time, or did you finally go get in your bed?”
“No.”
I brought him some food, which he sits down and immediately digs into. No more words. He showers and takes about two hours to leave again, always taking about five tactical bags. Two years ago, one of those bags contained his drug-dealing setup. Fuck.
I suppose he thinks he’s smarter than all of us. As the Amazon deliveries continue, his delivery of the software project he is working on is delayed (because he’s not working on it, he’s fiddling with guns). I drop three new packages from the doorstep next to him in the garage, and I ask him, “Where are you getting all the money for these packages that arrive daily?” He laughs. No answer.
A few minutes later he emerges and shows me a high-power insect repellent that has no scent. I’m unmoved.
In the context of today, I’m doing what I think is best: giving him a safe place to rest, gather his life together, and get a plan. The problem is, he’s not moving forward. He talks about “needing to work” yet spends the entire night out somewhere. Doing something. With tons of bags of weapons and whatever. It’s the whatever that I’m worried about.
Here I am, working my ass off, restricting all of my creative bursts (outside of this writing) to look for work, work, and try to contain my son. I understand my father’s rage at how easy his kids had it. He was bitter. He wanted to be a kid with summer camps and no responsiblities. I guess my son is leaning into the no responsibilities thing. He’s doing something to keep himself up all night. He’s doing something in the 24-hour coffee shops across the city, with a car and crotch full of guns, ammo, and whatnot.
I am sad about his struggle. I am sad that my daughter has gone on vacation with my ex-wife, and is going again for Thanksgiving, with her to DC. My birthday. 
I get the message. I’m alone.
The thread of family giving me joy is my cousin and her 101 dad, my uncle, my dad’s sisters husband, the Air Force major. I love the dysfunction and turkey and chatting Lew up about the bombers he flew. Sharp as a tack. I’ve seen 101 and it looks good. I’m seeing our side of the family at 23 and 25, and even my own 63 in a week or so. Comfort where you can find it, family when you have it. Joy is a cultivated experience. If you don’t work at improving your life, it will stay the same or get worse.
