this chapter is now streamable from YouTube for free: Up and Out
Who am I to imagine that I know what’s best? I do not. I know what’s worked for me. I know “the mountain” was my attempt to sidestep the chaos of the last two months by getting my son on his own journey back to hopefulness.
Is it my choosing the positive details to remain hopeful? Is my own optimism part of the problem?
A few weeks ago, in a moment of need, I attended an old “home group” for Al-Anon. I was in need of some community. The reading, from The Courage To Change, had a clear message.
“You are already doing too much.”
It struck me with both a wave of relief and a release of my own unrealistic expectations.
I do understand that my son’s path forward is 100% up to him. My mountain became an idea he could rebel agains, rail about being “sent away,” and kumbaya circles. His talky therapist exchanged a few private texts with me after the last bolt to Dallas.
“Honestly, I would put all of that on hold?”
She meant the intensive therapeutic assessment therapy that my wife is investing in. More invested in than my son, for sure, as long as he has his guns and a place to sleep that’s not “in their house of hell.”
Toward the beginning of this crisis, once we had established the plan: no more drug dealing, move home from Dallas, get a waiver to do college remotely, pull his life back together. And the day after the intervention (aborted) he made the decision to drive back to Dallas and deal with his apartment and schitzophrenic roommate. And off he bolted away from the care and concern that had just been revitalized.
“I’m going to go clean that shit up,” he said, packing his car. The guns were away. The drugs had been disposed of. He would return to live with me while a plan was crafted. HE HAD TO DESIGN THE PLAN. Without his full-cooperation all efforts to force my son into treatment would fail. At 23 he would walk out.
Off he sped away from us. Returning to the scene of the crimes, the holdup, the untreated roommate who hibernated in his bedroom playing fortnight with his cat, a stray, not on the lease, that was not allowed out of his bedroom. “I’m going to get packed up, and get out of there,” he said, with his usual enthusiasm. He was energized by the forced reconfiguration.
“I’ve got to do this, as a man,” he said. “Make this right.”
Things got spotty the minute he left in his car. Hopeful, I was also concerned that he had merely told us what we wanted to hear so he could get back to Dallas, away, back into his own personal hell. He struggled over the next week to make a plan, get packed, and arrange to get his things moved back to Austin.
His friend from the apartment was a mover. “He’s going to do the entire move for $800.” First it was Thursday. Then “over the weekend.” Then, “he was coming back from a funeral, I don’t want to call him first thing in the morning.” It was 11:30 and my son was stalling, or unable to manage the steps to get moved.
“He needs an additional $100 to do it on Sunday,” he said. “So it might need to wait until next week.”
On Tuesday the following week, no real progress was being made. Neither my ex-wife or I could get a read on what he was actually spending his time doing. He did not appear to be packing in the few texts I got from him. More reasons for the friend’s help to be delayed.
I called him from Buckee’s, halfway to Dallas. “I’m coming up.”
“Oh shit. I wish you wouldn’t.”
“It’s okay, I’m here to help.”
“It’s a shitshow here, but okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I’ll be at the hotel at the Galleria at 1 pm.”
“Okay, I’m sitting outside the leasing office waiting for them to open. POS won’t sign the release.”
At 5 pm he texted me, “I’m downstairs.”
“What took you from 11 am until 5 pm to get here?”
“I don’t know man. I’m starving.”
We hit the mall in search of mutually agreeable food. Some pizza and calzone place. He was discharging energy and wild ideas at a rapid clip. I held up my hand until he paused.
“I am not here to argue with you,” I said.
“Thank you. I appreciate that.”
“I’m just here to listen. And maybe help you get back to Austin.”
“I really appreciate it. I’m sorry it’s so fucked up.”
And with that, we ate, swapped war stories, and wandered around the mall for a bit. He wanted to take me into his two favorite stores, both blasting hip hop trash rap at top volume. I didn’t have my airpods. He was disappointed.
“I thought we were going to spend some time together,” he complained after I bailed on the first sneaker store.
“Retail therapy is not my thing,” I said.
“Fair enough, just come see this other place,” he was pointing to an odd hat store, also blaring profane rap to entice mall walkers into the buying mood.
“I’ll be down here,” I said. “It’s fine. Take all the time you need.”
“You’re not going to buy me the Rolex, then? Dammit. My plans ruined.”
It was a moment of light acceptance. We smiled about it later in the hotel room. There were two king beds and a picture window with a stoop. He sat there, looking at the traffic on the freeway, and texting. I started thinking about a movie we might watch together. Relax. Enjoy just being safe and being together.
“I need to smoke a cigarette,” he said, jumping up and pulling on his survivalist backpack. “I’ll be back in a few.”
He sent me a few photos of his descent from the sixth floor. And a photo of him at his car holding a Mexican Coke. And poof, he went dark.
“I’m going to sleep,” I said. “See you in a bit.”
At 2 am I woke up. No son. Texting. No response. I called him. He picked up, “Oh, sorry man, I came back to my apartment for my Airpods, I must’ve fallen asleep. I’m sorry. I’m on my way back. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
Last contact. He never came back.
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