My mom was an epic gardener. The plants, trees, birds, they all meant something to my mom. We were surrounded in “robins have built a nest in the planter on my porch.” This was the same woman that pumped up her pellet rifle to pick squirrels out of the high cottonwood trees bending over the slew between her property and the glass castle below. When she had a dog, lovely Roses, the Blue Healer Australian Shepherd mix, would run down to the bottom yard and grab the dead squirrels, like a game of fetch. She didn’t eat them. Maybe mangled them a bit and threw them around so she could go fetch them again. But it was an ecosystem of my mom’s lake house. She was a bit of a witch and a bit of a wizard at the same time.
My kids would love going to Nana’s house. Her back yard was 10 acres of forest and rock that sloped down to the same rain-weather creek that passed beside the big house. I played in the valley. My kids and their two cousins would spend hours in Nana’s woods, up above my old stomping grounds, but continuing to play the same games. Fort. Chase. Hide and Seek. It was a happy time at Nana’s even as my sister’s marriage was falling apart, and mine was struggling. Nana’s was a refuge for all of us.
This morning, in this present moment, I am watering my lawn and associated plants and trees, most of which I planted almost three years ago, when I was able to qualify for a mortgage due to my good job and my mom’s estate leaving me enough for the 15% down payment. My lawn is a testament to my hippie sister. I even have the “Wildlife Habitat” sign to fend off the offended white lawn mower types. It’s a mix of native grasses and a wildflower mix I laid down two years ago. Barren Plain Restoration Mix it was called. I made it snow seeds and hoped for the best. This year, the field of dreams has paid off. And I enjoy my moments each morning around 6 am, chatting with my mom’s spirit as I take care to nurture several volunteer plants (a Pride of Madagascar and a Live Oak) and the bougainvillea I’d planted beneath my featured Juniper.
The feature of my yard, that I’ve been committed to for several years are a number of Carolina Sapphire Arizona Cypress trees. Three up front by the curb. Three along the right side of the house to eventually block the house that was remodeled and painted stark white for some reason. And one more tree on the left side near the driveway.
As I spend ten minutes showering my garden with the elixir of life, I wonder does any of the water sprayed onto a cypress get wasted? As I’m trying to grow the front three together at the same rate, I am curious if more fertilizer or more water would let the third tree catch up to the other two. (There’s a story there, but I’m going to tell it later.)
Then I imagine my son, asleep behind the wall where the water hose is humming with flow. Does he need more fertilizer, more water, sunlight? What can I (we his care team) provide? Last night I ordered our favorite pizza and texted him about the arrival. “Thanks.” After alerting him to delivery he emerged, said nothing, grabbed three pieces on the plate I had left out for him and went out of the back screen porch to eat and smoke. No word this time. He keeps his AirPods in 24-7. And a few months ago he liked to tell me he could enable Transparency mode and hear conversations across the room. And, consequently, when I do a team call with his 12-step coach and family, I now have to take it from down the street. “He can hear, you brother,” the coach says. “That’s his words. Please respect his request.”
Yes, we’re still having accountability and treatment meetings without the patient. This sets up a lot of wiggle room and avoidance. If the coach is the enforcer and the enabler, then we are just talking about and around him, but not to him. It’s time for us to include him in all his depression and shame in the conundrum his behavior is causing us.
I think about my Nana and how much she doted on her grandkids. My son was clearly one of the bright stars in her life. As I am watering the Sego Palm one foot from his bed, separated by a wall, I wonder what my mom would’ve said to him. I remember one time I missed my psychiatrist appointment. “I didn’t make it,” I told her that afternoon over the phone. We agreed to have daily checking. “How are you doing?” “Not great,” I’d say. Or, “Medium.” When I told her I skipped because I was tired, her question was reflexive. “Why did you do that? That’s not going to help you.”
I want to ask my son the same questions about his recent emergency about competing his last semester in college. His flurry of activity came on during the last possible week to register for classes. The OCD side of the team worried about money, refunds, and “but if he withdraws by Sunday, he will get the full amount back to try again in January.” Holy fuck. That’s where we are.
Until then…
The course is unclear. There’s talk of in-patient care. But he’s refusing to even consider it. Sure, he doesn’t want to be kicked out of my house, be homeless on the streets, or return to the house of OCD, but he’s not taking any action on his own. It’s like he’s the frog in the boiling water, he knows it’s getting too hot, his people are shouting at him to get out, and his own inner compass is saying, “Fuck it, let’s go!”
He’s fucking it up to cause the drama that does what? Yes, the “fuck you” provides a huge boost of dopamine, I’m sure. I understand that dark and painful tonic. It does make you feel. Even if it’s horrible, disappointing others, it’s a mainline to a jolt of anxiety and joy juice of the “holy fuck” variety. My variation was “I’m sorry.” I would apologize to my wife for her anger. I was good with my actions. She was complaining, ranting, and slamming pots and pans in the kitchen until I would go see what the crisis was. Then she would let me have it. It was an aggressive form of passive aggression. Make a mess and lots of noise until you get the concession and apology you wanted.
Then, at some point, sorry became a jab. Like I would start doing whatever the fuck I wanted, stacking dishes in the sink after dinner and joining bath-and-bedtime-rituals, rather than “never leaving dirty dishes in the sink for the morning.” Arguing about it didn’t change her mind. If it was your turn you had to do the dishes. No exceptions. But that was bullshit, so I didn’t abide. Just like speed limits, right, they are suggestions, and mainly for the shitty or distracted drivers. Not for F1 Drivers in training.
But the disaffection was not about chores or my behavior. The trouble was deeper inside her. It’s obvious now, seeing her over-thinking mind getting hung up on the simplest detail of care for our son, the crossed wiring was an issue that time or therapy was not going to fix. Her “divorce motion” was actually a gift. Sure, the fourteen years so far, have been a bit of a roller coaster, it has been infinitely better than the system of approval I was constantly trying to learn and perform to. The standards were unspoken, harshly enforced, and more often than not reason for not having sex.
Again, it wasn’t how or how frequently I was asking for sex, it was just that I was asking for sex at all. In that time I wondered aloud about the Zzzz effect of the Zoloft she was on. It was deeper. Fundamental. Her parents, though highly functional, would’ve gotten a negative number of the empathy test. It was all numbers and equations with them. That’s how my wife learned to negotiate with others. Her spreadsheets became something of a joke. She wasn’t kidding. She was managing her own spinning plates as best she could, and spreadsheets and “business meetings” were the best she could do with her insecure wiring.
What is obvious now, just releasing the first securely attached adult relationship I’d ever had, I was never going to be able to negotiate safety in my marriage. There was always something. Always a reason. Mainly a complaint. And more frustration and anger than seemed humanly possible. I mean, if you’re going to be in a relationship with someone…
Back in this present moment, lawn watered, my son has failed at gaining his accommodation for his last semester at college. Turns out this university does not offer any remote courses during a student’s senior year. But, we already knew that. Leave it until the last week to generate letters, have doctor’s notes, and submit the entire thing, one day before the close of registration, and… “We don’t offer any remote courses at the senior level. If you are unable to attend classes, perhaps take another semester off to heal your other issues.”
There was never going to be an accommodation. She shared the student handbook reference. Now, it’s unclear if he ever got the variance he claimed he did last February. He certainly didn’t follow through with any of the work if he did. And rather than get two “withdrawals” he got two F’s. Of course, this has obsessively fascinated my ex-wife’s husband. He’s on the case. He’s working the angle. Uncovering more ways our son missed the “assistance funding” and deadlines for applying for student loans. This is a family that’s sitting on at least 3 – 4 million dollars. Perhaps it’s the principle.
It’s misguided. A distraction from the emotional part of this situation that neither him nor my ex-wife can process. The don’t have the DNA. They never learned what compassionate care, loving kindness, unconditional support looks like. They just don’t have the internal wiring to sense or respond to the other person’s emotional body. It is about the money, the dates, the failures. No. It’s about our kid. It’s about holding him safely until he gets the support he needs. We are currently not providing it.
As we know, you can’t make someone go into treatment. And if they are over 18 you will get sued by them if you try to have them committed. So, my son is going to fight this idea. He’s already said he won’t go. But the team is poised to have Zoom calls and insurance reviews to see which in-patient treatment program would have the most psychological support.
From my experience inside the asylum, there’s not much hope offered there. Safety. He wouldn’t be allowed bad drugs and would be given supervised meds at supervised periods each day. He would meet others struggling with mental, physical, addictive issues. No “age appropriate” options. He’s an adult now. He’s emotionally about 15 years old, getting the discipline that he needed at 15 the first time around from two people so emotionally wounded, THIS (points back to the paragraphs just read) is their best effort at love and support.
I will be quiet for now. Larger forces are at play here. I will give the serenity prayer some whispers in my mind. And I will go on with my life. I’m here. He’s in my house and safe and well-fed. Now, at this moment, I’m going to meet my daughter for breakfast before she heads back to Lubbock for her last semester of college.
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