Repeating the same mistake over and over is supposed to be something we outgrow. Why is my ex-wife so committed to a gentle catch and release? What does she fear? Her relationship to my kids is not based on emotional attachment, that’s for sure. What is it?
Mom.
I get it. I still need my mom sometimes. We all do. But, Mom’s skirt is not the place for a 23 year old man. As he tortures her, and me I guess, he is either a. getting some pleasure in the shock and awe, or b. he’s flat out terrified about his situation and inability to pull up from his nosedive.
What does it mean to be a 23-year-old man? Fuck@ What does it mean to be a 61-year-old man? And where does happiness come from? And if I could write the perfect ending for this book, I’d give him a happy summer of confidence building and rest to gear up for finishing college.
“I don’t really need the piece of paper,” he said, last summer as he was withdrawn from his final semester the first time.
“If that’s the case, why don’t you go ahead and get a coding job now? Show me.”
Instead, he’s not even looking for work. Not really. Even this summer, he’s paying lip service to the idea of looking for work. But he doesn’t want to be a barista.
“I guess it’s better than being a grocery store cashier,” he said.
“How would you know,” I shot back. I’m tired of his excuses too. We’re all exhausted.
I feel the ghost of my ex-wife’s request in the last therapy session ever. “We just need a break,” she said. “Can’t you just get a hotel room and we can say you’re on a business trip?”
“We’re just trying to keep from having him live in his car,” my ex-wife texted this morning.
About ten years ago, I was struggling. I had lost the job that afforded me my starter home. I was in the process of losing that house to the mortgage company. I had a deal with my mom. I would check in with her, daily. On one phone call she asked how I was doing.
“Well, I slept through my psychiatry appointment.”
“Why did you do that?”
It was so matter of fact. Right. Fuck. Why am I doing shit to hurt myself? I did not ever miss another therapy appointment. And I set up a code with my living sister. If I texted 911 she would drop whatever she was doing and call me. She was leaning in with me.
My son needs some advice about being a man. Not from me. My ideas are rejected out of spite. So, someone he can trust. Again, a male figure, who can talk to him about becoming a man.
Today, an hour ago, I talked to my psychiatrist and long-term mentor about my son. “He needs someone to show him how to grow up. Right now he’s stuck. He doesn’t know where to go or how to get relief from the cage of his own mind.”
Yes. I get it.
I am not that man. I may be a hero in my story with my dad, but in this story, I’m having to keep most of my advice to myself. That’s part of the “program.” You don’t offer advice unless someone specifically asks for your ideas. I’m out of ideas for my son. I’ll hold the gate open to the mountain path.
We find our path to happiness or we don’t. I can’t suggest my books, or my story to my son. Yada yada, dad writes about divorce and depression.
I seek my own serenity. I surrender my son to his higher power. At some point, he’s going to get there. He is willing to admit his addiction and fears of withdrawl, but not yet willing to accept that help. We all find our own way to god, or whatever we choose to believe. He is not a believer.
I will seek my mountain path this summer in the evergreens of New Mexico. He will do what he does. I will just have to wait to offer my love and support. I will not offer advice to him or my ex-wife.
In the hope that this will resonate with him in the future:
“Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.”
My shrink said, “He’s liable to get stuck at this age, in this mindset if he doesn’t move on. He’s got to want to grow up. He needs a man to show him how to do that.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“And for now, it can’t be you.”
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