He must be about to do a disappearing act. He’s getting booted from his sober house for not following the rules. His coach and 12-step guide has shown his white flag of surrender. “He’s just not moving at a rate you guys are happy with, and I can’t do it anymore.” Um… So the 12-step coach opted out? Damn, this could be more of a problem than it appears. Or, more likely, the 30+ years of sobriety can’t counteract his lingering shame and sense of failure.
Oh, and I asked some questions about the coach’s November bill.
Exit.
Where my son goes next is anyone’s guess, but I’m going to put my money on moving in with his girlfriend. Right, he got a girlfriend a month ago. His emboldened state has now eclipsed his successful navigation of recovery and responsibility. Perhaps the higher dose of Prozac has had an adverse effect. The FIGHT mode has motivated him to make some stupid decisions. There’s no excuse for the 12-step coach. None. My son, at twenty-four, should be aiming at finishing his final semester of college for the third try.
There has been no mention of how he’s going to pay the additional $3,000 for this semester of tuition. No mention of where he’s going after the sober house. The “coach” in his retreating role has given a reference for the “higher level of care” he thinks my son requires. But he’s been using that line, and the line about my son’s rate of recovery, to wash his hands of the souring situation.
That leaves his team diminished. Back to me, Mom, and her husband. Mom is going to be the leak. It’s obvious. I’m not sure what form this is going to take, but at the moment, I’m out of the loop. The last message I got from my son, looked like this.
Pretty sure I’m the dialogue between us is going to be limited to what I can do to help him with a car, with money, with rent, food, tuition, references. He’s not racking up a lot of bonus points with anyone. He is untethered from me, for sure. A lot has happened in his life since last Wednesday when he sent this.
His sister graduated from college. He got his coach fired, or at least retired. He is now being asked to leave the sober house and find new living quarters.
I guess he uses the word “manic” as it was used against me. I do have hyper modes. I have been manic back in high school days. And I understand the reference. Also, mania is a side effect of too much Prozac. As is hyper-sexuality, and phrases like “she’s a good one” from a twenty-something boy on the verge of a meltdown.
I’ve withdrawn my participation. I will be patient. I will pray and work my own steps to serenity and recovery. I will not be drawn back into the system of malfunction that is his mom and her husband.
Let’s be clear. Graduation weekend with the two of them was lovely. When singularly focused, my ex-wife is a loving person. She was quite tender and connective during the two ceremonies celebrating my daughter’s completion of her Bachelor of Science in Nursing. She made a point of sitting next to me for the longer stadium-sized celebration. We shared some jokes and comments about the show.
I watched the event with some intentional awareness. This was the happiest moment in some of these kid’s lives. Their faces, their celebration at the exit-stage-left camera, were all precious. I was basking in the joy of the entire crowd as the night picked up momentum. My daughter was on the last row of the last group to walk the stage. Perfect.
My ex-wife was present, sitting next to me, but I’m not sure she was paying attention. She had brought a project. She needed to draw, doodle, letter, a congratulations card for our daughter. She brought supplies. She loved to put time and energy into artsy-fartsy symbols of love and attention. And, to be fair, it could’ve been boring just watching all these other people get their moment on stage, shaking hands, receiving the empty black tube. Degrees will be mailed after all fines and parking tickets have been resolved. Adulting time for our kids.
As our daughter neared her time, my ex-wife completed the card and took out her phone to video record shots of our daughter approaching the stage, waiting, crossing the stage, even waving back at us in the stadium of people. My ex-wife watched the entire event through the filter of her iPhone. Um…
Okay, I’ll leave off my judgment. I’m pretty judgmental at the moment. As I was trying to be present in the moment for all the graduates (what a crock of shit) my ex-wife rambled in her own little world and filtered life as she saw fit. Use your time wisely. Or, was she behind schedule, and catching up? No matter.
In one other moment of clarity and disconnection, as four of us rode together in my ex-wife’s car, someone suggested putting on some music. Filling the awkward spaces I guess. And the husband’s son in the front seat turned on the radio and searched for a station.
What?
“Don’t you have music connected to your car?” I asked.
“No. I never got around to it.”
(end scene)
It appears, even to me, that I’m gloating. Somehow, I’m sitting on my high horse, my zen attitude, and yet I’m looking down on those around me. That is NOT Zen. I will reset.
I trust not one of these characters. I do not want to damage my ex-wife in any way. She will never read this.
At one point of disconnection and disease in the stadium ceremony, her husband’s son was sitting next to her. She tried to make an opening for a dialogue between him and me. It sounded like this.
“This young man is a renowned writer who gets published regularly in the New Yorker. And this man is an award-winning songwriter.”
Of course, she couldn’t embrace any of my 20-or-so books. I couldn’t be a writer to her as well. She could never read my books. She would never want to turn her stepson on to my writing. What if he looked on Amazon and saw all the divorce books?
It was a moment of tone-deafness that rang me like a bell. At that moment, I understood that I was invisible. Or maybe I was just uncomfortable. As the party picked up at my daughter’s house after graduation, the parents and kids of more students dropped by. We were transported to a college house party. Drinks. Shots. Blood bag cocktails. Sirenge jello shots.
As the party was winding down I grabbed the Bluetooth signal from my boombox and put on some 80’s funk. I enjoyed all of it. Even my own distant pain. I could observe myself in an uncomfortable place. And then I paused, recentered, and simply enjoyed it.
I don’t trust any of them. Even the moment that I spoiled, the gift of some sort, that went with the hand-drawn card, was something I was being excluded from. A private little celebration. I was able to have my own as I sat on the couch with my daughter’s roommates for the last time and cheered when Aretha Franklin came on.
Everything was in its right place. My daughter was launching and leaving all of this behind. There is still a close bond between us, but I also feel there is some opportunistic love going on as well. I was not celebrated as part of the graduation. My daughter’s slide of thanks and recognition was dedicated to her mom and her golden doodle. The one I gave her. Ouch.
She’s her own woman. Twenty-two and on her way. I am a dad. A source of hugs and money.
In the highlight of the weekend for me, my daughter said to me, “I want to spend more time together.”
“Yes. We will.”
The space between me and god is similar to the space between me and my daughter. A tiny gap. Warmed and welcomed by intentional actions. When there is time we can be connected. When we forget, there is less connection. At the height of my daughter’s celebration, she is closer to her mom and god than me. That too is as it should be.
I am at peace about all of it. No, really. I am.
Last message to my son.
Namasté.
note: I guess it’s obvious, but my kids and my ex-wife DO NOT READ my work. Never have.
