Wednesday, November 16, 2016
Still on the same journey - 6 years later.
Nothing has changed in the past six years other than he's now 22 years old and lives in San Diego. (Although "living" is a broad term for what he does with the ticking time bomb of a life.)
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Gratitude.
Today I feel very grateful.
I am grateful that I have had such a BIG reminder that people are inherently good and kind and altruistic. It is so easy to get lost in the negative, the bad, the "people suck" mind-set that sometimes it takes a big, giant bitch-slap in the face to remind me/us that, you know what? There are a lot of good people out there. (Insert "Up With People" video clip here.)
People were rooting for us that have never even met us. People offered money to us that have never met us. People put their jobs on the line to support us. People listened to this seemingly never-ending story that frankly, even I am bored of. People never wavered in their support of us. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
As you can tell I am in a great mood today. I feel alive, relaxed, comforted.
My son is now safe and out of harms way for the time being.
After months and months of working with the school district and the Department of Mental Health -- I was able to secure out of state residential treatment / boarding school for my son for the next 12 months. Fully paid. A $150,000 gift. He will be safe for now, this much I know. If he choses to accept this great opporunity that he's been given he may even come out of this sober, strong, healthy, self-confident and with a new purpose in life and, drum-roll, a high school diploma.
Whew. What a journey it has been getting to this point. The approval came at the IEP/AB3632 hearing on Tuesday, May 31 and on Saturday, June 4 at 4:30 a.m. he was "escorted" to a Delta flight to Utah to his new school Heritage, in Provo. (Never thought I would say this but "thank you Mormons!" But I do love Donny Osmond, even though he never came to my 9th birthday party even after I sent him an invitation. I forgive you Donny.)
The days between Tuesday and Saturday morning were spent trying to be "normal." (I now realize what an amazing actress I am (maybe that will be my newest career goal), another "glass half-full" way of trying to find any good of loving and living with an addict).
But behind the "normal" days (we even saw two movies--comedies of course!) I spent many hours jetting out to many non-existent errands so I could sit in my hot car and make all the phone calls without him knowing. He's like a shape shifter: he can sneak up behind me like a silent Ninja--and it's quite scary how he does this. Anyhow, making calls from my "mobile office" seemed safer.
After being on pins-and-needles for days, trying to pack up his belongings without him knowing ("mom, where are all my pants?") the transport company came at 4:30 am on Saturday to get him. After waking him up "what, what? what's happening?" and trying to explain the situation, the two big burly guys -- great and very calming despite their size -- got him out of the house and into the car and on the plane and into a rental car and then into the new school, safely.
Reports from yesterday is that he was mellow, quiet and was "making friends." I am sure they say that to all the parents but you know what? I'm glad they did. I like to believe that story for now.
After they left I read all his text messages. Days after his OD on heroin last week he was looking for needles and "h". The kid he normally got this poison from now sits in jail on charges he made pipe bombs. That kid is the bane of my existence and I've written about him in earlier posts.
But I digress: since Max couldn't get his "h" and needles from bomb-making drug addict (who had a 19 year old friend die on his bedroom floor just a few weeks ago from chocking on his own vomit due to heroin) my son actually wrote to this kid he knows who is a diabetic and asked him for needles "even used ones." So fucking sad.
His other text messages: one where he asked someone how to "smoke crack" because "it's not working." Another one: "trying to make tweek". Another one where he's trying to get out of getting beaten up because he owes someone either $95 or "bars" (xanax) "i got jacked". Right. I hope that person doesn't come looking for his money.
Reading these texts just made me realize that even though he's been actually really great these past few days, I got him to safety just in time.
He is clearly on a suicide mission.
I can rest knowing that, for now at least, that mission has been aborted.
I know this is not the end of this journey but it is a nice break for now.
I am grateful that I have had such a BIG reminder that people are inherently good and kind and altruistic. It is so easy to get lost in the negative, the bad, the "people suck" mind-set that sometimes it takes a big, giant bitch-slap in the face to remind me/us that, you know what? There are a lot of good people out there. (Insert "Up With People" video clip here.)
People were rooting for us that have never even met us. People offered money to us that have never met us. People put their jobs on the line to support us. People listened to this seemingly never-ending story that frankly, even I am bored of. People never wavered in their support of us. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
As you can tell I am in a great mood today. I feel alive, relaxed, comforted.
My son is now safe and out of harms way for the time being.
After months and months of working with the school district and the Department of Mental Health -- I was able to secure out of state residential treatment / boarding school for my son for the next 12 months. Fully paid. A $150,000 gift. He will be safe for now, this much I know. If he choses to accept this great opporunity that he's been given he may even come out of this sober, strong, healthy, self-confident and with a new purpose in life and, drum-roll, a high school diploma.
Whew. What a journey it has been getting to this point. The approval came at the IEP/AB3632 hearing on Tuesday, May 31 and on Saturday, June 4 at 4:30 a.m. he was "escorted" to a Delta flight to Utah to his new school Heritage, in Provo. (Never thought I would say this but "thank you Mormons!" But I do love Donny Osmond, even though he never came to my 9th birthday party even after I sent him an invitation. I forgive you Donny.)
The days between Tuesday and Saturday morning were spent trying to be "normal." (I now realize what an amazing actress I am (maybe that will be my newest career goal), another "glass half-full" way of trying to find any good of loving and living with an addict).
But behind the "normal" days (we even saw two movies--comedies of course!) I spent many hours jetting out to many non-existent errands so I could sit in my hot car and make all the phone calls without him knowing. He's like a shape shifter: he can sneak up behind me like a silent Ninja--and it's quite scary how he does this. Anyhow, making calls from my "mobile office" seemed safer.
After being on pins-and-needles for days, trying to pack up his belongings without him knowing ("mom, where are all my pants?") the transport company came at 4:30 am on Saturday to get him. After waking him up "what, what? what's happening?" and trying to explain the situation, the two big burly guys -- great and very calming despite their size -- got him out of the house and into the car and on the plane and into a rental car and then into the new school, safely.
Reports from yesterday is that he was mellow, quiet and was "making friends." I am sure they say that to all the parents but you know what? I'm glad they did. I like to believe that story for now.
After they left I read all his text messages. Days after his OD on heroin last week he was looking for needles and "h". The kid he normally got this poison from now sits in jail on charges he made pipe bombs. That kid is the bane of my existence and I've written about him in earlier posts.
But I digress: since Max couldn't get his "h" and needles from bomb-making drug addict (who had a 19 year old friend die on his bedroom floor just a few weeks ago from chocking on his own vomit due to heroin) my son actually wrote to this kid he knows who is a diabetic and asked him for needles "even used ones." So fucking sad.
His other text messages: one where he asked someone how to "smoke crack" because "it's not working." Another one: "trying to make tweek". Another one where he's trying to get out of getting beaten up because he owes someone either $95 or "bars" (xanax) "i got jacked". Right. I hope that person doesn't come looking for his money.
Reading these texts just made me realize that even though he's been actually really great these past few days, I got him to safety just in time.
He is clearly on a suicide mission.
I can rest knowing that, for now at least, that mission has been aborted.
I know this is not the end of this journey but it is a nice break for now.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
I Gave Him Life. Twice. And then he yelled at me.
I gave life to my only child, my beautiful and much loved son, twice.
Once on August 8, 1994, and again on May 24, 2011.
I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard the sound.
The sound of a body falling hard to the floor in the bathroom. I knew. I instantly knew it was him.
Without missing a beat I ran to the bathroom, yanked the bright green plastic key "bracelet" (so very, very fashionable) that I have become accustomed to wearing and tried to find the right key to the bathroom door. (Tips for parents or spouses or lovers of drug addicts: change all the locks on your doors so you can lock UP your possessions as well as get INTO the room -- especially bathrooms -- from the outside. Privacy is no longer an option.)
My hands were shaking so bad as I tried to find the right key while calling out his name over and over and over again. Silence. So weird because only 5 minutes before he had very clearly asked me to make him some of his favorite chicken nuggets. Yes, he still continues to eat like an innocent 5-year old. And do drugs like a hardened 35-year old. Now, minutes later, just silence.
I am also calling 911 on the cell and forgetting to call the Santa Monica Police Department directly which is always faster on a cell. (Another tip for loved ones of addicts: if you only use a cell phone don't call 911 but rather have your local Police Department number programmed in. But of course in a crisis situation the mind goes blank and 911 is automatic.)
Ok, I get the door open to find him slumped over in an odd almost yoga like position face to the floor, butt in the air sort of wedged between the tub and the toilet. It's a very small bathroom and now my sweet little puppy is in the room with us curious and scared but getting in the way. I try to get him out while trying to save my son's life.
The 911 operator is asking me all these questions and I'm trying to be calm but it's so hard when you see your only child blue and unresponsive, a black shoelace tied around his arm, a needle next to his lifeless body.
She tells me to turn him over. He's so small and light normally but now he seems so heavy and in the small room it's nearly impossible but I do it and his head hits the floor with a loud thud. If the heroin didn't kill him then I am now sure that I have just done him in with a major head trauma. She keeps telling me to put his chin up but all I hear in my mind is "put a towel under his head so he'll be comfortable." Of course that's not what she's telling me to do but I do it anyway. I am confused by the head and chin instructions she's giving me. I really wish I had taken that CPR class.
She instructs me on what to do: "Tilt his head, lift his chin, 2 deep breaths, flat palms on his chest between his nipples, push, count with me to thirty -- 1,2,3,4,...." and on it goes. I remember seeing on some talk show (Dr. Phil?) that you need to push down on the heart to the beat of the Bee Gees song "Stayin' Alive" which somehow seems very ironic. But I guess it's not ironic if it works. His chest puffs up with air and then nothing. He's still silent, not breathing, blue.
Finally, after what seems an eternity the paramedics arrive. They pull him out of the tiny bathroom and drag his thin, white and blue lifeless body, into the living room, re-arranging furniture as they go about the business of trying to bring my baby back to life.
I don't know what do but I pace and cry and dramatically scream and yell at him "not now, not now, not yet." I guess all those movies actually portray the character with a loved one dying in front of them, pretty accurately after all.
I thought I was prepared for his death because intellectually that is what I knew would happen very soon but when faced with it, literally as I held him in my arms and breathed air into his dead lungs, I wasn't ready. My heart, my soul, my being, was not ready for him to die at 16.
The cops arrive. They quickly escort me outside where I now see the entire neighborhood has lined up to watch the circus. Police cars, ambulance, fire trucks line the small street. The cops are nice but I have no idea what they are asking me or saying to me.
I realize later they pulled me outside so I wouldn't have to watch my beautiful boy die in front of me.
5 seconds, 5 minutes, or 5 hours later. The fire captain comes out. "We finally got a pulse. He's going to be fine."
(He's alive but not "fine.")
The fire captain hugs me. Such a nice gesture and one that I most needed at that moment. The human touch can be so very powerful.
They wheel my son out and put him in the ambulance. He looks at me, confused.
When I go to the ER 45 minutes later, he's screaming at me, angry that he "made ONE mistake" and now I want to send him to rehab again, which will only "make things worse."
I hope that one day he will actually thank me for saving his life. The doctors, nurses, paramedics told me that it was about a minute difference of him being dead or alive. I am very glad I decided to wash those dirty dishes aT that moment. I know that a guardian angel was looking over both of us that night. And continues to watch over us now.
Next steps are coming. Very soon. If he can survive just a few more days....things are looking up.
Guardian angel can you hear me? Just give us 2 more days please?
Once on August 8, 1994, and again on May 24, 2011.
I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard the sound.
The sound of a body falling hard to the floor in the bathroom. I knew. I instantly knew it was him.
Without missing a beat I ran to the bathroom, yanked the bright green plastic key "bracelet" (so very, very fashionable) that I have become accustomed to wearing and tried to find the right key to the bathroom door. (Tips for parents or spouses or lovers of drug addicts: change all the locks on your doors so you can lock UP your possessions as well as get INTO the room -- especially bathrooms -- from the outside. Privacy is no longer an option.)
My hands were shaking so bad as I tried to find the right key while calling out his name over and over and over again. Silence. So weird because only 5 minutes before he had very clearly asked me to make him some of his favorite chicken nuggets. Yes, he still continues to eat like an innocent 5-year old. And do drugs like a hardened 35-year old. Now, minutes later, just silence.
I am also calling 911 on the cell and forgetting to call the Santa Monica Police Department directly which is always faster on a cell. (Another tip for loved ones of addicts: if you only use a cell phone don't call 911 but rather have your local Police Department number programmed in. But of course in a crisis situation the mind goes blank and 911 is automatic.)
Ok, I get the door open to find him slumped over in an odd almost yoga like position face to the floor, butt in the air sort of wedged between the tub and the toilet. It's a very small bathroom and now my sweet little puppy is in the room with us curious and scared but getting in the way. I try to get him out while trying to save my son's life.
The 911 operator is asking me all these questions and I'm trying to be calm but it's so hard when you see your only child blue and unresponsive, a black shoelace tied around his arm, a needle next to his lifeless body.
She tells me to turn him over. He's so small and light normally but now he seems so heavy and in the small room it's nearly impossible but I do it and his head hits the floor with a loud thud. If the heroin didn't kill him then I am now sure that I have just done him in with a major head trauma. She keeps telling me to put his chin up but all I hear in my mind is "put a towel under his head so he'll be comfortable." Of course that's not what she's telling me to do but I do it anyway. I am confused by the head and chin instructions she's giving me. I really wish I had taken that CPR class.
She instructs me on what to do: "Tilt his head, lift his chin, 2 deep breaths, flat palms on his chest between his nipples, push, count with me to thirty -- 1,2,3,4,...." and on it goes. I remember seeing on some talk show (Dr. Phil?) that you need to push down on the heart to the beat of the Bee Gees song "Stayin' Alive" which somehow seems very ironic. But I guess it's not ironic if it works. His chest puffs up with air and then nothing. He's still silent, not breathing, blue.
Finally, after what seems an eternity the paramedics arrive. They pull him out of the tiny bathroom and drag his thin, white and blue lifeless body, into the living room, re-arranging furniture as they go about the business of trying to bring my baby back to life.
I don't know what do but I pace and cry and dramatically scream and yell at him "not now, not now, not yet." I guess all those movies actually portray the character with a loved one dying in front of them, pretty accurately after all.
I thought I was prepared for his death because intellectually that is what I knew would happen very soon but when faced with it, literally as I held him in my arms and breathed air into his dead lungs, I wasn't ready. My heart, my soul, my being, was not ready for him to die at 16.
The cops arrive. They quickly escort me outside where I now see the entire neighborhood has lined up to watch the circus. Police cars, ambulance, fire trucks line the small street. The cops are nice but I have no idea what they are asking me or saying to me.
I realize later they pulled me outside so I wouldn't have to watch my beautiful boy die in front of me.
5 seconds, 5 minutes, or 5 hours later. The fire captain comes out. "We finally got a pulse. He's going to be fine."
(He's alive but not "fine.")
The fire captain hugs me. Such a nice gesture and one that I most needed at that moment. The human touch can be so very powerful.
They wheel my son out and put him in the ambulance. He looks at me, confused.
When I go to the ER 45 minutes later, he's screaming at me, angry that he "made ONE mistake" and now I want to send him to rehab again, which will only "make things worse."
I hope that one day he will actually thank me for saving his life. The doctors, nurses, paramedics told me that it was about a minute difference of him being dead or alive. I am very glad I decided to wash those dirty dishes aT that moment. I know that a guardian angel was looking over both of us that night. And continues to watch over us now.
Next steps are coming. Very soon. If he can survive just a few more days....things are looking up.
Guardian angel can you hear me? Just give us 2 more days please?
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Love Letter to My Son.
I love you Morgan so very, very, very much.
I would do anything for you.
I only want to see you smile.
I want to know, truly know, that the smile on your face is brought by true happiness, joy, amusement, and not chemicals.
I want to see you laugh again. That hysterical, tears running down your face, holding your sides, grasping for breath, the harder-you-try-to-stop laughing-the-more-you-laugh, laughter.
I want you to find joy and love and compassion and passion.
I want you to find yourself.
I want you to be happy and helpful to others. Because your true happiness will come when you realize that you have so much to offer others.
Mostly, I want you to know just how special you are. And how loved you are.
Your family loves you more than the drugs do. They are fleeting. Fickle. Easy to come by, hard to keep. Your family is here for you. Easy to keep.
Others need you. I need you. Paco needs you.
You are needed in this world. Please don't leave it just yet.
It's not time.
You have too many good things to do. And people to help.
I love you.
Please stay.
I would do anything for you.
I only want to see you smile.
I want to know, truly know, that the smile on your face is brought by true happiness, joy, amusement, and not chemicals.
I want to see you laugh again. That hysterical, tears running down your face, holding your sides, grasping for breath, the harder-you-try-to-stop laughing-the-more-you-laugh, laughter.
I want you to find joy and love and compassion and passion.
I want you to find yourself.
I want you to be happy and helpful to others. Because your true happiness will come when you realize that you have so much to offer others.
Mostly, I want you to know just how special you are. And how loved you are.
Your family loves you more than the drugs do. They are fleeting. Fickle. Easy to come by, hard to keep. Your family is here for you. Easy to keep.
Others need you. I need you. Paco needs you.
You are needed in this world. Please don't leave it just yet.
It's not time.
You have too many good things to do. And people to help.
I love you.
Please stay.
Sitting and Crying.
Do you ever feel like you are in one of those hamster wheels and you can't figure out the right time to jump off so you just keep going around and around and around.........(Charle Sheen, do you hear me? Time to jump off.)
Let me backtrack to one week ago.
I was in sort of a good mood because I was going to see Max and the other therapist (the Russian) will be sitting in on our session and Max really responds well to her so I had a tiny bit of hope in my heart. When I get there, however, they tell me that I need to talk to the financial people before our session. No worries, I think.
Well, I was wrong.
It was sort of like walking into your bosses' office thinking you are going to get a raise and promotion and instead you get fired and then when you are doing the "I just got fired" walk of shame from the executive office to your grey cubicle, someone tells you that your skirt is tucked into the back of your panties. Granny panties no less.
They tell me that he's basically getting kicked out because I don't have insurance and since medi-cal was denied because "he doesn't live with me" (he's in what amounts to a hospital for god's sake. I still pay for all his shit). Anyhow, no insurance, no way to pay the $350 per day plus the $140 a week for therapy so they say these words "discharge plan" today.
FUCK! Like, now? He's coming home? With me? Now? I'm not ready for this. The house isn't ready. Cold tablets and Malibu Rum are in plain sight! Why didn't they warn me about this? I've got to find the keys to all the doors (it's been so nice to just relax and not have to lock all the doors all the time. I can even leave my purse in the living room when I go to bed!). NO. I am not ready for this. He's not fixed yet.
They "graciously" give me 30 minutes to "go make some calls to arrange whatever". Nice. 30 minutes. Oh, they also reiterate that since Max is not working the program he's not a good fit anyhow. Fuck yeah. I don't want to pay $350 a day for a program that's not working for him. He has changed zero percent in two months. This place is not working for him. To be honest, nowhere works for him. Not even the streets, I suspect. Certainly not my house. His dad is out of the country of course. He's no help, never has been, never will be.
I walk to my car to "make the calls", start the engine and drive away, tears streaming down my face, my litte dog looking so confused.
We saw Max for about 30 seconds on his way to class. His escort/teacher let him stop and pet the dog. Apparently they had been watching me from the second floor when I had just gotten the news that Max was being booted from the program. I guess I looked sad (maybe it was those damn tears silently dripping down my face that gave it away) because the escort/teacher person asked if I was ok. No. I'm not ok. Max is not ok. So I am not ok. Simple. As. That.
As I drove home south on the 405, I didn't have a plan other than to get out of there.
The rain started. And naturally there was a typical LA 90-car pile up which meant just sitting on the 405. Sitting and crying. This won't do. Got off the freeway at the next exit and just drove as far as I could go. Headed west. Hit the end 25 minutes later and just sat outside the gates of a swanky development in some town. No idea where. Saw the guard giving me the evil so, so turned the car around and ended up taking Topanga Canyon all the way to PCH. A nice, twisty, rainy drive but it didn't solve anything.
So....a week later and he's still there and I am here cleaning his room yet again. I guess I do have to pick him up tomorrow. Sort of stunned at this turn of events. I clean his room and wonder what I haven't found in there hidden away in one of his super secret hiding places. The police are on their way over; maybe they can help me search his room?
"The Police you say?"
Oddly enough someone got a hold of my debit card number and they made a bunch of purchases so I've been trying to deal with that all day. What a nightmare. The bank told me to make a police report, which I did. Guess what? They are sending someone over to take a report tonight. Thought that while they are here I should warn them that Max is coming home tomorrow. Our local Police Department know us very well..... guess it's fair that I warn them that the next two nights could see a lot of visits to our home. Maybe they need to ramp up the manpower, approve some OT.
Why two nights only you ask? Well, I had this brilliant idea to take him to the dessert for a week of isolation, exercise and soul bearing conversations and confessions. And cooking. I intend to break his habbit of only eating food fit for a 6 year old. I am going to force him to learn how to cook. I suspect he'll be living on his own really soon so the least I can do is pretend to give him cooking lessons.
I know I am being overly optimistic about our "vacation" to the desert, but I don't know what else to do. I can't have him at home while I try to figure out next steps. I can't force him on anyone else as, well, there is no one else.
I might as well be miserable in a mid-century Alexander Butterfly with a pool and jacuzzi. Too bad I won't be able to have a martini. Dean Martin would most definitely disapprove.
More from the dessert. If I survive.
PS: The Police Officer left after taking my identity theft report. She was so nice! We ended up just talking about Max for 30 minutes. She reminded me of this other program that someone else suggested. One of those "is it a cult or is it just a really good intense self-help program" thing. Hey, at this point I'll sign us both up for Scientology if that would help. (Tom Cruise do ya hear me????)
Let me backtrack to one week ago.
I was in sort of a good mood because I was going to see Max and the other therapist (the Russian) will be sitting in on our session and Max really responds well to her so I had a tiny bit of hope in my heart. When I get there, however, they tell me that I need to talk to the financial people before our session. No worries, I think.
Well, I was wrong.
It was sort of like walking into your bosses' office thinking you are going to get a raise and promotion and instead you get fired and then when you are doing the "I just got fired" walk of shame from the executive office to your grey cubicle, someone tells you that your skirt is tucked into the back of your panties. Granny panties no less.
They tell me that he's basically getting kicked out because I don't have insurance and since medi-cal was denied because "he doesn't live with me" (he's in what amounts to a hospital for god's sake. I still pay for all his shit). Anyhow, no insurance, no way to pay the $350 per day plus the $140 a week for therapy so they say these words "discharge plan" today.
FUCK! Like, now? He's coming home? With me? Now? I'm not ready for this. The house isn't ready. Cold tablets and Malibu Rum are in plain sight! Why didn't they warn me about this? I've got to find the keys to all the doors (it's been so nice to just relax and not have to lock all the doors all the time. I can even leave my purse in the living room when I go to bed!). NO. I am not ready for this. He's not fixed yet.
They "graciously" give me 30 minutes to "go make some calls to arrange whatever". Nice. 30 minutes. Oh, they also reiterate that since Max is not working the program he's not a good fit anyhow. Fuck yeah. I don't want to pay $350 a day for a program that's not working for him. He has changed zero percent in two months. This place is not working for him. To be honest, nowhere works for him. Not even the streets, I suspect. Certainly not my house. His dad is out of the country of course. He's no help, never has been, never will be.
I walk to my car to "make the calls", start the engine and drive away, tears streaming down my face, my litte dog looking so confused.
We saw Max for about 30 seconds on his way to class. His escort/teacher let him stop and pet the dog. Apparently they had been watching me from the second floor when I had just gotten the news that Max was being booted from the program. I guess I looked sad (maybe it was those damn tears silently dripping down my face that gave it away) because the escort/teacher person asked if I was ok. No. I'm not ok. Max is not ok. So I am not ok. Simple. As. That.
As I drove home south on the 405, I didn't have a plan other than to get out of there.
The rain started. And naturally there was a typical LA 90-car pile up which meant just sitting on the 405. Sitting and crying. This won't do. Got off the freeway at the next exit and just drove as far as I could go. Headed west. Hit the end 25 minutes later and just sat outside the gates of a swanky development in some town. No idea where. Saw the guard giving me the evil so, so turned the car around and ended up taking Topanga Canyon all the way to PCH. A nice, twisty, rainy drive but it didn't solve anything.
So....a week later and he's still there and I am here cleaning his room yet again. I guess I do have to pick him up tomorrow. Sort of stunned at this turn of events. I clean his room and wonder what I haven't found in there hidden away in one of his super secret hiding places. The police are on their way over; maybe they can help me search his room?
"The Police you say?"
Oddly enough someone got a hold of my debit card number and they made a bunch of purchases so I've been trying to deal with that all day. What a nightmare. The bank told me to make a police report, which I did. Guess what? They are sending someone over to take a report tonight. Thought that while they are here I should warn them that Max is coming home tomorrow. Our local Police Department know us very well..... guess it's fair that I warn them that the next two nights could see a lot of visits to our home. Maybe they need to ramp up the manpower, approve some OT.
Why two nights only you ask? Well, I had this brilliant idea to take him to the dessert for a week of isolation, exercise and soul bearing conversations and confessions. And cooking. I intend to break his habbit of only eating food fit for a 6 year old. I am going to force him to learn how to cook. I suspect he'll be living on his own really soon so the least I can do is pretend to give him cooking lessons.
I know I am being overly optimistic about our "vacation" to the desert, but I don't know what else to do. I can't have him at home while I try to figure out next steps. I can't force him on anyone else as, well, there is no one else.
I might as well be miserable in a mid-century Alexander Butterfly with a pool and jacuzzi. Too bad I won't be able to have a martini. Dean Martin would most definitely disapprove.
More from the dessert. If I survive.
PS: The Police Officer left after taking my identity theft report. She was so nice! We ended up just talking about Max for 30 minutes. She reminded me of this other program that someone else suggested. One of those "is it a cult or is it just a really good intense self-help program" thing. Hey, at this point I'll sign us both up for Scientology if that would help. (Tom Cruise do ya hear me????)
Friday, February 25, 2011
60 Days Sober
60.
The number 60.
He had it written in blue ink on the inside of his palm. It gave me some hope. He flashed it to the therapist as I was standing up in the doorway of the small room at the rehab, our family therapy session ending abruptly and again, not on a good note. What should be a day to look forward to has quickly become one of the two worst days of the week for me, the other being Sundays, family visit day. I should look forward to seeing my 16 year old son but instead I wake up two days a week filled with utter dread, anxiety, despair and sadness. I wonder if Martin Sheen feels this way. (Oh Charlie, we are all rooting for you but you are making it hard on us!)
But back to Max and the 60. If he hadn't flashed that 60 to the therapist who noticed it, our session would have been like all the other ones. Not so good. Max, head held down, very quiet voice, said "Today is 60 days of being sober." And with that, our therapy session took a turn for the better.
Another therapist came into the room (makes me wonder if they have cameras in those rooms?), and asked if I could stay for 10 more minutes so things would not be ending on such a down note. Of course, I sat back down, hopeful! She talked fast, very fast, in her french accent, and I do believe it was some Jedi-mind trick meant to hypnotize us. It worked. We both started crying, Max and I, and he told me was ashamed of all that he had done to me and that's why he was so mean to me whenever he saw me. It seems twisted but I do understand that. I told him I forgave him and want to move foward. The therapist smartly reminded us that we do need to process all that has happened before we can move forward.
He let me hug him. For a really long time. I could feel his tears on my hand and my tears dripped down the back of his neck. He's still so tiny and not eating and getting tinier, I could easily put my arms all around him like a young child. I could hear the other therapist silently crying as well. She had not seen Max and I in a loving moment so far, only the anger and hate and distance.
I felt good when I left that day. Of course that was four days ago and things change. He called me last night (one 5 minute call per week, it's like prison) and the call started out fine. I told him all about our puppy who had just been neutered this week and all his rather comical issues he was having with maneuvering around the house with that giant collar on (he's a very short but long dog of undetermined breed). It was actually a normal call (first one in 2 months). And then.....
Mean Max came back. He was upset over a variety of things (they won't let him have special food on the unit anymore so he's convinced he's going to starve to death; all the books I've been bringing him are "awful", and he can't stay "in this place for 6 months" -- that old complaint again ---, everyone hates him there, they all think he is weird, etc. All of these things are my fault of course.)
He then got nasty and the four letter words started flying out of his not-so-innocent mouth again. What I think he's really mad at is that I cannot come to the family visit on Sunday.
Maybe he does miss me and he only knows how to express that through anger. That's what I am chosing to believe on this rainy LA day.
The number 60.
He had it written in blue ink on the inside of his palm. It gave me some hope. He flashed it to the therapist as I was standing up in the doorway of the small room at the rehab, our family therapy session ending abruptly and again, not on a good note. What should be a day to look forward to has quickly become one of the two worst days of the week for me, the other being Sundays, family visit day. I should look forward to seeing my 16 year old son but instead I wake up two days a week filled with utter dread, anxiety, despair and sadness. I wonder if Martin Sheen feels this way. (Oh Charlie, we are all rooting for you but you are making it hard on us!)
But back to Max and the 60. If he hadn't flashed that 60 to the therapist who noticed it, our session would have been like all the other ones. Not so good. Max, head held down, very quiet voice, said "Today is 60 days of being sober." And with that, our therapy session took a turn for the better.
Another therapist came into the room (makes me wonder if they have cameras in those rooms?), and asked if I could stay for 10 more minutes so things would not be ending on such a down note. Of course, I sat back down, hopeful! She talked fast, very fast, in her french accent, and I do believe it was some Jedi-mind trick meant to hypnotize us. It worked. We both started crying, Max and I, and he told me was ashamed of all that he had done to me and that's why he was so mean to me whenever he saw me. It seems twisted but I do understand that. I told him I forgave him and want to move foward. The therapist smartly reminded us that we do need to process all that has happened before we can move forward.
He let me hug him. For a really long time. I could feel his tears on my hand and my tears dripped down the back of his neck. He's still so tiny and not eating and getting tinier, I could easily put my arms all around him like a young child. I could hear the other therapist silently crying as well. She had not seen Max and I in a loving moment so far, only the anger and hate and distance.
I felt good when I left that day. Of course that was four days ago and things change. He called me last night (one 5 minute call per week, it's like prison) and the call started out fine. I told him all about our puppy who had just been neutered this week and all his rather comical issues he was having with maneuvering around the house with that giant collar on (he's a very short but long dog of undetermined breed). It was actually a normal call (first one in 2 months). And then.....
Mean Max came back. He was upset over a variety of things (they won't let him have special food on the unit anymore so he's convinced he's going to starve to death; all the books I've been bringing him are "awful", and he can't stay "in this place for 6 months" -- that old complaint again ---, everyone hates him there, they all think he is weird, etc. All of these things are my fault of course.)
He then got nasty and the four letter words started flying out of his not-so-innocent mouth again. What I think he's really mad at is that I cannot come to the family visit on Sunday.
Maybe he does miss me and he only knows how to express that through anger. That's what I am chosing to believe on this rainy LA day.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Foster Care. The dream....
Today was not a good visit.
It was rainy and grey and when I got there the waiting area was FILLED with families. Highly unusual. I guess the kids that have been there for a while normally get to sit outside with their families for a picnic. Since Max is a new resident, we only get one hour supervised visits in a large sterile room. There are groups of plastic chairs -- 3, 4 or 5 -- spaced around the room to allow for family visits. I always give up several of the chairs since we only need two. We are a small family, Max and I.
Anyhow, once they led us upstairs, we enter the room. Most of the kids were there already. But not Max. I found a group of chairs and sat down. And waited. And waited. And waited. I feel really awkward just sitting there alone, while the family visits go on around me. Where should I look? They don't let me bring in my purse or phone so no checking the Blackberry while I wait. 15 minutes into our 60 minute visit, in comes Max, an angry scowl on is face. I know the signs by now. This is not going to be a good visit. One of the caseworkers tells him to tuck in his shirt. (They attempt to make the kids adhere to a formal dress code which is so far from how they dress in reality it's always a shock to see him wearing khakis (not sagging!) and a polo shirt.) He is not happy about that. He doesn't tuck the shirt in. I try to hug him. He tells me the caseworker is an "asshole." No hug for me. The caseworker comes over again. "Sorry to interrupt your visit but Max you need to tuck in your shirt." Max tucks in about 3 inches of the shirt and glares at the large man who slinks away. Max can give some amazingly intense and scary looks for a little guy.
He starts in on me. "Why am I here?" .... "When am I getting out?" "Everyone hates me here.".... "WHEN DO I GET TO GO TO THE FOSTER HOME?"
Really? He actually thinks that going to a foster home is a GOOD idea. Wow. He then proceeds to tell me how he cannot wait until he is 18 so he never has to see my face again. Stab me in the heart.
I love him. I always will. But damn, it's hard to keep trying to give help and hope to someone who "hates" you so much.
It was rainy and grey and when I got there the waiting area was FILLED with families. Highly unusual. I guess the kids that have been there for a while normally get to sit outside with their families for a picnic. Since Max is a new resident, we only get one hour supervised visits in a large sterile room. There are groups of plastic chairs -- 3, 4 or 5 -- spaced around the room to allow for family visits. I always give up several of the chairs since we only need two. We are a small family, Max and I.
Anyhow, once they led us upstairs, we enter the room. Most of the kids were there already. But not Max. I found a group of chairs and sat down. And waited. And waited. And waited. I feel really awkward just sitting there alone, while the family visits go on around me. Where should I look? They don't let me bring in my purse or phone so no checking the Blackberry while I wait. 15 minutes into our 60 minute visit, in comes Max, an angry scowl on is face. I know the signs by now. This is not going to be a good visit. One of the caseworkers tells him to tuck in his shirt. (They attempt to make the kids adhere to a formal dress code which is so far from how they dress in reality it's always a shock to see him wearing khakis (not sagging!) and a polo shirt.) He is not happy about that. He doesn't tuck the shirt in. I try to hug him. He tells me the caseworker is an "asshole." No hug for me. The caseworker comes over again. "Sorry to interrupt your visit but Max you need to tuck in your shirt." Max tucks in about 3 inches of the shirt and glares at the large man who slinks away. Max can give some amazingly intense and scary looks for a little guy.
He starts in on me. "Why am I here?" .... "When am I getting out?" "Everyone hates me here.".... "WHEN DO I GET TO GO TO THE FOSTER HOME?"
Really? He actually thinks that going to a foster home is a GOOD idea. Wow. He then proceeds to tell me how he cannot wait until he is 18 so he never has to see my face again. Stab me in the heart.
I love him. I always will. But damn, it's hard to keep trying to give help and hope to someone who "hates" you so much.
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