Tony Scott Movies, Car Chases, Drug Dealers, and the Psych Ward Again.

Short version: He was being chased by someone* who was going to "jack" him -- for what? Money? Drugs? Cell phone? Who knows but I raced out of my office at lightening speed and tried to find him which was difficult because he didn't tell me exactly where he was before his phone went dead. I was hoping that it was just the phone that was dead.

There he is! on the other side of the street, skating in and out of the commuters trying to avoid the PCH traffic on their way home to their $5 million dollar homes in Malibu or the Palisades, after a hard day of pretending to read scripts, yelling at their underpaid assistants, and eating free-range, organic lunches on an expense account. [No I am not bitter.] I zoom down the alley trying to get to him so I can make my heroic rescue. My heart is pounding. Of course I pick the longest alley in the entire town. Ok, back on the main street, honk, screech to a stop, he hops in on top of all my boxes of files, furniture, junk, from the office [see previous post about me losing my job that day] -- out of breath, sweaty, crazed.

"Go!" I accelerate as though Tony Montana is behind me with his "Little Friend." When did I become the star of a Tony Scott film? This is not a role that I relish. (And yes, I know that Brian De Palma directed Scarface not Tony Scott.)

Okay, so that was November 17 the day I thought was the worst day ever. The reality is that it was actually December 7.

That was the day I found him passed out in his bedroom, covered in sweat, gurgling, black and blue marks on the inside of his arm and syringe poking out of his pants pocket. The gurgling sound was the worst. I'll never forget it. Of course, he told me later he was just "snoring." The ER doc thinks differently.

So, not only did he not quit smoking the heroin it appears that he has "graduated" to the needle. Yippee. This movie just keeps gettng better and better.

I had arrived home from grocery shopping to find him in the bathroom, a friend in his room (not DEVIL DAMIAN but he is involved of course; more on him later). Max broke the house rules again (no one over when I am not at home; all his "friends" are druggies and thieves) but I decided to put away the groceries then kick the friend out (he's sort of decent this one).

10 minutes later, the friend comes out of Max's room and tells me there is something wrong with Max as he "fell asleep." The friend seems concerned and volunteers that he only smokes pot and whatever Max is doing is not pot but that he hopes he gets healthy. He seems scared. Friend bolts, I run into his bedroom and there Max lays gurgling, sweaty and unconscious.

After several attempts to wake him up, I slap him. Hard. So hard it leaves a red mark on his face. Nothing. Call 911.

Paramedics and cops arrive. Off to the ER he goes. I am oddly calm. Hot paramedic asks if I want to ride in the ambulance with him. "No I'll drive." I do drive. An hour later. Finished putting away the groceries first. Was that wrong? Again, feel oddly calm. Maybe I am in shock?

Get to the ER. He's crying hysterically. So sad, he's so pale, tiny, but alive. Hugs me and keeps calling me mommy and tells me he wants to get sober. We both believe it but I know that the drugs are stronger than he is.

His mood shifts over the next 6 hours from sobbing like a little scared boy to sleeping again, to hostile "WHY are YOU doing this to me??? Get me out of here! I hate you! You're a horrible mother!" He even accuses me of abandoning him and not feeding him. [I am a gourmet cook; he will only eat chicken nuggets.] He tries every possible tactic to get out of the ER because he knows he is headed back to the psych ward again.

He is still in the psych ward 6 days later. I have no money, no job, no energy. I know I need to send him far, far away (to the land called UTAH) but it's $10,000 a month which I do not have. What to do? Oh, his dad did send me a check since he heard I am out of a job and kid is killing himself. It was for $65.00.

So, back to the drawing board. What's next? I don't know. I just hope it doesn't involve planning a funeral.

Sincerely,
Me

*the one chasing him apparently is the son or grandson of a very famous 1980s junk bond king. So replace, Tony Montana with small white Jewish kid.

Worst. Day. Ever.

November 17, 2010. A day that SEEMED to be the worst day ever. [Insert male movie trailer voice.]

It started with a trip to Smart & Final. "I will feed the masses Hot Dogs today and they will love me for it!" Feeling good about providing a zero nutrition, nitrate filled "hot lunch" to the staff today. (Flashback to 3rd grade: Pomorado Elementary School Cafeteria. Lunch ladies with hairnets and plastic gloves serving up my favorite: fish sticks. Oh how I loved those "hot lunches!" My mom always packed my lunch so it was a special day when I got to actually buy a "hot lunch." So strange because my son has never had a "hot lunch" in his entire life. He's always been a picky eater. Ironic when you think about the things that he WILL put into his body: heroin is ok, fish sticks are not.)

So feeing good: no turkey sandwiches today gang! They're gonna love me. (Food=love, right?) Setting up, the word is spreading.... "hot dogs today, yippee!")Excitement abounds. (It takes so very little to make this staff happy. Well, for the most part. There's always that ONE GUY that has to whine and moan and complain about everything. But I digress, as usual.)

My junk food bliss was interrupted by: [insert serious (usually bitchy) female Australian voice] "ALL STAFF TO THE THEATRE NOW." Uh oh. That can't be good. In four years that only happened ........... uh, never. The upbeat hot dog vibe now replaced with a guilty verdict/life in prison sentence for a crime you didn't commit vibe.

We all gather, glumly. "We filed for bankruptcy today. The company is closing. You will not be paid on Friday. Pack up but don't steal too much." WTF? I can't quite process this. (Maybe it's why it has taken me all these weeks to write about it.) There is a general sense of sadness, disbelief, time stands still, what do we do now, huh? Some people bolt, laptop in hand, others frozen like a pillar of salt.

Should I finish making the hotdogs? It's sort of a blur. Where is my staff? Does the parking guy understand what just happened? He's gone already? Ok, I guess he got it. Right, we are not getting paid for our time so we're off the clock. But the hot dogs will go to waste! No, people can make their own lunch if they want. I have things to pack. Shit, so many personal things in this crazy disfunctional building/company where to begin?

To my office, that's where. Personal photos, artwork Max drew when he was in rehab, my party supplies I brought in for our last wrap party, my footstool I brougt in from home... so much stuff. My files! I must protect and save my files and thank you cards and awards from famous clients. Someone needs to guard this stuff right? I'm sure we'll open again sometime in the future and we'll need this stuff. If I leave it all the bank will just toss away all this history so I will be the protector of the memory!)

Call my son. Tell him the bad news. He's sympathetic but strong and supportive. Ok, we can get through this.

3 hours later, still packing, lingering, hiding from the rest of the remaining staff afraid I might burst into tears. I am scared. But, my son was strong so I will be too.

My cell phone rings. It's him. Max. Can't understand him. He's out of breath... is he runnning? Odd, he never exercises since he became a drug addict.

"MOM! HELP!"

"What?"

"I'M IN AN ALLEY AND THEY ARE CHASING ME WITH A KNIFE!"

"What? Huh?" [heart beating, grabbing purse, heading toward car]

"SAVE ME! THEY HAVE A KNIFE! THEY ARE GOING TO KILL ME!"

Ok, this day just keeps getting worse. But there is more. So much more.

Heroin.

Just read my post from April where I mentioned that at least my son wasn't using heroin.

Cursed myself I guess.

Turns out he was smoking it since February if not earlier. About 5 weeks ago he called me at work, very upset. Said he needed to get help. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that," I grumbled to him while people swirled around me asking for more turkey. Man, these people can really put away the turkey. More pleading. From the son, not the employees for once. "Help me mom." I could hear a sincere sense of panic in his voice. Well, maybe this is finally a bit of good news! Hurrah! I had always heard that until they want help they won't change so this is it, the magic moment, the street paved with gold, the rainbow at the end of a violent thunderstorm, the half-off sale at Freddies! (aka Fred Segal.)

I ran home from work to find him pale and upset. I held him tightly, told him it was going to be ok and he would get the help he needed. We just hung onto each other and had a very rare pleasant rest of the day and night, watching movies (my go-to for all things that ail you).

He said he couldn't stand the thought of going to another residential treatment center, and certainly not back to UCLA, so we decided to pursue the intensive outpatient therapy which is what he was supposed to do after the rehab. (Didn't quite work out. Read older posts to enlighten yourself about the post-rehab drama.) Anyhow, feeling optimistic! Found a place in West Hollywood that would take him for the 4 month program -- every single night I would need to leave work early and drive him there for the first month -- then it tapered down from there. I was willing to do it because I am a great mom who really tries to look at the glass half full: while he's in the outpatient therapy I can sit at the Coffee Bean next-door and work on my lastest script. All good! He asked for help so he would get it, even if I had to take a second or third job. (God, I love this economy. That was said in a very sarcastic tone of voice by the way.)

Well, the next day he sent me a link to a website for a medication called Suboxone. I had no idea what that was. Hmmm..... He even called me at work to ask if I had gotten the email. No, I told him, I was busy washing dishes (don't ask) and hadn't found the time to make it to my office to check email but would do that soon. He made me promise to call him as soon as I read his email.

So, Suboxone is the current version of Methadone which is what they give heroin addicts to help them through the withdrawal and detox of one of the most addictive drugs known to mankind. Well. I guess he's trying to tell me something. (Insert sarcastic voice of my mother: "You think?") Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Heroin? And here I thought it was "just" pot, xanax (which the kids snort apparently. really?), ectasy, hash, acid, cocaine and well, everything else but black tar heroin.

Again, I ran home. (Yes, the employers have been very understanding.) Yes. It's heroin. But, good news! He hasn't "yet" gone to the needle "just" smoking it. But his "friend" Damian, the one that introduced Max to drugs, who Max always blames for everything (not ready to take responsibility yet) is "SHOOTING UP EVERY DAY." This is also the kid that threatened to kill me (or beat me up, can't remember because it was in a text message that I quickly read on Max's cell when he was in the shower) when his mom called me to ask for advice on rehabs since Damian needed to go to one since he just got arrested and it would help his case if he sought help. Thank GOD Max is not hanging out with him anymore.

Ok there is still time to save my kid! He's not hanging out with Damian; he hasn't gone to the needle yet! Off to the latest doctor to get a prescription for Subxone. Ok, that was handled. Now off to see the IOP. Good, found it, the meeting went well. So well, that while in the meeting we get a call from a very FAMOUS COMEDIAN that the kid loves and that I wrote to earlier in the day once I found out he doesn't drink or do drugs (and has dated some super hot chicks, made movies and has a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and is still very edgy and cool and popular with the college crowd -- someone my son can actually look up to in Hollywood, wow.). He is giving us tickets to his show and wants to meet my son. Wow! Faith in humanity has been restored.

Ok, go to comedy show. Meet another famous dude who is now sober (amazingly so) with a 3-D movie coming out the next night. (Ok, it was Steve-O.) He and son bond, take photo. The other famous comedian (ok, it was Dane Cook) shows up in the VIP room where we were whisked to by the owner of this comedy club on Sunset (ok it was Jamie Masada), and stops by and says hello. Kid is so happy. Comedian couldn't be nicer (and quite hot if I do say so. [Note to self: need boyfriend SOON. One date every 12 months is not healthy. Or right.] Dane Cook does his set, comes back and spends more time with us. All is good! Dane even said I was a cool mom. Did I mention how great he is? Life is great! Another photo op. Kid is going to be a-ok.

Insert sound of super fast car slamming on the BRAKES......SCREEEEECH.

Not. So. Fast.

Max "declined" to go to the outpatient therapy a few days after the visit. Not sure what happened but he came up with a "better" plan. Just find a bunch of doctors and do it that way. Can't say I'm not disappointed but at least he's still asking for help.

So there's a therapist, a psychiatrist, a pain management/anesthesiologist that prescribes the Suboxone, and Al-Anon (and blogging) for me. So we're on the right track. However, he's still angry and hostile and miserable but at least he's not hanging out with any of his "old" friends and he's getting off the heroin.

Insert dramatically depressing music here. Insert dark rain. Wet streets.

Every frickin' Sunday I have to do laundry ... at the laundry mat (again, don't ask) and come home today to find a bike on the front porch. Front door locked. Sneak around to the back door which is open. Quietly walk through the house.

Max hears me not so stealthly approaching his room, the door is open. He jumps up out of his chair and physically tries to block me from entering his room. When DAMIAN jumps off the bed and says, so coolly, "hi, how are you? Not sure if I am supposed to be here but thought I'd just drop by."

Cool as a cucumber. My kid is clearly upset, keeps saying "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I leave, take the puppy on a very long walk in a much nicer neighborhood (hearing the voices of the other Al-Anon parents chanting 'disengage, disengage, disengage') but come home to a peaceful, yet empty house. No note. No text. No email. No call. Feel guilty because he's not here and I'm enjoying the peace. But know that this turn of events is, mostly likely, not a good thing.

He just called. He's at Damien's house now. I asked for Damian's mother's phone number. He said he'd text it to me. That was an hour ago. Nothing. But at least he let me know where he was. Right?

I am sure this story is to be continued. One way or another.

Urine.

So, I just had to report that today was spent being assaulted by urine. So frickin' gross. It started when I tried to wake up the son (at 11) but he wasn't budging. I just stood there and stared at his greasy hair, thin, pale body, and felt...well nothing oddly enough. Then he woke up. Was fairly pleasant but informed me he had dropped his cell phone during the night and could only find the battery and cover. This is one of many cell phones I have purchased since he was 8 or 9. Yep, he was an early adopter as they say in the tech industry. Or more accurately, he was the early adopter and I was the trendsetting parent, always giving in and making sure my kid had whatever he needed to feel special and not "left out." I truly wish he felt left out now, then maybe he wouldn't be a drug addict.

Anyhow, after being informed that he only has parts of the $350 cell phone that is constantly being dropped and lost and "broken" (it is less than 4 months old)I drop to my knees like a good/bad parent and start the hunt. It is so dirty on the floor! Dust bunnies the size of Godzilla, stale tortilla chips, popcorn, pretzels, dirty black socks that were once white, rolled up pieces of paper, matches. Ah! What is that I see? Oh, just a piece of foil. I don't make a big deal of it but wonder if it is from the heroin days or is that related to pot? Sometimes I wish I were more experienced with drugs then I wouldn't have to spend so much time on Google. (More about the heroin use later -- which is the newest bump in this already bumpy road.)

Wait! I see the phone! It's by a film canister. Wow, haven't seen one of those in a long time. Remember when we actually had to take the film out of the camera -- "oh, I hope I got it out ok" -- and bring it into a place to get developed and then .... the waiting, waiting, waiting, for the photos? "Oh. I hope they came out ok. Especially that one of me and Dalai Lama / David Letterman / Meryl Streep / The Pope !" And then the day arrived, the photos were ready! You rush over to the local Walgreens, pay, get the nice fat pack of (hopefully perfect) photos. You take them out to the car in the parking lot and of course, thumb through them before driving home. Ah, the disappointment. The sadness. The anti-climatic ending to what should have been a great journey. Most of the photos are of my thumb. The others are undistinguishable. Is that a ghost? The white shadow in the background? "No, that's Grandma." Oh. I had to pay for each of these? Shit. But I digress. So, I take the film canister and without missing a beat open the cap....look in.... see some liquid. Liquid? In a film canister? Naturally put it right up to my nose and INHALE as deeply as I can before I hear the sounds of my son saying "No! Don't smell it!" Too late. It's urine. Urine that's in the process of fermenting. "It's pee. It's over a year old. I told you not to smell it."

By now I have run to the bathroom, no! Don't dump in the sink! (Don't know why I did't think of flushing it down the toilet, the rather logical thing to do, but I was in a state of urine induced insanity. Run to the kitchen. NO! Not in the kitchen sink. Run outside, throw it on my lovely purple lavendar plant. Poor plant. Fully expect it to be dead tomorrow. WTF? Why would someone have a film canister filled with year old urine? Oh. Right. Drug testing. Apparently it came from the body of the kid -- 4 years younger than my son -- down the street. Wonder what he got out of it?

So, that's how the day started. I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and trying to get the lingering smell of urine out of my facial vicinity. I could not get that smell out of my mind.

Did I mention we have a new puppy? (There is a connection to the urine induced insanity, I promise.) Yep. The puppy is super cute and I love him more than anything but sadly my son is not the most able when it comes to cleaning up urine-soaked carpets. So, the pee smell in our tiny house just won't-ever-go-away. Of course when I am not working at the day job, the son doesn't really take the puppy out for walks (even though he is now technically home schooled via an online high school) unless it's to go a block away to purchase or sell drugs. Although he, the son and the puppy actually, are getting better at housekeeping chores. The sad fact remains that I have thrown out three carpets that were beyond redemption but the few remaining ones have this horrid odor that just won't go away. Well, that's not true. The smell does go away, so I get tricked into thinking I have managed to save another carpet. But of course, the odor always creeps back. It seemd especially strong today but it was probably my early morning urine experience that has me quite obsessed with pee on this lovely Saturday. So, the rest of the day was spent sprinkling rosemary-lavendar powder on the carpets and vacuuming. Didn't work. So I performed a combination of pet odor stain and smell remover along with a liberal dosing of Fabreze and soy candles. Didn't work. Went to the hard-core stuff: "Urine Be Gone" (as seen on TV) heavy dudty spraying on the carpets then checking with a black light for spots. So gross. (Note to self: stop using black light. Will drive me insane.) I guess I just need to throw out the rest of the carpets and start over. I always feel like I am starting over.

Urine. The smell that won't go away. Just like my son's drug habit.

Long and Short Summer

So it's been a while.... after he got out of rehab and I got tired of running away to cheap motels and trying to just avoid him, I came up with a better plan: I sent him to El Salvador. The country with the most violent and dangerous city in the world San Salvador, and home of the notorious MS-13 gang. Desperate times call for deseprate measures, right?

So his absent dad bought some property down there and agreed to take him for a week or so but I was able to get 5 weeks out of it. Yeah for me! All of July to myself... no more hiding out in cheap motels. Had a bit of a challenge getting him his passport (rush! more money!!) and then onto the plane. He was going to go. He wouldn't go. He would go. Sat in the car in the parking lot at LAX then I got out. He sat. I kept walking. He got out. He almost didn't make it past security. I pretended that I wasn't with him,but then he made it through. The plane was delayed naturally. Had to sit there for over an hour and I thought I had it timed out just so that we would get to the gate and he would get on, no more time to delay or wait. But no, the plane was delayed. Ok, he passed out in waiting area by the gate. I don't even care that people are staring but I do care that the cleaning lady keeps rolling her super loud cleaning cart back and forth in front of us. Doesn't she know that we don't want to wake the sleeping monster??? Holding my breath. Afraid to move because any slight movement might wake him up and then he freak out or refuse to go or something worse. Boarding the plane. Strangely it's super quiet now that the cleaning lady is gone. Maybe all the passengers can read my mind. Keep still. Keep Quiet. Don't make any sudden moves until the monster is on the plane in his seat where he can hopefully pass out again.

He got on the plane and made it to El Salvador. Miracle. I avoided most of his calls except for the one telling me he was bringing home a puppy from San Salvador. Great. However, it's the cutest dog I've ever seen. So sweet and tiny and just a good little pup. Maybe this will the cure?

More on how things are progressing now. Good and bad mostly bad. But the dog is still alive and lovely and now sleeps on my bare feet his white fluffy fur keeping my bare feet warm. I never thought I'd love a dog more than my own son. Oh, that's harsh. Not true but sometimes I feel that way. Is that wrong?

A month later and, well, just broke.

Well, let's see....in a nutshell he got out....was extremely hostile the day I picked him up, not the happy Hollywood ending I had envisioned.

Listening to James Taylor .... "When this old world just starts getting me down and people are just too much for me to take"....I go to shady motels and watch stupid TV shows, get tap water ice cubes from that amazing machine located near the stairwell, pull those black-out curtains, and pretend I am in the South of France. Is it bad to run away from your kid? After you've spent your last remaining dollars on him in an effort to "help" him? And he still hates you, now more than ever? He almost has me convinced that I am the crazy one, the one to blame, the horrible one. So, basically nothing has changed in the past 5 or 6 weeks.

Let's see, other than I am now officially broke, my son does drugs everyday rather than every other day, and I am getting so many conflicting pieces of advice from well-meaning people of all walks of life -- including the local police department and my employer and my family -- but nothing makes sense to me. I have never been more confused in my entire life. So, what do I do? Just go. Go away. Drive and spend my last few pennies on cheap motel rooms where I can just .... be. Alone. Is that wrong? Not too deep down I am hoping that someone will figure out that I have abandoned him and they will take him away from me. But I always return. Guilt really sucks. I wish I had no guilt otherwise this would be so much easier. Fuck.

So the day to day reality is that he went back to school right after getting out of rehab (he used the day he got out) and he refused to adhere to any of the terms of our contract. Namely that he stay sober and go to those 12 step meetings and stay in school. So, of course, after a week back at school they kicked him out again as he was a "safety risk to himself or others". So a week at home while I was at work doing the grunt work of 10 people (they all got laid off- yeah! good econonmy!), HE got to spend the week relaxing, sleeping in watching TV and playing X-Box. I begged the school to take him back because there was only a month left and god-dammit, I wanted something to come to some type of a conclusion. At least he could finish the school year!

I know this makes no sense but short story is that he's still using drugs, I am broke, rehab did not work, he refuses to get help, I am about to lose my job for a variety of reasons, and well, life goes on. One way or another.

Mother's Day -- Not Father's Day.

Up and Down. Up and Down. So it goes. Max hasn't run away from the "residential treatment center" so I take that as a good sign. However, he's only got 2 weeks left then what? I hate to say it but I am getting used to him not being here, at home, where he truly does belong. Does that make me a bad mother? No. I think it makes me human which are pretty adaptable creatures. I do want him back, but I would much prefer if the version I got back is the sweet, kind, funny, compasionate, helpful, smart, loving kid that I know resides within his sullen, sad, hostile self that is currently going through rehab.

Max and I did have a nice mother's day. We even got to go out to lunch and it was one of the best mother's days I've had in years. He was polite, funny and actually ate a tone of food (always points in my book since he's such a picky eater). Mother's Day fell on a Sunday which followed a Saturday which was the day his dad came to visit from 600 miles away. That was a miracle in and of itself. I think the visit was a big joke to Max's dad because everything is a big joke to him.

We had what they call "multi-family group therapy" on Saturday. I was happy that some of the pressure would be off me and surely onto Max's dad. I was right. Max point-blank asked his dad why he has never told him he loves him. You could hear a pin drop. Of course, the dad, muddled and messed up that he is, couldn't quite answer the question. He tried to say the right things: "You are brilliant Max! You can learn Spanish! You can learn to play an instrument! You can be a success!" -- sadly he couldn't just say three simple words: "I love you." which is really all that Max wanted to hear. Another mother from accross the room said directly to the dad "he's being very clear on what he wants! Just tell him you love him!" Glad someone else said this. A total stranger no less. I've been saying it for years but for some sick reason it just doesn't sink into Max's dad's very messed up brain. (God I hope he gets therapy soon before it's too late. Oh wait, he's already 60. Forget it.)

Heavy duty day. I won't even talk about the other very sad issues that came that day. I just truly wish that Max had a better male role model.

Life goes on and it's up to US mothers to help break the destructive cycle that infests quite a few of our male species.

Wine and Meditation

So on Sunday my good friend insisted that I go to church with her. CHURCH? How long has that been? I was a bit reluctant but she insisted on picking me up (which is a very good thing because I probably wouldn't have gone otherwise). I am glad we went. The Agape Spiritual Center is not like the hypocritical churches of my childhood. No, this was full of cool LA people (they all looked liked actors), singing and well, just being spiritual. I even meditated which was rather miraculous for me. (OK don't tell anyone but I fell asleep. That still counts though right?)

After the service, still feeling the love, I went to the church bookstore where I stocked up on books that will surely help both Max and I. Secret for Teens! I know that this is the one book that will do the trick. All he needs to do is become a master of his thoughts! Think positive and you can have whatever you want. He will probably only think about weed. When he called later that night, still excited from my efforts at finding peace all I wanted to do is tell him about my day at church. I even lied and told him the girls from the Pretty Wild E show were there (he has crushes on these girls)....I think he saw right through my lies. Surprisingly, he really wasn't interested in my new books or my day at Agape. I really don't know why..... He only had one angry question: when do I get out of here?

The new calm, spiritual me was gone in a second. I guess it will take more than one Sunday to transform me into a zen master. I really want a quick fix which is probably why we are in this position now.

So what is the logical thing to do? I went to the wine store and selected some very lovely Italian wine which I am now drinking. (Thank you Groupon, my new most favorite website.) Is it hypocritical of me to drink wine? Do I need to drink all the booze in my house before Max comes home? Can I ever have a cocktail in front of him again? This is all new to me.

Maybe God will have the answer for me next Sunday. Meanwhile, chin chin.

This is for your own good.

So in the chaos of what has become my life, I forgot my password for this blogger thing and gave up many times, which is pretty indicative of my life in general. I know it doesn't sound like it but I am feeling much more optimistic this grey morning.

Max was in the hospital for 11 days and even had 3 really good days last weekend. I was feeling great then on that last Monday night visit, the angry, sullen, hostile man-boy was back. He hates me, how can I do this to him, I am ruining his life, I am no longer his mother. He told me didn't take his Adderall that morning and maybe that's why he was so anxious and agitated. I don't know if I should believe him or not, but I told the nurses and then he denied it right to my face in front of the therapist, social worker and doctor. This kid has some mad lying skills. I still think he should become a lawyer or politician. Or a Hollywood Agent.

I have been useless at work so they sent me home. Thank God I work at a place that understands these types of issues, very intimately. I am sick to my stomach every day, can't eat, can't breath and feel frozen with fear indecisiveness. What do I do with him? My insurance has run out and I have major anxiety about this "vacation in the hospital" -- how will I pay for it? Even my co-pays for the 7 days they did cover it will be huge. And then what? Where should he go after the hospital? Some people think I am over-reacting and he should be at home. Some people (most of the doctors and therapists that have gotten to know Max over this past week and half, say he should he sent to UTAH to one of of locked facilities for the year), some people think he just needs a 30 day rehab. UTAH is $10,000 a month and is not covered by insurance. How do average people get help for their loved ones?

Late Wednesday night I got a call. He has been accepted, even though he's a flight risk, at a rehab in California close enough to home so I can visit. Everyone kicks into high gear. Doctor calls in prescriptions, I pick them up, pack his bag, hire an interventionist and his partner an off-duty cop, to get him from the hospital to the rehab because I know he won't go willingly. $1,000 for a 45 minute drive. Again, how do people afford this stuff?

Three large men drag him out of the hospital, no shoes. As suspected he is not going willingly. For someone who is under 100 pounds, he certainly has a team of medical professionals, and a cop, scrambling for control. They won't let me ride in the elevator with them so I take the next one and follow behind trying to keep an eye on the situation but also hoping that no one will think I am with them. This is one of the worst sights ever. I run to the bathroom and throw up. My hands are shaking. How can he make me feel this way?

I only want to help him because I love him so much. I hope that one day he will realize this. For now, he still hates me.

Macaroni and Cheese

Yesterday was another day of up and down. UP: he was going to a local 30 day rehab center where they could help him....DOWN: NOPE! They found out he tried to escape from the hospital (well he did actually)...so he's considered an AWOL risk so they won't take him. She said in 25 years she's never once heard of anyone escaping from this particular hospital. If only I could get Max to use his "evil genius" for good....

UP Again: He just called me and sounds really happy! DOWN! Car stopped quickly in front of me and Koo Koo Roo dinner I had purchased for us hit the floor. Macaroni and Cheese everywhere. I swear it's going to be one little minor thing like that that will send me over the edge.

UP again! He was happy and smiling and didn't verbally attack me tonight during our visit. Could have something to do with his double dose of anti-depressants or the fact that I arranged a visit for him from some young tatted up guy I work with (thank you TT!) and Max really likes him.

DOWN Again: My sister is out of it again and slurring her words and repeating herself. Again, feeling all alone again.

Stayed up until 4 am again. Can't sleep. Feel like I keep seeing things fly around my house in the dark. Damn, maybe I am the one who needs to be hospitalized? Or at least a new pair of contact lenses.


DOWN!

My Son Is In The Psychiatric Hospital

My son is in the psychiatric ward and I put him there. He hates me, even though I was his room parent every year since kindergarten, never missed a field trip (even though I worked full time), threw him elaborate birthday parties since Age 1, took him on trips to foreign countries as well as local foreign places (Legoland anyone?), took him to every single doctor appointment except one time when I myself was in the emergency room having a spinal tap (damn, I should have done better), rocked him to sleep when he wouldn’t stop crying, gained 45 pounds (which I have yet to lose 15 years later) with my pregnancy, cleaned him up after a bout of the stomach flu, comforted him after 2am nightmares and made countless batches of chicken nuggets (the only food he really likes). But you get the point. I still could have done better in his eyes. What does that mean right now? To him, I would be the best parent if I just let him “live his life” – which means staying out all night, getting mostly Ds in school, and doing lots of drugs. I guess I am too protective of him and should just…let him be. I suppose that I should not be bothered that his drug test showed pot, cocaine, ecstasy, vicodin and xanax. I guess I should be happy there wasn’t any heroin. Of course, that would be just a matter of time. He hates me because I love him and am trying to help him.

I went to visit Max in the hospital tonight against the advice of the well-meaning “been-there-seen-it-all” nurse Cheryl and teenage psychologist intern, Amanda. I brought Max an In-and-Out Burger which I thought was a good idea. I didn’t realize that they use American cheese and not real cheddar, which was a major faux pas on my part. Although I think he forgave me since he ate the entire thing. He was sitting on the floor in the dark in the corner when I arrived in his at first seemingly nice room. Upon spending more time in that room I am starting to hate it as well. I’ve really only spent about 3 hours in it total, rather than Max’s 6 nights. I understand why he hates it. Even though the hospital is a $1.6 billion dollar facility, there is still that austere sadness and underlying air of despair and depression innate to all hospitals. Maybe it’s really not a good idea to lock up people to “help” them. Maybe we should just set them free in a field of flowers and let them roam around in nature? But I digress.

Once Max started eating his energy came back in a big and volatile way. His hatred this evening seemed to focus on someone else rather than me for a change! Hallelujah! Seems that Dr. Amanda and Nurse Cheryl were the “fucking bitches” of the day. Finally, I get a break! After a 15 minute tirade against his prison wardens, the anger, predictably, turned back to me. His mother and only visitor so far. Since I am to blame for all of this, I need to take the brunt of his anger. Nurse Cheryl told me not to engage him in discussions about what would happen when he was released from the hospital and to stay on “neutral topics.” I tried to talk about the weather, I really did, but he was having none of that. He was convinced that I was sending him out of state to get rid of him because I didn’t care about him. He said he knew that I had asked every family member for money, which was PROOF that I was getting ready to send him away. I tried to remain neutral. “Think it’s going to rain?” He just kept pulling me back into THAT conversation. Truth is, I don’t even know what’s going to happen next. I wish I did.

The venom spewing tirade was interrupted by a girl named Leah, another patient, who happened to wander into his room against unit policies. She was a larger girl, probably 14, and was very happy to meet me. I was happy for the diversion and was just hoping she wasn’t dangerous when I saw a faint smile come across Max’s face. Ah, his sense of humor was still in there, buried deep, but there nonetheless. There was still hope. Leah remarked how lucky Max was to have a view of the parking lot and a burger and fries and milkshake from In-and-Out. “Lucky!” she said drawing out the word as though channeling a 1985 Valley Girl. Leah’s room didn’t have a view and she didn’t have a burger but she thinks the hospital food is “fantastic”. Max rolled his eyes when she said that. I absent mindedly remarked “gee, I wonder how many cars are parked on the top level.” 44 turns out. Max and I patiently listened to Leah count each and every one of them. Max was still smiling, a very rare sight indeed. Leah told me she lives in the Valley and has no idea why she’s been in the hospital for the past week. Leah and Max bonded over their mutual hate of their “prison” and agreed that there’s something very, very wrong, because clearly neither one of them needed to be there.

After a few minutes Max (very politely I might add) asked Leah if she could leave so he could have some private time with his mom. As she left, she shook my hand and told me how nice it was to meet me. Max asked me to close the door and then told me that Leah constantly tells him how “sexy” he is and how she wants to have sex with him even though she’s bi and has never had sex yet. Oh Lord help me.

Max was still in a good mood and proceeded to tell me about Nate, another patient. He is very tall and very large and aggressive but not on purpose. He’s been restricted from the common rooms. Max seems to like him even though he sounds a bit intimidating. Today he came into Max’s room sans pants or underwear and proceeded to look at the window while mooning Max. He then turned around, for the full frontal view. Next, he went into Max’s bathroom and proceeded to eat his shampoo and deodorant. For his final act, he jumped on Max’s bed with Max still on it, and proceeded to roll around on his clean white sheets, with his nude body. Max laughed when telling me this story and so I left on a high note. Maybe there is hope after all. He hugged me before I left.

So then I get home. I forgot to turn the porch light on and it’s one of those super black nights out. I fumble with my door keys when I realize my security door is locked. I never lock it. I can vaguely see something wedged between the security door and the front door. Is it a bomb from one of the local teen drug lords I am making it my personal mission to bring down? What if they are still inside the house? What if my landlord heard about the police incident and has evicted me? All crazy thoughts but I haven’t been totally coherent for at least a week now. Ok, go around to the back door and go in that way I tell myself. I am terrified that the horrid white possum that comes out every night will run across my flip flop clad feet. Ok, made it through the gate, into the yard, now up to the back door. The key is not working. There is glass everywhere. The window is broken. Oh, wait, that was from Max. He was so mad he slammed the door and the window broke. Struggle with the key, getting paranoid. What if Max’s hoodlum friends are in the house looking for his stash? I did notice that the spare key is missing again….

In! Finally. I try the front door, no can do. It is not turning. Turn on the porch light. Grab the flashlight and get back to the front door. No possum thankfully. The box. What is in that box? Looks like something from UPS. Probably not a bomb. Back in the house. The house looks fine. Nothing is missing. No one here.

The locksmith Rob comes although I know that’s not his real name. My guess would be something more like Ranjit or Rodolfo. I don’t know but he’s polite and tells me he has never seen a situation like this. After a few minutes he gets the door knob off and the box falls out. It’s from my Aunt Shirley in Texas. Strange, she’s never sent me anything before. Maybe she’s heard about Max and has sent me a care package. A bottle of wine and a massage gift certificate sound really good about now. I pay Rob the $275 (!) and he promises he will write a letter explaining that the work was necessary due to the UPS person leaving the package in between the two doors. I almost feel bad because the UPS person tried to do the right thing to keep my package safe. But I can’t afford the $275 so I will have to battle UPS. I probably won’t do it because I am getting really tired of fighting.

I open the box. It’s a collection of random items. The note tells me that these were items from my Grandmother who recently passed away. Her costume jewelry which she loved. Some note paper. A porcelain poodle. And photos. Tons of photos. Her, me as a child, my parents, me and my sister when we 6 and 8. And Max. Tons of photos of Max. When he was 10 and modeling. 8 and smiling a smile with missing teeth. A baby picture. His birth announcement all baby blue and white stripes. I was so proud of those announcements. They were printed and very fancy for 1994. I felt like a very chic mommy when I mailed those out.

When I picked out those baby announcements 15 years earlier, I remember wondering, what was Max going to be like when he was a teenager. And then, the lightness from my one good visit just an hour ago vanished. The tears came back again.