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.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Sunny and 72.
The sun is out, the sky is blue and things have been a little bit better with Max. He seems like he is adjusting to the idea of being in rehab for 6 months, although he's trying to bargain it down to 3 months. Either way, it's better than telling me over and over again that he is "walking on day 30" which is just a few days away.
They let me bring the puppy to therapy and that seems to help him. I never thought of myself as an animal person but this little puppy from El Salvador has changed all that....I instantly relax when I see his happy, smiling face and wagging tale. Unconditional love. So hard (impossible really) to get with humans.
Max has been writing again, which I love. He's such a great writer when he writes. He wrote a paper in rehab and the music teacher wants him to turn into a rap or song so they can record it at the rehab recording studio. This particular rehab has a ton of support from the music industry, hence the recording studio.
Here are some of my 16-year old son's words:
"My life has been one crazy ride filled with many ups and downs so far...I've gone through many treatment centers and hospitals to address and correct my seemingly never-ending addiction to not only my dark and extremely tempting mistress heroin, but also to the sly and deceiving false happiness that forms itself in a blinding white substance called cocaine. I have to say, I am extremely exhausted and out of gas. When I look at my arms I see a story...a story of a young man that has been completely taken advantage of by a deep dark road called addiction. I hope that once I completely defeat my addiction, I can somehow help others that battle their own addictions, because I've been through it and I know how horribly rough it can be. That day will soon come, and until then it will be one day at a time until I completely reach my goal."
I hope he reaches his goal because I know, in my heart, that he can be an inspiration to others, like only someone who has been on such a dark, scary journey, and survived it, can.
They let me bring the puppy to therapy and that seems to help him. I never thought of myself as an animal person but this little puppy from El Salvador has changed all that....I instantly relax when I see his happy, smiling face and wagging tale. Unconditional love. So hard (impossible really) to get with humans.
Max has been writing again, which I love. He's such a great writer when he writes. He wrote a paper in rehab and the music teacher wants him to turn into a rap or song so they can record it at the rehab recording studio. This particular rehab has a ton of support from the music industry, hence the recording studio.
Here are some of my 16-year old son's words:
"My life has been one crazy ride filled with many ups and downs so far...I've gone through many treatment centers and hospitals to address and correct my seemingly never-ending addiction to not only my dark and extremely tempting mistress heroin, but also to the sly and deceiving false happiness that forms itself in a blinding white substance called cocaine. I have to say, I am extremely exhausted and out of gas. When I look at my arms I see a story...a story of a young man that has been completely taken advantage of by a deep dark road called addiction. I hope that once I completely defeat my addiction, I can somehow help others that battle their own addictions, because I've been through it and I know how horribly rough it can be. That day will soon come, and until then it will be one day at a time until I completely reach my goal."
I hope he reaches his goal because I know, in my heart, that he can be an inspiration to others, like only someone who has been on such a dark, scary journey, and survived it, can.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
High School Shootings, Red Hot Chili Peppers, PETA and Shaun Cassidy
I just noticed that my puppy is eating organic dog food made by Dick Van Patten. Remember "8 is Enough" ?? Probably not if you are under 45 but I loved that show! Willie Ames was so cute. So surfer, so LA, so dreamy. He was one of my wannabe boyfriends (right below David Cassidy, Shaun Cassidy, Donny Osmond, Rick Springfield and Leif Garrett). What a list. I do believe that all of them (with the exception of the goody-goody Donny Osmond and maybe Shaun Cassidy) all had some sort of drug, drink or sex addiction, right? Anyhow, the Dick Van Patten dog food made me think of PETA, which made me think of Bob Barker ("come on down!"), which lead me to, you guessed it, Max.
My son uses Bob Barker personal hygiene products at rehab. I guess Mr. Barker makes shampoo and the such for prisons and low-cost, court-ordered rehabs. I thought my son was joking when he told me that, but then I saw it on TMZ the other night. It's true. Bob Barker personal hygiene products for the average American prisoner. I'll bet they're not tested on animals. Probably better than the stuff I can afford to use now. However, Max's hair really doesn't look that good lately but not sure I can blame that on Bob Barker.
Speaking of the son, he's still alive, so that's good. Still in rehab after an AWOL attempt last week. Had one really good therapy session in which I was allowed to bring the organic dog food eating pooch to the therapy session. But then on Sunday during our family visit, not so good. Well, it started out ok: he was showered, clean(ish) looking, neat and tidy in his regulation uniform (dark polo and khakis). But after first glance I noticed his pale, pale skin, thin, thin body (the pants are huge on him and no sagging allowed in this place, thank God!). Dark circles under his eyes. They tell me he's still not eating but they sneak him cookies every once in a while and try to get him to drink Ensure.
He got very angry half way through the one hour visit. "WHY are you doing this to me? This place is not getting me help. I am just going to be angrier when I get out, if I even stay. I'd rather be dead." I had to report the "rather be dead" part to the case manager so she can keep another eye on him. I left without giving him a hug but I did tell him I loved him. Not sure he believes me.
I drove back yesterday to drop off another book (seems he is actually reading for a change) and a basketball hoop for the back of his door. He finishd reading "Scar Tissue" the amazing book by Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers (now sober!). So I got him the new Russell Brand book (also sober!). Maybe he'll understand if those two guys can get sober then he can. I wish Robert Downey Jr. would write a book. From what I'm hearing, Charlie Sheen is not ready to write the "sober" book just yet. Too bad "2-1/2 Men" is one of Max's favorite shows.
Since Max can't get along with the "general population" they are trying to give him his own room. It was always that way in school, all the way back to kindergarten at Montessori. The teachers always loved him, he had friends, but he just got so agitated by the other kids he always had his own desk usually up by the teacher (if she was young and sweet) or in the back or the classroom, in a corner (if she was old and cranky).
I do believe that kids now have it much harder than say, 20 years ago. They know too much. It was so much better to be blissfully ignorant.
On Friday night a 14-year old Freshman at the local high school (Max's school had he stayed) ran off the baseball field during practice, across the street to a Sheraton Hotel, went up to the 10th floor and jumped. He told everyone at practice he was going to do it. Some of them chased him then lost sight of him. Sadly, most of them saw his body hit the sidewalk. Suicide. But why? People said he seemed "fine" that day. 14 years old.
On Sunday night at 9:30, a gang fight between the SM13 and Graveyard Crips broke out. 30 teens/men apparently. Shots were fired. No witnesses or bystanders when the police got there. This took place 2 blocks from where I live. And where I walk my organic dog food eating puppy. Last time I walked there I thought the street looked a bit dicey. Saw a scary looking dude smoking his yard. The yard was an odd mix of baby toys and empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. When I got closer, I smiled. (What else could I do?) He smiled. Relaxed a bit and then told me what a beautiful dog my puppy was. I told him he was from El Salvador. He seemed to like that. Asked me how long it took to groom him. Said it must take a lot of time to keep him so white. He seemed really interested in the dog grooming. We smiled at each other as I walked towards my block, the "good" block. I wonder if he was part of the brawl on Sunday?
Today at 10:00 A.M. a student was shot in the head at another SoCal high school. The shooter, a 17 year old student, apparently brought the gun to school for protection, and when he dropped his backpack, the gun accidentally discharged and shot two other students, one who is currently undergoing surgery as she was shot in the head. I wonder who he needed protection from? Where did he get the gun?
Some days I just want to grab my kid and my puppy and go back to 1978.
I want to go where young teenagers practiced kissing album covers of Shaun Cassidy in the privacy of her own bedroom because that was the only thing to do in your bedroom: no computer, cell phones, text messaging, tv. If you were super lucky you might have a record player or maybe the phone cord would reach all the way across the hall into your room so you could have a private conversation with your best friend about boys.
I want that world where a teenager would feel pain (they always do no matter what the year) but instead of jumping off a buiding, shooting a classmate with an automatic weapon, or injecting heroin into their scrawny pale arms, they could pull out a denim covered diary, gently unlock it with a thick piece of foil that was supposed to pass as a key (high security indeed!), and write about it. Write about the fears, the pain, the shame, the embarrassments and humiliations that come with being 14, 15, 16 or 17.
And, then, once it was all written down, they could go back to practice kissing Shaun Cassidy. You know, just in case there was a chance meeting one day.
I know we can't go "back" but can't we make the "forward" better than the "present?"
My son uses Bob Barker personal hygiene products at rehab. I guess Mr. Barker makes shampoo and the such for prisons and low-cost, court-ordered rehabs. I thought my son was joking when he told me that, but then I saw it on TMZ the other night. It's true. Bob Barker personal hygiene products for the average American prisoner. I'll bet they're not tested on animals. Probably better than the stuff I can afford to use now. However, Max's hair really doesn't look that good lately but not sure I can blame that on Bob Barker.
Speaking of the son, he's still alive, so that's good. Still in rehab after an AWOL attempt last week. Had one really good therapy session in which I was allowed to bring the organic dog food eating pooch to the therapy session. But then on Sunday during our family visit, not so good. Well, it started out ok: he was showered, clean(ish) looking, neat and tidy in his regulation uniform (dark polo and khakis). But after first glance I noticed his pale, pale skin, thin, thin body (the pants are huge on him and no sagging allowed in this place, thank God!). Dark circles under his eyes. They tell me he's still not eating but they sneak him cookies every once in a while and try to get him to drink Ensure.
He got very angry half way through the one hour visit. "WHY are you doing this to me? This place is not getting me help. I am just going to be angrier when I get out, if I even stay. I'd rather be dead." I had to report the "rather be dead" part to the case manager so she can keep another eye on him. I left without giving him a hug but I did tell him I loved him. Not sure he believes me.
I drove back yesterday to drop off another book (seems he is actually reading for a change) and a basketball hoop for the back of his door. He finishd reading "Scar Tissue" the amazing book by Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers (now sober!). So I got him the new Russell Brand book (also sober!). Maybe he'll understand if those two guys can get sober then he can. I wish Robert Downey Jr. would write a book. From what I'm hearing, Charlie Sheen is not ready to write the "sober" book just yet. Too bad "2-1/2 Men" is one of Max's favorite shows.
Since Max can't get along with the "general population" they are trying to give him his own room. It was always that way in school, all the way back to kindergarten at Montessori. The teachers always loved him, he had friends, but he just got so agitated by the other kids he always had his own desk usually up by the teacher (if she was young and sweet) or in the back or the classroom, in a corner (if she was old and cranky).
I do believe that kids now have it much harder than say, 20 years ago. They know too much. It was so much better to be blissfully ignorant.
On Friday night a 14-year old Freshman at the local high school (Max's school had he stayed) ran off the baseball field during practice, across the street to a Sheraton Hotel, went up to the 10th floor and jumped. He told everyone at practice he was going to do it. Some of them chased him then lost sight of him. Sadly, most of them saw his body hit the sidewalk. Suicide. But why? People said he seemed "fine" that day. 14 years old.
On Sunday night at 9:30, a gang fight between the SM13 and Graveyard Crips broke out. 30 teens/men apparently. Shots were fired. No witnesses or bystanders when the police got there. This took place 2 blocks from where I live. And where I walk my organic dog food eating puppy. Last time I walked there I thought the street looked a bit dicey. Saw a scary looking dude smoking his yard. The yard was an odd mix of baby toys and empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. When I got closer, I smiled. (What else could I do?) He smiled. Relaxed a bit and then told me what a beautiful dog my puppy was. I told him he was from El Salvador. He seemed to like that. Asked me how long it took to groom him. Said it must take a lot of time to keep him so white. He seemed really interested in the dog grooming. We smiled at each other as I walked towards my block, the "good" block. I wonder if he was part of the brawl on Sunday?
Today at 10:00 A.M. a student was shot in the head at another SoCal high school. The shooter, a 17 year old student, apparently brought the gun to school for protection, and when he dropped his backpack, the gun accidentally discharged and shot two other students, one who is currently undergoing surgery as she was shot in the head. I wonder who he needed protection from? Where did he get the gun?
Some days I just want to grab my kid and my puppy and go back to 1978.
I want to go where young teenagers practiced kissing album covers of Shaun Cassidy in the privacy of her own bedroom because that was the only thing to do in your bedroom: no computer, cell phones, text messaging, tv. If you were super lucky you might have a record player or maybe the phone cord would reach all the way across the hall into your room so you could have a private conversation with your best friend about boys.
I want that world where a teenager would feel pain (they always do no matter what the year) but instead of jumping off a buiding, shooting a classmate with an automatic weapon, or injecting heroin into their scrawny pale arms, they could pull out a denim covered diary, gently unlock it with a thick piece of foil that was supposed to pass as a key (high security indeed!), and write about it. Write about the fears, the pain, the shame, the embarrassments and humiliations that come with being 14, 15, 16 or 17.
And, then, once it was all written down, they could go back to practice kissing Shaun Cassidy. You know, just in case there was a chance meeting one day.
I know we can't go "back" but can't we make the "forward" better than the "present?"
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Merry Christmas and All that Shit
Well, he got out of UCLA and then right back into ... a new hospital on another 72 hour hold. This time I thought that perhaps a San Diego hospital might be a good alternative. I am getting sick of paying $11 to park in the UCLA parking lot for 30 minutes. That, and all the film premieres they have in Westwood theatres next to the hospital, is sort of getting me down. Two very surreal, but equally delusional, worlds happening simulatenously.
How did he end up in San Diego? I tried to go down south to visit my mom for Christmas on the Thursday before Christmas, but he flipped out and wouldn't get in the car. Apparently he had a date with the drug dealer at 3 and so he wasn't prepared to leave at 1 when I wanted to leave. Much drama ensued and I gave in, came back (from being parked around the block) for fear he would make good on his promise to OD on heroin. I just wanted to have a nice holiday (for once) and thought that planning his funeral would most likely put a cramp in the holiday festivities. Oh, I sound glib now, on January 11, but on December 23, not so much glibness on my part. (I've reached that very ice cold stage now. Apparently, I should have gotten here long ago.)
Ok, so I freak out, my mom drives up from San Diego that night and then she and I sneak out of the house early the next morning, with the puppy, tip toeing around, "Shhhhh.....don't wake....HIM!" It's as though we are talking about King Kong and not a 104 lb. 16 year old boy.
Yeah! We are in our cars, zooming down the 405 and both just so thrilled to have made our escape.
I have a very good friend who has agreed to pick up Max later that day and drive him to San Diego. They will both stay for Christmas Eve dinner and then leave the next day. I don't know why my friend is being so generous but she is and I gladly accept her offer.
They arrive Christmas Eve. He is almost drunk with happiness. Or maybe he'd been hitting those FourLocos again? Or some sort of drug. Whatever, he's nice through most of the dinner, then he leaves the table, lays down and passes out. Business as usual. We ignore him.
Then it's time to pass out gifts. He comes to, and starts this low, angry grumbling about how he "hates all his fucking presents. Worst fucking Christmas ever!" I lose it. This is the point where I hit the proverbial wall. I fall down to the floor, crying. I can no longer take this. It's over.
After much pain the police take him away again. Merry Christmas.
He stayed in that hospital for 5 days. Then with my good friend for 4 very long nights. She got a lot more than she bargained for and I owe her so much. I am also glad that people are finally seeing just how sick (and mean) he really is. He needs so much help and I am tired of doing this by myself and being the target of all his hatred.
He's now at another Los Angels area rehab (main residents: gang members ordered by the court to live there). After only 6 days he went AWOL. They found him but it's just a matter of time before he AWOL's again.
Then what? All I know for sure is that he is not coming home to live with me....for a very, very long time. Years even. I can no longer control him. I am scared of him, and for him. I cannot afford to have him live in my home. I cannot continue to put my life on hold and live like a prisoner in my own home, any longer. I am withering away and am at risk of becoming an accomplice in my own son's demise. I will not accept that role.
I love him. But I am now letting him go.
How did he end up in San Diego? I tried to go down south to visit my mom for Christmas on the Thursday before Christmas, but he flipped out and wouldn't get in the car. Apparently he had a date with the drug dealer at 3 and so he wasn't prepared to leave at 1 when I wanted to leave. Much drama ensued and I gave in, came back (from being parked around the block) for fear he would make good on his promise to OD on heroin. I just wanted to have a nice holiday (for once) and thought that planning his funeral would most likely put a cramp in the holiday festivities. Oh, I sound glib now, on January 11, but on December 23, not so much glibness on my part. (I've reached that very ice cold stage now. Apparently, I should have gotten here long ago.)
Ok, so I freak out, my mom drives up from San Diego that night and then she and I sneak out of the house early the next morning, with the puppy, tip toeing around, "Shhhhh.....don't wake....HIM!" It's as though we are talking about King Kong and not a 104 lb. 16 year old boy.
Yeah! We are in our cars, zooming down the 405 and both just so thrilled to have made our escape.
I have a very good friend who has agreed to pick up Max later that day and drive him to San Diego. They will both stay for Christmas Eve dinner and then leave the next day. I don't know why my friend is being so generous but she is and I gladly accept her offer.
They arrive Christmas Eve. He is almost drunk with happiness. Or maybe he'd been hitting those FourLocos again? Or some sort of drug. Whatever, he's nice through most of the dinner, then he leaves the table, lays down and passes out. Business as usual. We ignore him.
Then it's time to pass out gifts. He comes to, and starts this low, angry grumbling about how he "hates all his fucking presents. Worst fucking Christmas ever!" I lose it. This is the point where I hit the proverbial wall. I fall down to the floor, crying. I can no longer take this. It's over.
After much pain the police take him away again. Merry Christmas.
He stayed in that hospital for 5 days. Then with my good friend for 4 very long nights. She got a lot more than she bargained for and I owe her so much. I am also glad that people are finally seeing just how sick (and mean) he really is. He needs so much help and I am tired of doing this by myself and being the target of all his hatred.
He's now at another Los Angels area rehab (main residents: gang members ordered by the court to live there). After only 6 days he went AWOL. They found him but it's just a matter of time before he AWOL's again.
Then what? All I know for sure is that he is not coming home to live with me....for a very, very long time. Years even. I can no longer control him. I am scared of him, and for him. I cannot afford to have him live in my home. I cannot continue to put my life on hold and live like a prisoner in my own home, any longer. I am withering away and am at risk of becoming an accomplice in my own son's demise. I will not accept that role.
I love him. But I am now letting him go.
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