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.