the widening gyre

The Second Coming
W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

...

The darkness drops again; but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Well. That was a week. After three weeks of peace and life being about life while The Oldest was out of town, he texted me last Monday. "Mom, I need help." It's my deepest hope and my deepest fear in three words. I asked if he meant it. If he was really ready. I asked what he needed: "I just need a hug." "I'll go anywhere and talk to anybody you say." I flew him home the next day. 

Even driving in from the airport though, I knew this wasn't what it seemed like. I knew that once again I had believed what I wanted to. That we'd thrown our house into turmoil to no avail. That we'd brought home someone who wasn't ready for a home. I mentioned a treatment centre. He said "treatment for what?" When I said addiction, he said that's not what he needed help with. 

Up and down. Round and round. Five days of promises and changes and "just talking to my friends helps." By friends he means weed and alcohol and ... who knows. 

Trying to be clear without nagging, I remind him of his promise again and again - Anywhere. Anyone. Those were the words he'd said.

But clearly I just don't understand. 

So today when the addictions counselor he'd agreed to see called me to let me know he'd stood her up again, I knew I had to draw a line in the sand and stand behind it. Luckily, I had an appointment with my counselor right after that phone call, and he gave me some great ways to look at this, some affirming perspective. Some key phrases. There's no good news here, but it also doesn't have to be a total failure - he asked. I responded. That small dance is it's own win. 

When My Man and I got home tonight, The Oldest was waiting in the hammock. We all walked in together, made a little small talk - me rehearsing over and over in my head how to tell him this would be his last night here until he gets help - when out of the blue The Oldest said "I'm going to sleep at Buddy's. I'm just grabbing my stuff." I offered a ride. I asked what was up. He has work, steady work, staring early tomorrow. Buddy's house is more convenient. 

But he was too quiet. The whole ride to Buddy's he was quiet. And you never know with The Oldest what the quiet means - anger? Sadness? Guilt? Did he know I was about to kick him out? He hugged me. And thanked me. And said he'd see me soon. 

I didn't get to deliver my carefully rehearsed speech. But I know this isn't the end. Maybe there will be no end. All I'm left with is a widening gyre. And some rough beast, slouching towards bedlam. 

happy, with a side of skepticism

The Little One has been living with My Man and I for three weeks now, and doing an amazing job after a disappointing 'return home and start over' roll in the game of life. He's enrolled in finishing his grade 12, pre-registered for college (final acceptance depends on summer school grades), has a full-time job already at a place he likes. He's ticking along. We've adjusted to always wearing pants in the house and having a pet again. Oh, and he's off his prescription meds and still stable mentally - sleeping well, clear headed, eating good meals, setting long-term goals, etc. Smoking weed, but stable. The other day he told me he's looking forward to starting college in the fall so he can 'have some intelligent conversations and make some friends he doesn't have to be stoned to be around.' Good goal, son. Good goal.

The Oldest has been stable for a while. I don't ask a whole lot about how much he's using. It goes up and down, I suppose, and yet he's living in a great apartment, showing up for work, paying off debts, working out regularly, meeting new people, planning some travel. He visits and gardens and takes an interest in our lives. He's even reconnected with his dad and managed to visit him and have a good time.

Things are ticking along. Not unlike a bomb, those the wary amongst us who've been here before. I emailed friends and family an update the other day and one response said 'keep an eye out for The Little One - people with depression tend to get worse when things go well.' Sigh.

After dinner last night, The Oldest gave me a heart-felt thank you speech for always doing my best, never giving up on them, keeping my faith and love for them while letting them find their own way, etc.

And I thought (but managed not to say) 'why does this sound so much like his suicide note from last year?' He did follow it up with saying he's feeling good about himself and life. I told him that I'm very proud of how he's pulled himself together the last couple months, and that I'm still eager for him to restore his relationship with his grandparents. He shrugged - not because it doesn't matter, but because he doesn't think sorry is enough and doesn't know what else there is.

Things are good. And I'm grateful. And I wonder what it will take to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I read in the paper today about a new group starting in town for family members of people with mental health and addiction issues. I might just have to keep an eye out for that. I think I might now someone they could help.

when alive isn't enough

I friend of mine has just completed 6 months of the most horrifying experience I can imagine - at New Years her 6 year old daughter was diagnosed with a brain tumour. They went through several weeks at Sick Kids hospital in Toronto, biopsy & tests & displacement & separation from their teenage daughter at home, then back home for months of chemo, tests, disruption, side-effects, radiation, and more tests and more side-effects.

There are permanent changes to her daughter's brain - personality, learning, eye sight, endocrine system, etc. And it will be years and years before they know the full extent of the changes. And yet, they survived. At least the initial intense battles. The family is drained, and they survived.

But my friend posted today on Facebook, 'Is it awful that 'alive' is not enough some days? ...' I wish I didn't get it, but I so so do. When first The Oldest and then The Little One tried to die last year, I bargained and pleaded and made deals with God and with them - just stay alive. We can work with anything else.

And then, the rest happened. The Little One's mental illnesses. The Oldest's addictions and stealing from his grandparents.

They are alive. And actually doing relatively well. The Little One has had what he considers a set back lately, and has moved back home to return to school. He sees it as a set-back; I see it as a really great choice that will set him up for the future.

But really, things are not better. They are not dealt with. And maybe it will be years, or a lifetime, before we ever really feel okay again. Before The Oldest sees that making amends with his family is better than whatever he's protecting in himself. Before we really know what The Little One's brain needs to make life simpler for him.

Alive is enough, and we can work with everything else. Except on the days when it's not. And then ... then we have to look to others to get us through. And I think that's okay too.

The Best of Times?

Work has been busy. Life has been even busier. So even though I've had lots of things I wanted to share and lots of conversations with The Oldest and The Little One, I just haven't quite gotten over here to share.

I suppose in a lot of ways there's more for me to say when things are going wrong. But the nature of addiction is that things go well, and then ... less so. And right now we're in a good spell with The Oldest  He's working. He's got a great place to live with a friend who only annoys him about half the time. The 'friend' who he did the worst drugs with has left town. And best of all, he's planning for the future that a year ago he didn't even think was worth living long enough to see.

Things are good. Right now. For The Oldest.  The Little One is struggling. Wobbles happen. So. There's good news - university applications included (rousing cheer!). And I continue to hold my breath. To wait for the wobble to turn into a quake. To wonder who's going to go off the rails next. And I continue to wonder what I'm supposed to be doing about it all.

sunshine

The Oldest came for dinner tonight, a few minutes late, a little bit scruffy, but for dinner as we usually do at some point each week. I made Caribbean ribs and sweet potatoes. The apartment was full of fragrance when he arrived.

We hugged, made awkward small talk, and then he pulled two Ataulfo mangoes out of a bag. He didn't know how much I love mangoes, or that Ataulfo mangoes are my favourite of the few varieties we get in Canada (aside: my Brazilian friend once told me there are more than 30 varieties of mango in Brazil. I was jealous).  He only knew that he didn't want to show up empty-handed for once. He had looked for a gluten-free and sugar-free dessert to share with me (I guess he didn't know I've given up on the sugar-free once again), and this was what he found.

Moments like this are magical, and hard. In moments like this he's my son - loving, thoughtful, giving boy I raised. I showed him how I cut a mango, since he was unsure. We divided it between two bowls, stirred in the thickest creamiest Greek vanilla yogourt, and savoured the sweetness while the ribs finished cooking.

Sometimes dessert first is best.

He is not okay. I have to remember that in times like this. He quit yet another job because "they were assholes." He doesn't really know where he'll live at the end of the month. He's still estranged from almost all of his family except me and The Little One. I asked, as I always do, what professional help he's ready for. He still has no answer to that.

And yet, he brought mangoes. Sweet, juicy, healthy, dripping with sunshine mangoes. He thought of someone else, not just himself and drug-getting and survival. He stood in a store, and looked at options, and considered what would be best for someone besides himself.

He laughed at dinner - relating a story of something silly a friend did. His laugh was like sunshine filling the room. It must have been because we ate the mangoes first.

instant-access rage

The outrage I feel at these actually insignificant slights is completely out of proportion, until I remember that it is balanced by the lack of outrage I've felt for years at the hand of The Oldest's bullying, lying, stealing.

Take today, for example. I was working at a fundraiser for the charity I work for. It involved cheap access for community members to a service that The Oldest could use right now. I said I'd pay for it. He said he'd be there. Reiterated yesterday that he'd be there. Messaged me this morning that he'd be there. So I paid for him to have a spot in the queue, and took slight advantage of my staff position to do so. 

An hour passed. Then two. Then I checked my messages - 'I don't think it's going to happen today. Sorry.' 

I could have screamed. Or yelled. Or punched something. Only I was at work, with people who were enjoying the event. With colleagues who couldn't really understand that this is just one more stab in the death by a thousand cuts. With My Man who did show up, as he always does. 

So I sloughed it off, or, more accurately, stuffed it down. 

Until I started driving home, thinking about it, stirring up what had festered all afternoon - why do I believe? Why did I actually think he'd be there this time? Why don't I matter enough for him to show up? WHO THE HELL DOES HE THINK HE IS? WHY THE HELL DOES HE REPEATEDLY GET TO WALK ALL OVER ME? 

Only, I know that every judgmental, harsh thing I think about The Oldest in those moments, he already believes. If I actually allowed myself to yell out all the years of hurt and disappointment and frustration it wouldn't even come close to what he already believes to be true about himself. 

And knowing that cools the rage every time. My job is to love him. To remind him what's right, yes, but to love him. Until one day I hope he can love himself. 

the bitter fruit of hope

My therapist, the one I only went to twice before she totally pissed me off, said that what The Oldest says is not necessarily a lie. That when he says 'he's sorry' or 'he wishes he could do better' or 'he wants a different life' that he truly means it in that moment. And then in another moment the drugs are more important.

And, I understand that. We had a family conference with an addictions counselor, and he explained the battle between the limbic system and the cerebral cortex, and how survival will always trump reason in that battle, and that The Oldest's brain is now wired to equate survival with the drugs.

tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies

So I listen, and I remind myself not to believe anything he says, or - more to the point - not to cling so tightly to the expectation that what he says will result immediately in changed actions.

I remind myself that The Oldest is a drug addict and not to be trusted, but that he's still The Oldest and deserving of unlimited love. That his words are not a lie, but a truth that may not stand up to time.

The things he says are so much of what I want to hear. I want to believe them ... in the moment he says them they are not just an idea, but a future that makes all this okay. And yet, those are not the lies that get me into trouble. The lies that really mess with my head are the ones I tell myself.

• Maybe there's some other explanation for where the booze/money/my mom's wedding rings went
• Maybe he can just get better on his own
• Maybe mom just misplaced her rings - she is getting forgetful
• I'm sure the drugs he's doing aren't that bad
• Maybe he really does like having a nowhere job and couch surfing with his friends
• Surely this is more because of his dad's 'abandonment' anything I did or failed to do

The exhausting mental gymnastics give me a hope that is not born out of reality. I am learning, slowly, that my best hope lies in a deep connection to the truth of the matter. That The Oldest is a drug addict, and he sincerely wants a better life. That his issues are more complex than I understand. That I can only support his recovery, not make choices for him. That I can - and in fact must - be responsible for deepening my own relatedness to the truth.

in the shadow of the hanging tree

Our first date was two nights after The Oldest tried to hang himself; one night after he was released from involuntary confinement at the hospital. People said I should cancel - that it was nuts for me to think I could be with My Man and be present for him and genuinely see what there was to see. But I was determined - our phone calls had already done so much for me, and I didn't want to wait. Not to mention I was still in shock and denial. I rationalised - I only needed to hold it together for an hour or so.

Thirteen months later, our entire relationship has been conducted in the shadow of that night before we met. For 8 months The Oldest slept on my living room floor. He cringed around strangers, so having My Man here was a slow process and carefully timed.

But my hunch was right. My Man was all I'd dreamed of and more than I'd thought I deserved. He has been my strong tower through all of this - any other man would have turned and run away when he learned what was going on. My Man stood. Strong. With his arms extended.

He stepped into the light of a street corner lantern on that first night and I took my first full breath in 48 hours. I felt my whole body relax. I smiled, and laughed, and felt what it was to have strong arms around me. He kissed me, and I understood for the first time that 'weak in the knees' is an actual physical phenomenon, not an expression.

It has not been easy. My Man also has his struggles, and I have to remember to support him. It's easy for me to be consumed by The Oldest's drug use. Some nights I make a vow to myself - tonight we will not talk about The Oldest. I will not say his name. I will let go of my nagging thoughts and be in My Man's world.

So far it's working. Sometimes beautiful things grow in the shadows.