shades and spectres all around

On Sunday morning the first thing I read after a lovely and too-infrequent sleep in was of the untimely and sad death of Cory Monteith. No, I didn't know him. Yes, he's 'just a celebrity' whose performances I enjoyed. He's also the 'nephew' (in the most modern sense) of someone I value and respect, a local boy, a son, and an uncle. And he was the place I'd hung my hope.

As the mother of an addict, I know deep in my bones that the only options for my son's escape from addiction are death and recovery. And 'knowing' Cory's back story, knowing his struggles as a teenager, his bout of homelessness, his history of addiction, and his story of overcoming, hearing about what a gentle soul he was, his creativity, his humanity, his compassion. Hearing his willingness to re-visit rehab this spring to continue moving forward in his life, I pinned my hoped for The Oldest on him. If he could make it, The Oldest could. The Oldest could overcome adversity and addiction. The Oldest could steal a joyful life out of the jaws of addiction and death.

And then I woke up Sunday morning. And Cory was dead. Still, I clung to a thin and desperate thread - maybe it wasn't drugs that killed him. Maybe his heart gave out for other reasons - maybe I could still believe that drugs are beatable. Today a preliminary autopsy report says that Cory died with both heroin and alcohol in his system.

I never met Cory Monteith. And, today it hurts to look at pictures of him. To see how charming, how well and whole and healthy someone can look even while addiction steals them away. I can't imagine how his mother, who just last month lost her long-time partner and Cory's step-dad, will survive this hit.

Today The Oldest texted me that his 31 year-old cousin had a massive heart attack last night and is being kept alive by machines. The same age as Cory; a fit, hard-working husband and father of two young sons, who has "worked and partied" too hard for too long, according to my son.

It is hard, most days, not to see death everywhere. Too often, lately, it seems that drugs are death's mistress, seductively enthralling young men to their deaths. It's more than a mother should have to take. My heart tonight is with Cory's mom and with my former sister-in-law. I fear for us all.

fight or flight

The Little One ... I've been expecting his death since before he was conceived. Since his sister failed to thrive and was vacuumed out of  my body at 16 weeks. Since he was hospitalized at 3 weeks old and wasted away until a doctor realized what surgery he needed.

He took his parents' divorce harder than any of the rest is us. Begged me to go back - to love his Dad again. His big brother tried to tell him this was better for everyone. That the little one didn't remember how unhappy we'd all been.

Not remembering and remembering too much - they are opposite sides of the same pain for my hungry ghost sons. Remembering wrongly how good or bad life was and comparing 'now' to an imagined then that may not ever have been.

Driving to get him again today - another  unscheduled and yet somewhere inside of me expected rescue mission - I let the feelings roll through and over me. Fatigue. Resignation. Dread. Relief.

Mostly fatigue. I don't want this fight anymore. I wish for some other champion to help slay his dragons.

a quiet haunting

It's been almost a year since I wrote here. Life has been - my sons have done what they do. They have come, and gone, and come again, and gone again. At this point in time they are both away for the summer working out of this dead-for-them town with little to offer young men besides addiction and depression. They will be back. Life keeps going on.

And in some quiet still moments, our shared pasts haunt me. The questions. The blank spaces. The 'neverminds' of The Oldest. The 'don't worry about it' of The Little One.

I was reminded tonight that there is still much to share - much for me to write. And so, I'll get on with that. Not here, most likely. But in some other form. Not just for our own healing, but for those who find their own way forward through our words.

and on it goes

The Little One sent me a note on Facebook tonight letting me know that he was going to say some things in a note that he'd been holding back from the family, and that it's the kind of thing that freaks everyone out, and I should be prepared and let them know he's okay, because he is. Okay being a relative term these days.

Said note, lack of capitalization & wacky spelling and all:

not sure if i should do this but here gos 

i believe in complete honesty as being the best way for a person to continue moving forward.{did not allways think this way} for the past five years that i have tried to stick to this i used a much simpler form of lying: omission. out of all the things i have seen heard and thought of in my life i can only admit to two people ever coming close to knowing any of it. neither of them were doctors and neither could have come close to knowing how to help me cope. i dont trust doctors and there "professionalism". its them being professional that means they wont share, if they have a bad day theyll hide it what is that teaching you. a shrink could actually be someone with the introverted agenda of worsening peoples conditions so that they are forced to coninue making regular visits.{dont really think theres a doc like that just a possibility} but i digress. the point is i prefer to confide seperate things into different people that i think i can trust as they come up. problem is all those people have had superficial nonlasting relationships with me resulting in ever worse conditions for being able to even admit that i am bothered let alone what is doing the bothering. i know where my first experience was that basically ruined the innocence every child needs preserved and i know that none of my familly knows what it was and both of those two people i told had forgotten about it the next time i brought it up.{so i never would again} my most recent attempt on my life {bit more than 1 year ago} was actually caused by being in a bad place when this repressed memory came to the surface. somehow i can make myself forget it im actually not to surprised i have a horrible memory which only gets worse with my rampant pot use. this experience is not what caused my condition but it with my compounded other difficulties to completing goals or even simple tasks makes every day a struggle. i find it hard to explain and i dont think anybody really understands but my depression is not the type that comes and gos or can be brought on by a sad experience. it is instead an inability to produce the normal amount of endorphines. {mind happiness syrum} so my high is a low and my low is lower still. the extra cool side to this is since its actually my mind failing it only gets worse and by being silly and doing some of the drugs i did i caused schizophrenic episodes. now on its own my form of depression makes me hear things that arent there.{not voices in my head} so when i had schizo episodes i knew they were fake and didnt really care till they would happen everyday sober. now i have stopped using the drugs that cause this i dont have schizophrenic episodes anymore it just shows the depths i can be sucked into. now ive explained all this because thinking about it i realised most of my familly has expressed sympathy and a wish to help and mostly been rebuked with plain dismissal{sorry} and that is because i know nobody has an inkling of the full gravity of the uphill battle i must face until i die. and since only the people who care enough are actually going to read all this nuts stuff youve now all been fully informed. im fine i would never have written any of this if i wasnt trying to break through my own barriers. i have written this sort of stuff for a long time and allways in this fashion yet refuse to share it comepletely. i just figure its about time i properly explained why i can sit around all day with everything takin care of for me and still be angry, depressed and lazy no matter what anybody does about it because honestly i cant do jack about it other than keep on trucking into the next sunset.

So I called him. And I asked about the repressed memory and the incident in his childhood and he would only talk around it and say it's not the point. So I tried to ask what he needs moving forward, and, well, there weren't many answers there either.

It's all a little crazy-making, and I'm not the one who hears voices. I don't know how something - whatever it was - could have happened and my little boys not tell me about it. He says it wasn't sexual and he wasn't hurt, so what could steal his innocence and his childhood and need hiding for all these years and wreak all this havoc in his young brain? And why didn't I know? Why didn't he say? And The Oldest was there. And what does all this have to do with his demons now?

I know in many ways The Little One is right - it doesn't matter now except to move forward. But I'm such a firm believer that you can't move forward dragging incomplete messes from the past behind you. Maybe he isn't. Maybe he got more out of his years of seeing a psychiatrist than he admits.

It's just gut-wrenching to keep learning these things. And to not know what to do about it. Ironically (or do I mean coincidentally?), I had lunch today with someone who was talking about her mom's incredible love, compassion and grace for people, except the Nazis (who she'd escaped as a young woman) and those who messed with children - those two groups should be dealt with swiftly and with finality.

I have to say, I'm in agreement right now. I don't know the enemy, or what he did. But I know he should hope not to run into me.

And I'll do a little looking to see if I can find some grace for myself. All I can see right now are two beautiful little blonde boys who had something life-changing happen that they couldn't tell their mom about. And that's a hard truth to bear.

stand

Reminded tonight of this powerful song. And this powerful admonition. Need to keep it where I can find it when needed.

"Stand"

What do you do when you've done all you can
And it seems like it's never enough?

And what do you say when your friends turn away
And you're all alone,alone?

Tell me,What do you give when you've given your all
And it seems you can't make it through?

Well you just stand when there's nothing left to do
You just stand,watch the Lord see you through
Yes, after you've done all you can, you just stand

Tell me, how do you handle the guilt of your past?
Tell me, how do you deal with the shame?
And how can you smile while your heart has been broken
And filled with pain, filled with pain?
Tell me what do you give when you've given your all
And it seems like you can't make it through?

Child, you just stand when there's nothing left to do
You just stand, watch the lord see you through
Yes, after you've done all you can, you just stand

Stand and be sure
Be not entangled in that bondage again
You just stand, and endure
God has a purpose,Yes god has a plan

Tell me what do you do when you've done all you can
And it seem like you cant make it through?
Child, you just stand,you just stand, stand

Don't dare give up through the storm, stand through the rain
Through the hurt,yeah,through the pain
Don't you bow, and don't bend don't give up, no, don't give in
Hold on, just be strong, God will step in and it won't be long

After you've done all you can, after you've done all you can
After you've gone through the hurt, after you've gone through the pain
After you've gone through the storm, after you've gone through the rain
Prayed and cried, prayed and cried
Prayed and cried
Prayed and cried, oh my

After you done all you can you just stand

all about me

When The Oldest really wants to get to me, he tells me how much our lives are always all about me, how self-centred I am, etc. It's nasty, it's spiteful, and it digs in only because there's at least a tiny bit of truth in it.

Part of the pressure he's had to live under is a mother who refused to be happy as long as he wasn't well. Like all good post-pop-psych adults I try to use more 'I phrases' than you phrases. For example, I am afraid you're going to die when you go on a bender and disappear; I am shocked and hurt that you stole from your grandparents. I'm not perfect at this - accusations and blaming do creep in, but ... I suppose in the world of an emotionally stunted drug addict, those 'I phrase' could sound more like it's all about me than a responsible way to phrase my responses.

C'est la vie, really.

Cuz this time, The Oldest, it is all about me.

I found an article last week simply titled 'How to Stop Enabling.' I skimmed it, pondered it for a while, then returned and read it more fully. A lot of it is phrased for spouses, but the gist still translates.In a nutshell, the 5 tips they suggest are:

1. Let your loved one face his or her own consequences.
2. Every day, do at least one thing just for you.
3. Avoid feeling sorry for yourself or taking on the victim role.
4. Break free from isolation.
5. Ask for help.

Of course, I'm least convinced of the first one. When The Oldest comes for dinner and I know he has no food at home, it works for me to give him some. It gives me peace of mind to know that a bag of my excess food will provide healthy meals for him for a few days. I'd do it if he was well. My mom still often does it for me. It's a way I express my love and I don't intend to stop. But, no more cash. And no more helping him out of jams. And no more helping him find a way out of town or trying to convince employers to give him another chance. 

Yes, I'm taking item the first with a grain of maternal salt. But the real reason it's taken me a week to post this post is because of point 2. For years - no, I'm not exaggerating - I've had friends tell me that I need to focus on and take care of myself. The problem is, I believe The Oldest's assertion that I'm selfish. He's not the first one to mention it. And so to do one thing ever day just for me seems to really truly indulge a part of myself that I'd rather not acknowledge. 

In my own little world

So that thing - the item that makes my skin crawl a little, is also the thing I'm here to shout from the blog-tops.

I will do one thing each day that is solely for my own pleasure. 

And I will tweet about it (see twitter stream on the side) with the hashtag #OneThing so you can hold me accountable. 

As for the rest of the article, I've been working on number 3 for quite some time. And this week I started working on number 4 and realised I have some good friends that have just been waiting for me to raise my head. 

As for number 5 ... well, I'm getting there. I'm not so awesome at admitting that I need help. And ironically, that is the first step in all of the recovery groups I've looked into. I'll know I'm ready for Alanon or Celebrate Recovery when I'm ready to ask for help. I do think that won't be too long. 

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.

yelling into the wind

I think it's the loneliness of being the mother of a drug addict that most surprises me. The isolation. The feeling like few know, fewer care, and only the rare will actually ask - how are you? How is your son? What do you really want to talk about? I don't want advice - I want someone to listen and to give a damn.

I admit I am not naturally a person who shares my deepest hurts and fears and what's really going on for me. I takes practice and an effort of will to say what's really on my mind. Which is kind of ironic given that I work in Communications, am active here and there on social media, have 2 blogs, and write daily in one way or another. For most of my life I've kept a busy outgoing facade in order to protect the quiet, scared girl inside

I started this blog to try to get out some of what I was struggling the most to share with people. To try to connect with other parents of hungry ghosts. To get my thoughts out in black and white and see if I can make sense of them. To practice saying "My son is a drug addict and I don't know how to help him." To get related to the truth of what we're dealing with, and to let others in. And to give hope when there's hope to share, to share info and strength where I find them.

But in the dark nights, I'm still alone with my fears even when I'm in My Man's arms. More than one friend with whom I've shared this blog has told me they can't read it - they don't want to know the truth of what we're dealing with. I suppose it's nice that they're honest. But what am I supposed to do with that? Why can't they show up with a bottle of wine and just talk about something else instead of leaving me alone with the nightmares?

There's an irony, I suppose. In my master's thesis I wrote about trauma theory and how when people go through an extreme trauma there's a part of themselves that they can not integrate into their sense of self until someone else both hears AND believes it. Most of the research comes out of the Jewish Holocaust. I still find it fascinating and illuminating 10 years later.

I am loved, and The Oldest is loved as well - people don't really want to know the truth. I guess that's why for Holocaust survivors, the listener was generally a grand child - their children were too close to want to hear. And yet that is what I truly need. A listener, preferably someone who can listen without judging, advising, or getting upset themselves. I guess maybe that's too much to expect of friends.

long road

I don't want to turn the TV off and go to bed - I don't want to be alone with my thoughts in the dark. I don't want to have nothing and no one between myself and the realisation that The Oldest spent the weekend drunk or stoned or high and skipping work and killing himself as surely as if his neck were back in the noose, in part because I gave him the money to be drunk or stoned or high.

I know it does no good to continue to wish I'd done otherwise. I know the only difference I can make is to do otherwise in the future. But when things are good for a while. Or when things are not good and I want them to be. Well, it's easy to say yes. 

But then, in the aftermath, I get texts from his father asking if The Oldest is okay because he's cut him off again. I get texts from The Oldest's co-workers hoping he's okay because he hasn't shown up for work. I have conversations with The Little One that he's relieved, to some degree, that The Oldest decided not to go visit him - it's hard having someone visit who you love but don't trust or feel safe with. 

It's time for me to start going to al-anon or similar meetings. It's time for me to get real with myself. I can't keep living with my heart in my mouth every time I hear from him. Or worse, when I don't. I like believing things are getting better. Only that wishful thinking keeps me from seeing the truth. Maybe he'll still end up dead even if I do the work I have to do. But at worst I'll be better able to handle whatever happens. 

pathetic

I've been busy - out of town 3 days for family stuff, 4 days for work stuff. I'm tired. Depleted. Run down. And beyond all else exhausted. I know better, and yet ... I have no excuses.

While I was away The Oldest was texting me. Hey mom - you home yet? When will you be home. My heart sinks ... I love him. Love that he wants to talk to me. And my heart sinks every time. It's never good news. Never 'just' catching up.

When we finally met today, he was clearly having a bad day. Withdrawn, quiet, pale and shakey. We took care of some business, but I know better than to ask what's up in public. And then we got in the car, and he got quieter, paler, shakier. He opened up a bit. Just a bit.

I don't know what's really going on. I only know he's hurting. And that he asked for my help, and I caved. I had promised myself, my parents, the addictions counselor, My Man that I wouldn't give him money again.

I know the story he told me is probably only minimally true. And that the money went to calm his nerves. I know I won't hear from him again until something else goes wrong ... until the money is gone and the drugs along with it.

But still. After dinner we went to the bank. And I gave him money I can ill-afford. One of these days I really will say no and mean it. Today my excuse is that I was already so very very tired. Today I was weak. I don't blame him. I blame me.

broken, at least for now

We're singing. Songs I generally love, or at least enjoy. Sometimes I get distracted - I'm rusty. Haven't been to choir in 11 months, and there's a lot in my head now that I'm back. I took a break right after The Little One attempted suicide 6 weeks after The Oldest  I didn't have music in my heart anymore. It was all I could do to keep my heart beating.

It's 11 months later, and My Man gently nudged me. Apparently it's time to start doing things that fill me up again. He never said so, but he must be getting worn out trying to fill me up on his own. I've started singing at home again. It's time.

Tonight we worked our way up to this song - one of our funnest. One with as much choreography as this choir, the whitest soul choir in the world, can manage. I normally LOVE this song. Normally it's one of my favourite and pulls me completely in.

But for some reason, tonight I wasn't there. It was foreign, and I couldn't sort out why. And then I heard it. The rattling emptiness where my faith used to be. The song has lost it's meaning. I couldn't even sing once I really looked at what the second verse says. It was so much what I have been through, but the chorus offered me no solace. No connection. This is all I'm left with -

Everything that could go wrong, all went wrong at one time
So much pressure fell on me, I thought I was gonna lose my mind
I know you want to see if I will hold on through these trials.
But I need you to lift this load, cuz I can't take it no more.

Flight or fight set in. I felt nauseous and trapped. I kept going. I'm getting enough sideways looks for being the girl who disappears. The only way out was through.

But once I'd seen it, I felt irreparably broken. Religion has not been much a part of my life the last 10 years, but faith is as much a part of who I am as my blue eyes and my lack of rhythm. It's my heritage. It's what pulls me back to my roots and forward to my future.

And tonight I finally acknowledged that my faith is gone. Faith that things will get better. Faith in myself and my sons. But more than anything, my prayers now bounce off the ceiling and land flat beside me. I know God is still out there, but He's sure not listening to me.

I realised I have a new habit - I ask others to pray for me. I have a praying family - I have faith in their faith. Their God is powerful and healing. My God is silent and distant.

I have praying friends. Theirs is a God of compassion. I have a praying boss and board of directors and team at work. They know what I'm dealing with, and they pray even when I don't ask. Theirs is a faithful God. Mine, at best, has mysterious ways.

Where one or two are gathered ... but not here, alone, in the quiet of my house. Where the fears and the anger and the never knowing and the strain and guilt reside in every corner and creep out at night.

We ended with I Still Have My Joy. Another lie, or at least only intermittent truth.

I still have my joy,
I still have my joy.
After all I've been through, I still have my joy.

This joy that I have, the world didn't give it.
This peace that I have, the world didn't give it.
The joy of the Lord is my strength, my strength.

Verse after repetitive verse. I still have my joy. I still have my peace. I still have my love.

Oh. Okay. That one is true. I still have my love. I may not have my faith, or my peace. I may only sometimes have my joy. But I still have my love - coming in and going out. I know that's ultimately what's going to make the difference for both of my sons. And maybe if I hold on to that for long enough I'll get those other things back as well.
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Scintilla Prompt 6

Show a part of your nature that you feel you've lost. Can you get it back? Would it be worth it?

who's leaving who?

I don't know if he left, or if I did. Or whose leaving made the biggest impression.

It started before my choir concert. I'd bought their tickets - one for The Little One, one for The Oldest  and one for The Oldest's omnipresent friend. I'd given them bus instructions. Made sure they knew when to leave and where to get off. One bus, from straight in front of our home to the intersection beside the church.

I watched, my heart breaking with every completed song they missed. My mind racing - where did they go instead? Why don't I matter? This was important to me, why don't they get that.

It was my choir's Mother's Day concert, and my first solo - "Oh How Happy You Have Made Me." And I was miserable. Could barely keep the fake smile plastered on my face.

By the time I got home, The Oldest watching TV, while The Little One waited out the impending storm in his room, I exploded.

How dare you?

Where the hell were you?

What THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?

Apologies and tears and excuses and finger pointing and the same old same old. They'd missed the stop. Decided it was too late and not worth going back.

My friend arrived, urged me out the door, said that never would he ever stand for me speaking to my sons like that again. And got me out of that space. My whole body was shaking with rage.

By the time I returned, several hours and a calming cocktail or two later, The Oldest was gone. The Little One played possum in his bed. I worried. Tried to work out where he might be. I called the one or two friends of his I had numbers for. Then sat on his bed and cried.

What I couldn't shake, through my tears and frustration and fatigue, was the continually growing smell of the weed. Surely, if he was gone, the weed smell should be getting milder, not stronger. I turned out the light and noticed something odd - a light in his closet.

Pulling back the bifold doors, years of indignation and outrage surged through me - 20 or so juvenile pot plants growing in moldy open suitcases under the hot lights of desk lamps that had been stapled to the walls.

How could he? How could he bring that level of criminality into this house? How could he threaten the life and safety of his own brother with that crazy dangerous tangle of wires? How could he think I would never find out?

I piled it all into garbage bags and a broken laundry basket, ripping chunks out of the gyproc with every tug of the electrical cords. In the dark of the night, I dumped it in our townhouse complex garbage bins. Given our neighbours, we would not be the first house searched if anyone saw it.

I dropped into bed, wondered if he was safe, and cried myself to sleep.

The next morning I called a coach, my voice hoarse from crying. "How can I possibly be happy when I don't even know where he is. It's Mother's Day - what kind of mother am I?" He answered, "wow, what kind of pressure must it be for a 17 year old boy to be responsible for his mother's happiness. Go enjoy your day with The Little One - he deserves it."

That evening I posted a notice for The Oldest on the front door: "We love you and miss you, but you are not welcome here unless - you stop smoking weed, you remove any and all drug paraphernalia from this house", etc etc. I don't really remember all the rules. There were 4. Honouring your mother was somewhere on it.

Just as I was trying to drift to sleep again, the doorbell rang. He had aged 10 years in 24 hours. Somehow he'd made it as far as Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. A street person had taken pity on him, so young and so obviously over his head. The man had shared his fire, and watched over The Oldest while he slept.

I don't know what he'd eaten, not much of anything since he didn't have money for the ferry, the buses and food. He was tired, hungry, and smelled of the streets, and yet I made him stand there and agree to those rules.

That was as bad as it got for a while. I'd taught him to be more surreptitious, but not much else. But at least he'd come back. I guess.
__________________
Scintilla Weekend Prompt:

Talk about a time when you left home.

the frenemy you can't escape

She's a bit of a bitch, and often a victim. She irritates the hell out of me most of the time. I mean, I like her well enough when she's herself, but then sometimes she's just so ... HER. She comes across as charming, until you cross her, or she's tired, or The Oldest does something that takes her somewhere between 2 days and a lifetime to get over.

She's been told she's an enabler, though she doesn't even really know what that means. She wonders if she might be co-dependent ... she actually doesn't know what that means either. She often over-thinks.

She means well. Has all the best of intentions. Used to hope against hope that she'd someday win a Mother of the Year Award. She won't. It's too late. But she's learning. Reading. Talking to those more expert.

The biggest problem is, there's no escaping her - she's everywhere I go and in every relationship I'm in.

The most difficult challenge I have in life and in relationships is getting off my own back. I've done what I've done with what I knew at the time. I've never ever ever given up.

And no, I'm not perfect, but I'm growing. I don't know what the outcome will be, but I know this particular story is not nearly done.
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Scintilla Prompt 3:

What's the story of the most difficult challenge you've faced in a relationship? Did you overcome it? What was the outcome?

cough cough puke

It was a day of several firsts, and a day that precipitated an ending.

I was 14 and more lost than I'd been in elementary school. Junior High, though it was almost entirely comprised of kids I'd known all my school life, was a sorting hat. And I was ... none of the above. My girlfriends had all seemed to advance so much faster than I was. My body had been too busy adding height and chubbiness  to add curves.

I'd sat through at least three 'health' lectures since grade 5, had once even faked having my period and borrowed a pad off someone just to feel somehow 'normal.' I was a girl in a round boys body. And the girls I'd known were all so much older than me suddenly. Cool. Aloof. Independent. Rebellious. Womanly. Everything I wasn't.

So when I got to be included - when they invited me to sneak out and hide in the ball diamond dugouts to smoke a joint with them - there was no possible way I'd say no. There was no peer pressure involved - I'd been aching to be included.

I don't know where they'd gotten the weed. It was never very hard to get in our highschool if you were cool enough to ask. It was dank though - harsh smelling and harsh burning.

I tried to inhale, and nearly blew it out coughing. They laughed, and I tried to be cool about it. I tried a couple more puffs, but we aren't born knowing how to inhale smoke - it's not a natural thing.

Within minutes I was sick to my stomach. Nauseous and cramping. I went home - one of the benefits of being a book-wormy good girl was the privelege of having people believe you when you wanted to go home sick. I swore I'd never smoke anything again.

That night I finally got my period for real - another first. I didn't talk to anyone about it - the youngest of three teenage daughters and the alumna of so many 'health' talks I was well aware where the supplies where and what to do with them.

It has stuck with me forever after though. One sure indicator of what time of the month is looming for me is a daring recklessness that immediately precedes Shark Week. I take risks and actions that I wouldn't otherwise. I also say things and wish almost immediately I could take them back, but that's a different story.

I didn't try weed again for many years. And I gave up, on that day, trying to hold on to those girlfriends. It was a beginning and an ending. They had gone so far ahead that I could never catch up. And when I looked down that road, it really wasn't where I wanted to be.

When I first discovered The Oldest smoked weed, this was my reference point. If only I'd known how much more serious things can be.

turn that smile upside down

Sometimes the ups are only a reminder of how low the downs have been. On a morning like this past Saturday, when I get a visit from The Oldest and he's charming, smiling, and connecting with others in the room, the new normal becomes less tolerable for days after.

The Little One was visiting for a few days, and The Oldest had said he'd come for brunch so we could all be together. I took advantage of the lure of bacon to invite My Man and his children to join us. The Oldest hadn't met the kids yet, and it would be the first time all 6 of us were together. I was anxious - I want us all to form some new form of family. I want everyone to like each other. And I wanted to impress and delight with the menu. That's a lot of pressure for a Saturday morning.

The Oldest showed up on time and sober. He helped cook (have I mentioned he's an amazingly talented cook?). As he always does when he's in that mood, he made me laugh and put me at ease. Once the other guests had arrived, the conversation was stilted and awkward. The Oldest helped to smooth that out. Then he cleared the table & asked what else he could help with before he left. He was the ideal guest. The ideal son.

I hate that I can't just be grateful for that morning. That on Sunday when he blew me off again it was like the morning before had never happened. That I allow myself, in those beautiful moments, to think that everything is okay and there's no need to worry.

Maybe some day that will be true. I cling to that maybe.

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. 

feeding on the fear

I can't stop eating. In the 13 months since he tried to hang himself, since that moment in his despair when he shared some of his darkest secrets with me - secrets that in the light of day & sobriety he would deny - I have gained 30 pounds.

Image from  http://risetiqks.blogspot.com/   

I eat in secret and in silence. I eat to soothe myself. And to punish myself. The sugar rush masks my fear and pain and guilt, and distracts me. It's so much simpler to hate my bulging stomach and my returning double-chin than to confront what's going on out there - with my son. The choking helplessness goes down with just a spoonful of sugar.

I didn't do this to him. I know that to some extent. I didn't give him his first joint, his first tab of acid, his first cap of ecstasy or his first line of cocaine. I didn't let him drink under-age (though I also didn't do much to stop him stealing any alcohol in the house). I wouldn't even know most drugs if I saw them sitting on the counter.

And yet. I can't stop hating myself. Feeling I failed him. Remembering the times I hit him in anger, or battered him with words. Thinking of all the times I could have done more to try and stop this descent. Thinking of all the things I didn't know but probably should have. All the things I couldn't protect him from. All the dark corners I didn't look into.

It's easier, to hate my body. To prove with every bite of chocolate and every scoop of ice cream, that I am weak. It's easier to choke down more food than even feels good than to sit with all of my bubbling emotions.

But it's not helping either of us.