he has a point

It's been a little weird for me of late - I want to continue learning, growing and sharing about my experiences as the mom of a drug addict, and I'm well aware that even though we're in a good spot right now The Oldest is definitely still a drug addict, but ... it seems like without the drama and upset there's little to share.

Except I also feel like maybe this is the perfect time - while he is moving forward and trying to create a future and experiencing some successes - for The Oldest to be dealing with the stuff he'd rather forget. Both the wrongs done to him and the wrongs he's done.

We had a really wonderful Mother's Day - he invited me out for lunch days before, which I'm pretty sure is a first. The day of, we had fun and laughed and enjoyed time together - he bought lunch and gave me chocolate. The boy does know his mother well. And then we bought seeds and spent the afternoon gardening with My Man and his kids. We were just like any other healthy, happy family (though I did really miss The Little One).

But I couldn't ignore little snippets of conversation here and there that reminded me who we are and what we're dealing with. I mentioned his grandparents and what they were up to, and he stiffened. He said he hopes they're doing well, but he stiffened. I mentioned how well My Man and his ex-wife work together, and how I could never imagine The Oldest's dad and I like that, and he looked away and muttered "I don't get what his problem is."

I asked what that was about, and he told me that his dad has declared he won't talk to The Oldest until he gets professional help. So here's a kid who is trying to get his life together, and the one person who has been missing for years - the person who if he really showed up would make more difference than all of us who've been here all along - has once again opted out.

It's not new or surprising; it's frustrating and predictable and sad. I watched The Oldest try to shake it off. To say, like he believed it, that his father has always really ended up making things worse and it didn't matter.

But despite his protestations, there's a little boy in there who still wants his dad to give a damn. Who remembers a time when he was the apple of his father's eye.

When we were married and I had a complaint, his dad's response was always "it's not like I beat you or drink or fool around,' and his approach to fathering has become similarly lame - he doesn't do the worst things possible, so we should lay off expecting his best. When The Oldest says 'it's not like he adds much to my life anyway', it takes more willpower and wisdom than I have to have him see another side to things.

I don't for a second believe that I've not made any mistakes, or that his dad is 100% a villain. But ... why cut off your own son when he's got a healthy place to live and a good job he's reliably showing up for. When he's applied to go back to school in the fall, and is making long-term plans and taking steps to have them happen. When he's assessing which friendships support him and which hold him back. When he's exploring hobbies and interests and sports and building new friendship with people who have interests other than getting high. When he's asking for information, not money. When he's riding a wave and needs nothing but encouragement to keep it going.

Yes, I am full of judgment about The Oldest's father. And full of dread about when the next fall will happen. And I am sad that right now, in this moment when he's doing so well, there are so few who will celebrate that as loudly as they crow when he falls. And, I can't help thinking that these are the times to really deal with the past - not when things fall apart again.

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.

23 Things I'd Say if The Oldest Would Listen

1. I love you. Yes, I say it every time we see each other. And I will say it until you hear it. 
2. You are a blessing, and still one of the greatest things that ever happened in my life
3. None of the horror that happened in your childhood was your fault. NONE of it. 
4. Stop hating yourself for how you responded to what happened in your childhood. You were a child - you didn't know what else to do
5. You are responsible for the choices you continue to make now - addicted or not, you are the one choosing not to get help, to use drugs instead of dealing with what's behind them, to steal  from your family to get those drugs, etc. Yes, you are an addict and you've been through hell. You are still responsible for what you're doing now
6. Your brother misses you - the you who was his friend, hero and protector before he became one of your victims
7. Your father loves you, in his never-quite-sure-what-to-do way
8. Your aunts, uncles and cousins love you 
9. You are brilliant - far brighter and wiser than most people could hope to be. Act like it 
10. You have one of the biggest hearts I know - stop squelching it
11. You really need a hair cut. Just sayin' 
12. People pay good money to try to develop the talent you naturally have - stop squelching that too!
13. You have all the opportunity in the world - for love, support, help, education - you just have to accept it
14. Nothing will change until you deal with the demons that haunt you
15. I will let you fall - I'm strong enough for that now. I will let you fall hard if that's what it takes for you to get help
16. Dream. Dream big. Those dreams will keep you moving forward
17. I know you think your friends are great guys. Maybe they are, but they aren't helping you. Surround yourself with people who pull you upwards and forwards. 
18. Your grandparents love you & miss you so much it hurts them to talk about you. But they do - because you are their grandson and they love you 
19. Love and hope trump fear every day
20. We are not giving up on you. Ever

________________________
Scintilla Prompt

Write a list of 23

i'll show you mine ...

“Don’t compare your beginning to someone else’s middle.” John Acuff

The email was friendly, welcoming, and such a surprise. Someone I'd grown up with, reconnecting after 15+ years. For some reason, although I'd known him all my life, my friendship with him and his wife died after I left my husband. Too awkward, perhaps?

Regardless. The new connection was a happy one. One of the upsides of social media. Catching up was tender progress - my boys are doing x & y, I work at z. His career has taken a self-determined turn. How's the family.

The emails slowly deepened. More was revealed. And then, hell weekend. Catastrophe and heart-ache here. And I get back to the office to a lengthy email about his happy children. Successful. Graduated. And then came the real conversation stopper for me:

"We haven't had any drug problems, they aren't criminals ..."

I remembered, in that moment. All the Christmas letters we used to receive. Their children being, reportedly, magnificent at everything they touched. How I'd breathed a sigh of relief when I stopped receiving them. 

My sons are magnificent creatures. But not absolutely everything came easily to them. Certainly not school, for The Oldest. And especially not in a school where he was put down, cast aside, and abused. 

I sighed. And ignored the email for a few days. Then I told my Dad about it. He, in his tender wisdom, said "what if you were just honest with your friend and let him in. Maybe take your relationships a little deeper." 

And so I was. Not dramatic, but honest. This has happened. This is what we are dealing with. The Oldest stole from his grandparents. He uses multiple drugs. He both wants and refuses help. 

The response I got back floored me. "Thank you for trusting me after all these years with your heartache. We are praying for you all ..." and, oh, by the way, things aren't as rosy there as they seem. They have their own struggles that weren't shared in round 1. 

Yes, we've had drug problems. We've had criminal behaviour. And we have love. We have hope. And we have friends and family praying for us. And we have friends and family with their own struggles and challenges who we can, in turn support. 

The greatest thing about that opening quote is that this IS just the beginning. That each day is a new beginning. 

in the end is our beginning

He'd lied, and been sorry. He'd cried, and promised and walked away. For almost 10 years he's bounced before every bottom.

And I've been through every high and low, up and down, cushioning his fall. It's what I do. I am his mom.

Only this time he went too far. And I had to catch his grandparents and cushion their heart ache. Three generations is too many.

It's a line in the sand, this fracture in my heart.

For years I have honoured, as much as possible, The Oldest's profound need for privacy. Only this is also my story. He is my son, my hungry ghost, the most perfect and troubled and satisfying and heart-rending man I know. And I. I am his mother. And I also get to meet my needs to share, to be heard, to try to make sense of what our lives are the only way I know how - in words.

So this is our story, from my very particular perspective. Too close for a clear view. Too hopeful for realism. And sometimes also too scared and hurt and angry and sad. I share it here for you. I will share the memories, and the triumphs, and the challenges. And as I learn how to disrupt what I do that lets him do what he does, I hope you'll learn too.