Aaaccckkkk!

I know it's been a while since I've posted on this blog. I've tried to keep my feelings under wraps. I don't know why. Really, this is the whole point of this particular blog.

My mother. What a piece of work. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE the woman. I do. But she is not a normal, loving, normal, "let's talk about it" kind of person.

She will sit and STEW about whatever little wrong-doing she thinks she has undergone until the cows come home. Truly. I am still listening to stories of how she was "done wrong" 50 or 60 years ago. I'm used to it. Been going on my whole life. But it's only been the last 5 or 6 years that it has been pointed at me. Because I'm the only one of two actively in her life.

But I have been there for her my whole life, and really, the last 5 years I have been her chauffer, her companion, her confidant, and her friend. There have been times when, after I told her Hubby and I were hitting the road, she acted like she was happy for me, just to come back later and throw it all in my face. I understand. She was hurt that I would dare have a life of my own. Okay, maybe that is an overstatement, although that is how it felt. She was hurt that I would leave, albeit, make sure she was tucked in nicely in a place where she wouldn't have to worry about a thing.

So, she is pissed at me again. Yes, we've been talking about assisted living for her because she has fallen a couple of times, has worsening breathing problems, and needs more help than the independent living arrangement where she is. She has told me she needs more assistance. I'm trying. Setting up viewings of assisted living apartments, talking to the management, and talking to her financial people. Because she doesn't remember the whys and wherefores of things these days, everything gets all out of whack.

You know, I realize that she is 87 years old, and her mindset changes from day to day, and what she considers to be a slight is only me trying to take a breath for a day. God help me.

No, no, I'll be nice. I'll still go up there tomorrow and help her in whatever way I can. Man, for tonight...I am so frustrated!!!

Second Son

I have a son that won't talk. I mean, he talks, but not about anything but surface stuff. He has few opinions, few friends, and only goes to school and work. Occasionally, he'll meet up with a guy he used to work with and have a beer, but that's it.

I know it's his personality to be quiet, an introvert. I understand that. I've seen him angry, but never standing up for himself. However, thinking back, I can only think of one time that he actually broke down and said what was on his mind.

It was Christmas time, and all three kids were here visiting. First son, whom we've had struggles with, was sharing that he felt worthless, ashamed of the trouble he's put us through. The whole family, except second son, was trying to tell him how much we loved him and believed that he could pull himself together to lead a good and rewarding life. There were tears, and love, and hope that it was a sign of new beginnings.

At the end of the evening, first son, daughter, and Hubby drove Grammie home. While they were gone, second son broke down. "Why is it always about him?" "He's screwed up so many times, and still everyone falls all over him." "What about me?"

Isn't that the way it happens all too often. Even inappropriate behavior gets the attention, good or bad, and the kid that is doing what he's supposed to be doing gets so much less attention because everyone is so wrung out after dealing with the kid causing so much trouble.

All I could do is tell him how sorry I am, and try to explain to him how much I love him, and he's right, it is not fair. It was the first time since he's been an adult that he's let me hold him.

We've spent quite a bit of time in therapy as a family. We should have had this all figured out years ago. There seems to be so much anger. Does it go back to divorce? Maybe. Probably? I'm still not sure. Nobody's talking. It's the elephant in the room.

I can't get either son to open up and talk about it. So here's what I'm thinking. After spending time writing on One Minute Writer and Pictures, Poetry, and Prose, I see how a picture can pull words out of me that I didn't know were in there. I thought I would try to get all three kids to join me in our own storytelling. I don't know that any of them will want to take any great amount of time doing it, but maybe the one minute aspect will open them up to it. Wish me luck!

The Whys

I created this blog because it seemed like a good way for me to vent some of my fears, reactions, and the craziness of it all. I just needed a place to talk about it, in my own words, without regard for other people’s opinion or judgment. There's still a lot of anger around this situation. I understand it; you have your reasons. That being said, I am the mother, and I am as pained by the situation as I’m angered and frustrated by it. Granted, everyone has a right to voice their opinion, but realize that when you lash out and speak ill of one of my kids, it hurts me. Knowing that, I would ask that you choose your words carefully if we are to ever truly get past this.
On this blog, I had originally planned on relating incidents that have happened and then talk about what I learned from the experiences, but it's a work in progress. I'm still trying to get some kind of understanding about the hows and whys of life during the last 10 years. I have few answers. Slow learner??? Ha! Maybe. But more likely we tiptoe around the subject because it stirs this hornet’s nest. I guess the one thing I've learned for sure is that I have no control over anyone else. They have to come to their understanding in their own time and place. All I can do is be a support without being an enabler.
If others have found this blog, please feel free to talk about your experiences, your worries, as well as your hopes and what you may have learned. I hope it helps to know you're not the only one going through it.

Purge, baby, purge!

There are days when I can't get comfortable. It's like a ghost pain that doesn't really hurt, per se, but I can feel it all the same. In my gut. Nothing specific, except that I don't feel like I belong in my skin. The thought occurs to me that I could throw up. Not because I feel sick but like something is stuck in my craw. Oh, now there's a thought that brought tears to my eyes. What is that about? Purging? I need to purge???


Sometimes I feel wild-eyed behind the passive personna that everyone knows me by. I'm stuck in the middle of what I need to do and what I want to do. How many of us can say that? Bizillions, I'm sure. Can we talk about it? No.

Aspen

I didn't know what to do. I was so scared for my son. A heart breaker for sure.
"He's out of control! You've got to do something or I'm not sure what I'm gonna do."
Now I agreed with him. He was out of control; running away for days at a time (in the middle of winter, no less). Smoking dope, and drinking to the point of alcohol poisoning. The only reason he is probably here today is because his friends stayed next to him on that beach that night to make sure he didn't choke on his own vomit. He was unconscious.
I had spoken to the two men that were coming to get him in the middle of the night. It was all set. His dad and I somehow got him to stay at his dad's house that night. I went to bed scared, unsure of what we were all doing but even more unsure of what would happen if we did nothing.

The phone rang around 11:00 p.m. The men were 45 miles away at the airport trying to rent a car but had forgotten their credit card. Almost out of my mind as it was, we got dressed and drove to the airport to rent the car for them, and then guided them over the mountain to their motel.

Several hours later the phone rang again. "We're ready."

Ron and I scrambled into our clothes and met the men outside of my ex's house. "We'll let you go in first and talk to your son. We'll be right behind you."

I was shaking. This was so hard to do already and I wanted to just talk to my boy. That wasn't who I saw laying there. This was someone that was quickly moving toward a life that would get him nowhere. When I walked in to his room I was shocked to realize that he had shaved his head.

When he woke up I saw the little boy that was confused. What's going on? I tried to explain how much I loved him and how scared we were for him. He was smoking dope all day and night, had left school, had stolen from us, and had taken the truck even though he had no license, no insurance, had destroyed property, and had been involved with the law on numerous occassions. We're trying to help you. I know you don't understand. You're going to Aspen Ranch where they're going to help get your life turned back around. I love you!

At that point we went out to the car and parked down the hill. I heard later that although he walked out to the car, once there, he was throwing punches; a few of them connected. When they drove by I was just sick. I could throw up now just thinking about it. He turned around in the back seat and flipped me off.

One

Ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! ding dong! Snatched from a sound sleep, that sound stikes terror in the hearts of parents in the middle of the night! I shook my husband and got out of bed.

Heart racing, I grabbed my bathrobe and struggled to put it on while I ran to the front door. I couldn't wait for my husband to catch up with me; I just had to go. Oh wait, he wasn't following me. I'm so scared! But I have to know what's on the other side of that door.

I was aware of my heart pounding and the feeling that I couldn't catch my breath. Damn it! Where's my husband? I flipped on the porch light and opened the door. Standing in front of me was my oldest son, backed by two police officers.

Even then he looked like a good boy, albeit a little woosy. The police were polite and explained that he and some friends had been drinking. They were giving him a warning and a ride home. After thanking them and closing the door, I turned to see my husband standing there and my son next to him with half closed eyes.

"Just go to bed!" I screamed.

What the hell was he doing out in the middle of the night? I had always told him that there was no reason to be out that late unless you were looking for trouble.

I remember not too long before that night when saying good night to the boys, Tim would be scared of the foxes you could hear yipping on the hill behind our house. I used to laugh and ask him if he thought they could get in the house. He'd laugh too and answer, "maybe."