KellywhoLA

Still on the same journey - 6 years later.

2016-11-16T12:14:00.001-08:00

Nothing has changed in the past six years other than he's now 22 years old and lives in San Diego. (Although "living" is a broad term for what he does with the ticking time bomb of a life.)

Gratitude.

2011-06-05T12:20:00.000-07:00

Today I feel very grateful.

I am grateful that I have had such a BIG reminder that people are inherently good and kind and altruistic. It is so easy to get lost in the negative, the bad, the "people suck" mind-set that sometimes it takes a big, giant bitch-slap in the face to remind me/us that, you know what? There are a lot of good people out there. (Insert "Up With People" video clip here.)

People were rooting for us that have never even met us. People offered money to us that have never met us. People put their jobs on the line to support us. People listened to this seemingly never-ending story that frankly, even I am bored of. People never wavered in their support of us. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

As you can tell I am in a great mood today. I feel alive, relaxed, comforted.

My son is now safe and out of harms way for the time being.

After months and months of working with the school district and the Department of Mental Health -- I was able to secure out of state residential treatment / boarding school for my son for the next 12 months. Fully paid. A $150,000 gift. He will be safe for now, this much I know. If he choses to accept this great opporunity that he's been given he may even come out of this sober, strong, healthy, self-confident and with a new purpose in life and, drum-roll, a high school diploma.

Whew. What a journey it has been getting to this point. The approval came at the IEP/AB3632 hearing on Tuesday, May 31 and on Saturday, June 4 at 4:30 a.m. he was "escorted" to a Delta flight to Utah to his new school Heritage, in Provo. (Never thought I would say this but "thank you Mormons!" But I do love Donny Osmond, even though he never came to my 9th birthday party even after I sent him an invitation. I forgive you Donny.)

The days between Tuesday and Saturday morning were spent trying to be "normal." (I now realize what an amazing actress I am (maybe that will be my newest career goal), another "glass half-full" way of trying to find any good of loving and living with an addict).

But behind the "normal" days (we even saw two movies--comedies of course!) I spent many hours jetting out to many non-existent errands so I could sit in my hot car and make all the phone calls without him knowing. He's like a shape shifter: he can sneak up behind me like a silent Ninja--and it's quite scary how he does this. Anyhow, making calls from my "mobile office" seemed safer.

After being on pins-and-needles for days, trying to pack up his belongings without him knowing ("mom, where are all my pants?") the transport company came at 4:30 am on Saturday to get him. After waking him up "what, what? what's happening?" and trying to explain the situation, the two big burly guys -- great and very calming despite their size -- got him out of the house and into the car and on the plane and into a rental car and then into the new school, safely.

Reports from yesterday is that he was mellow, quiet and was "making friends." I am sure they say that to all the parents but you know what? I'm glad they did. I like to believe that story for now.

After they left I read all his text messages. Days after his OD on heroin last week he was looking for needles and "h". The kid he normally got this poison from now sits in jail on charges he made pipe bombs. That kid is the bane of my existence and I've written about him in earlier posts.

But I digress: since Max couldn't get his "h" and needles from bomb-making drug addict (who had a 19 year old friend die on his bedroom floor just a few weeks ago from chocking on his own vomit due to heroin) my son actually wrote to this kid he knows who is a diabetic and asked him for needles "even used ones." So fucking sad.

His other text messages: one where he asked someone how to "smoke crack" because "it's not working." Another one: "trying to make tweek". Another one where he's trying to get out of getting beaten up because he owes someone either $95 or "bars" (xanax) "i got jacked". Right. I hope that person doesn't come looking for his money.

Reading these texts just made me realize that even though he's been actually really great these past few days, I got him to safety just in time.

He is clearly on a suicide mission.

I can rest knowing that, for now at least, that mission has been aborted.

I know this is not the end of this journey but it is a nice break for now.

I Gave Him Life. Twice. And then he yelled at me.

2011-06-02T18:43:00.000-07:00

I gave life to my only child, my beautiful and much loved son, twice.

Once on August 8, 1994, and again on May 24, 2011.

I was washing dishes in the kitchen when I heard the sound.

The sound of a body falling hard to the floor in the bathroom. I knew. I instantly knew it was him.

Without missing a beat I ran to the bathroom, yanked the bright green plastic key "bracelet" (so very, very fashionable) that I have become accustomed to wearing and tried to find the right key to the bathroom door. (Tips for parents or spouses or lovers of drug addicts: change all the locks on your doors so you can lock UP your possessions as well as get INTO the room -- especially bathrooms -- from the outside. Privacy is no longer an option.)

My hands were shaking so bad as I tried to find the right key while calling out his name over and over and over again. Silence. So weird because only 5 minutes before he had very clearly asked me to make him some of his favorite chicken nuggets. Yes, he still continues to eat like an innocent 5-year old. And do drugs like a hardened 35-year old. Now, minutes later, just silence.

I am also calling 911 on the cell and forgetting to call the Santa Monica Police Department directly which is always faster on a cell. (Another tip for loved ones of addicts: if you only use a cell phone don't call 911 but rather have your local Police Department number programmed in. But of course in a crisis situation the mind goes blank and 911 is automatic.)

Ok, I get the door open to find him slumped over in an odd almost yoga like position face to the floor, butt in the air sort of wedged between the tub and the toilet. It's a very small bathroom and now my sweet little puppy is in the room with us curious and scared but getting in the way. I try to get him out while trying to save my son's life.

The 911 operator is asking me all these questions and I'm trying to be calm but it's so hard when you see your only child blue and unresponsive, a black shoelace tied around his arm, a needle next to his lifeless body.

She tells me to turn him over. He's so small and light normally but now he seems so heavy and in the small room it's nearly impossible but I do it and his head hits the floor with a loud thud. If the heroin didn't kill him then I am now sure that I have just done him in with a major head trauma. She keeps telling me to put his chin up but all I hear in my mind is "put a towel under his head so he'll be comfortable." Of course that's not what she's telling me to do but I do it anyway. I am confused by the head and chin instructions she's giving me. I really wish I had taken that CPR class.

She instructs me on what to do: "Tilt his head, lift his chin, 2 deep breaths, flat palms on his chest between his nipples, push, count with me to thirty -- 1,2,3,4,...." and on it goes. I remember seeing on some talk show (Dr. Phil?) that you need to push down on the heart to the beat of the Bee Gees song "Stayin' Alive" which somehow seems very ironic. But I guess it's not ironic if it works. His chest puffs up with air and then nothing. He's still silent, not breathing, blue.

Finally, after what seems an eternity the paramedics arrive. They pull him out of the tiny bathroom and drag his thin, white and blue lifeless body, into the living room, re-arranging furniture as they go about the business of trying to bring my baby back to life.

I don't know what do but I pace and cry and dramatically scream and yell at him "not now, not now, not yet." I guess all those movies actually portray the character with a loved one dying in front of them, pretty accurately after all.

I thought I was prepared for his death because intellectually that is what I knew would happen very soon but when faced with it, literally as I held him in my arms and breathed air into his dead lungs, I wasn't ready. My heart, my soul, my being, was not ready for him to die at 16.

The cops arrive. They quickly escort me outside where I now see the entire neighborhood has lined up to watch the circus. Police cars, ambulance, fire trucks line the small street. The cops are nice but I have no idea what they are asking me or saying to me.

I realize later they pulled me outside so I wouldn't have to watch my beautiful boy die in front of me.

5 seconds, 5 minutes, or 5 hours later. The fire captain comes out. "We finally got a pulse. He's going to be fine."

(He's alive but not "fine.")

The fire captain hugs me. Such a nice gesture and one that I most needed at that moment. The human touch can be so very powerful.

They wheel my son out and put him in the ambulance. He looks at me, confused.

When I go to the ER 45 minutes later, he's screaming at me, angry that he "made ONE mistake" and now I want to send him to rehab again, which will only "make things worse."

I hope that one day he will actually thank me for saving his life. The doctors, nurses, paramedics told me that it was about a minute difference of him being dead or alive. I am very glad I decided to wash those dirty dishes aT that moment. I know that a guardian angel was looking over both of us that night. And continues to watch over us now.

Next steps are coming. Very soon. If he can survive just a few more days....things are looking up.

Guardian angel can you hear me? Just give us 2 more days please?

Love Letter to My Son.

2011-03-08T21:11:00.000-08:00

I love you Morgan so very, very, very much.

I would do anything for you.

I only want to see you smile.

I want to know, truly know, that the smile on your face is brought by true happiness, joy, amusement, and not chemicals.

I want to see you laugh again. That hysterical, tears running down your face, holding your sides, grasping for breath, the harder-you-try-to-stop laughing-the-more-you-laugh, laughter.

I want you to find joy and love and compassion and passion.

I want you to find yourself.

I want you to be happy and helpful to others. Because your true happiness will come when you realize that you have so much to offer others.

Mostly, I want you to know just how special you are. And how loved you are.

Your family loves you more than the drugs do. They are fleeting. Fickle. Easy to come by, hard to keep. Your family is here for you. Easy to keep.

Others need you. I need you. Paco needs you.

You are needed in this world. Please don't leave it just yet.

It's not time.

You have too many good things to do. And people to help.

I love you.

Please stay.

Sitting and Crying.

2011-03-08T20:40:00.000-08:00

Do you ever feel like you are in one of those hamster wheels and you can't figure out the right time to jump off so you just keep going around and around and around.........(Charle Sheen, do you hear me? Time to jump off.)

Let me backtrack to one week ago.

I was in sort of a good mood because I was going to see Max and the other therapist (the Russian) will be sitting in on our session and Max really responds well to her so I had a tiny bit of hope in my heart. When I get there, however, they tell me that I need to talk to the financial people before our session. No worries, I think.

Well, I was wrong.

It was sort of like walking into your bosses' office thinking you are going to get a raise and promotion and instead you get fired and then when you are doing the "I just got fired" walk of shame from the executive office to your grey cubicle, someone tells you that your skirt is tucked into the back of your panties. Granny panties no less.

They tell me that he's basically getting kicked out because I don't have insurance and since medi-cal was denied because "he doesn't live with me" (he's in what amounts to a hospital for god's sake. I still pay for all his shit). Anyhow, no insurance, no way to pay the $350 per day plus the $140 a week for therapy so they say these words "discharge plan" today.

FUCK! Like, now? He's coming home? With me? Now? I'm not ready for this. The house isn't ready. Cold tablets and Malibu Rum are in plain sight! Why didn't they warn me about this? I've got to find the keys to all the doors (it's been so nice to just relax and not have to lock all the doors all the time. I can even leave my purse in the living room when I go to bed!). NO. I am not ready for this. He's not fixed yet.

They "graciously" give me 30 minutes to "go make some calls to arrange whatever". Nice. 30 minutes. Oh, they also reiterate that since Max is not working the program he's not a good fit anyhow. Fuck yeah. I don't want to pay $350 a day for a program that's not working for him. He has changed zero percent in two months. This place is not working for him. To be honest, nowhere works for him. Not even the streets, I suspect. Certainly not my house. His dad is out of the country of course. He's no help, never has been, never will be.

I walk to my car to "make the calls", start the engine and drive away, tears streaming down my face, my litte dog looking so confused.

We saw Max for about 30 seconds on his way to class. His escort/teacher let him stop and pet the dog. Apparently they had been watching me from the second floor when I had just gotten the news that Max was being booted from the program. I guess I looked sad (maybe it was those damn tears silently dripping down my face that gave it away) because the escort/teacher person asked if I was ok. No. I'm not ok. Max is not ok. So I am not ok. Simple. As. That.

As I drove home south on the 405, I didn't have a plan other than to get out of there.

The rain started. And naturally there was a typical LA 90-car pile up which meant just sitting on the 405. Sitting and crying. This won't do. Got off the freeway at the next exit and just drove as far as I could go. Headed west. Hit the end 25 minutes later and just sat outside the gates of a swanky development in some town. No idea where. Saw the guard giving me the evil so, so turned the car around and ended up taking Topanga Canyon all the way to PCH. A nice, twisty, rainy drive but it didn't solve anything.

So....a week later and he's still there and I am here cleaning his room yet again. I guess I do have to pick him up tomorrow. Sort of stunned at this turn of events. I clean his room and wonder what I haven't found in there hidden away in one of his super secret hiding places. The police are on their way over; maybe they can help me search his room?

"The Police you say?"

Oddly enough someone got a hold of my debit card number and they made a bunch of purchases so I've been trying to deal with that all day. What a nightmare. The bank told me to make a police report, which I did. Guess what? They are sending someone over to take a report tonight. Thought that while they are here I should warn them that Max is coming home tomorrow. Our local Police Department know us very well..... guess it's fair that I warn them that the next two nights could see a lot of visits to our home. Maybe they need to ramp up the manpower, approve some OT.

Why two nights only you ask? Well, I had this brilliant idea to take him to the dessert for a week of isolation, exercise and soul bearing conversations and confessions. And cooking. I intend to break his habbit of only eating food fit for a 6 year old. I am going to force him to learn how to cook. I suspect he'll be living on his own really soon so the least I can do is pretend to give him cooking lessons.

I know I am being overly optimistic about our "vacation" to the desert, but I don't know what else to do. I can't have him at home while I try to figure out next steps. I can't force him on anyone else as, well, there is no one else.

I might as well be miserable in a mid-century Alexander Butterfly with a pool and jacuzzi. Too bad I won't be able to have a martini. Dean Martin would most definitely disapprove.

More from the dessert. If I survive.

PS: The Police Officer left after taking my identity theft report. She was so nice! We ended up just talking about Max for 30 minutes. She reminded me of this other program that someone else suggested. One of those "is it a cult or is it just a really good intense self-help program" thing. Hey, at this point I'll sign us both up for Scientology if that would help. (Tom Cruise do ya hear me????)

60 Days Sober

2011-02-25T11:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Foster Care. The dream....

2011-01-30T22:16:00.000-08:00

Today was not a good visit.

It was rainy and grey and when I got there the waiting area was FILLED with families. Highly unusual. I guess the kids that have been there for a while normally get to sit outside with their families for a picnic. Since Max is a new resident, we only get one hour supervised visits in a large sterile room. There are groups of plastic chairs -- 3, 4 or 5 -- spaced around the room to allow for family visits. I always give up several of the chairs since we only need two. We are a small family, Max and I.

Anyhow, once they led us upstairs, we enter the room. Most of the kids were there already. But not Max. I found a group of chairs and sat down. And waited. And waited. And waited. I feel really awkward just sitting there alone, while the family visits go on around me. Where should I look? They don't let me bring in my purse or phone so no checking the Blackberry while I wait. 15 minutes into our 60 minute visit, in comes Max, an angry scowl on is face. I know the signs by now. This is not going to be a good visit. One of the caseworkers tells him to tuck in his shirt. (They attempt to make the kids adhere to a formal dress code which is so far from how they dress in reality it's always a shock to see him wearing khakis (not sagging!) and a polo shirt.) He is not happy about that. He doesn't tuck the shirt in. I try to hug him. He tells me the caseworker is an "asshole." No hug for me. The caseworker comes over again. "Sorry to interrupt your visit but Max you need to tuck in your shirt." Max tucks in about 3 inches of the shirt and glares at the large man who slinks away. Max can give some amazingly intense and scary looks for a little guy.

He starts in on me. "Why am I here?" .... "When am I getting out?" "Everyone hates me here.".... "WHEN DO I GET TO GO TO THE FOSTER HOME?"

Really? He actually thinks that going to a foster home is a GOOD idea. Wow. He then proceeds to tell me how he cannot wait until he is 18 so he never has to see my face again. Stab me in the heart.

I love him. I always will. But damn, it's hard to keep trying to give help and hope to someone who "hates" you so much.

Sunny and 72.

2011-01-27T18:52:00.000-08:00

The sun is out, the sky is blue and things have been a little bit better with Max. He seems like he is adjusting to the idea of being in rehab for 6 months, although he's trying to bargain it down to 3 months. Either way, it's better than telling me over and over again that he is "walking on day 30" which is just a few days away.

They let me bring the puppy to therapy and that seems to help him. I never thought of myself as an animal person but this little puppy from El Salvador has changed all that....I instantly relax when I see his happy, smiling face and wagging tale. Unconditional love. So hard (impossible really) to get with humans.

Max has been writing again, which I love. He's such a great writer when he writes. He wrote a paper in rehab and the music teacher wants him to turn into a rap or song so they can record it at the rehab recording studio. This particular rehab has a ton of support from the music industry, hence the recording studio.

Here are some of my 16-year old son's words:

"My life has been one crazy ride filled with many ups and downs so far...I've gone through many treatment centers and hospitals to address and correct my seemingly never-ending addiction to not only my dark and extremely tempting mistress heroin, but also to the sly and deceiving false happiness that forms itself in a blinding white substance called cocaine. I have to say, I am extremely exhausted and out of gas. When I look at my arms I see a story...a story of a young man that has been completely taken advantage of by a deep dark road called addiction. I hope that once I completely defeat my addiction, I can somehow help others that battle their own addictions, because I've been through it and I know how horribly rough it can be. That day will soon come, and until then it will be one day at a time until I completely reach my goal."

I hope he reaches his goal because I know, in my heart, that he can be an inspiration to others, like only someone who has been on such a dark, scary journey, and survived it, can.

High School Shootings, Red Hot Chili Peppers, PETA and Shaun Cassidy

2011-01-18T17:18:00.000-08:00

I just noticed that my puppy is eating organic dog food made by Dick Van Patten. Remember "8 is Enough" ?? Probably not if you are under 45 but I loved that show! Willie Ames was so cute. So surfer, so LA, so dreamy. He was one of my wannabe boyfriends (right below David Cassidy, Shaun Cassidy, Donny Osmond, Rick Springfield and Leif Garrett). What a list. I do believe that all of them (with the exception of the goody-goody Donny Osmond and maybe Shaun Cassidy) all had some sort of drug, drink or sex addiction, right? Anyhow, the Dick Van Patten dog food made me think of PETA, which made me think of Bob Barker ("come on down!"), which lead me to, you guessed it, Max.

My son uses Bob Barker personal hygiene products at rehab. I guess Mr. Barker makes shampoo and the such for prisons and low-cost, court-ordered rehabs. I thought my son was joking when he told me that, but then I saw it on TMZ the other night. It's true. Bob Barker personal hygiene products for the average American prisoner. I'll bet they're not tested on animals. Probably better than the stuff I can afford to use now. However, Max's hair really doesn't look that good lately but not sure I can blame that on Bob Barker.

Speaking of the son, he's still alive, so that's good. Still in rehab after an AWOL attempt last week. Had one really good therapy session in which I was allowed to bring the organic dog food eating pooch to the therapy session. But then on Sunday during our family visit, not so good. Well, it started out ok: he was showered, clean(ish) looking, neat and tidy in his regulation uniform (dark polo and khakis). But after first glance I noticed his pale, pale skin, thin, thin body (the pants are huge on him and no sagging allowed in this place, thank God!). Dark circles under his eyes. They tell me he's still not eating but they sneak him cookies every once in a while and try to get him to drink Ensure.

He got very angry half way through the one hour visit. "WHY are you doing this to me? This place is not getting me help. I am just going to be angrier when I get out, if I even stay. I'd rather be dead." I had to report the "rather be dead" part to the case manager so she can keep another eye on him. I left without giving him a hug but I did tell him I loved him. Not sure he believes me.

I drove back yesterday to drop off another book (seems he is actually reading for a change) and a basketball hoop for the back of his door. He finishd reading "Scar Tissue" the amazing book by Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers (now sober!). So I got him the new Russell Brand book (also sober!). Maybe he'll understand if those two guys can get sober then he can. I wish Robert Downey Jr. would write a book. From what I'm hearing, Charlie Sheen is not ready to write the "sober" book just yet. Too bad "2-1/2 Men" is one of Max's favorite shows.

Since Max can't get along with the "general population" they are trying to give him his own room. It was always that way in school, all the way back to kindergarten at Montessori. The teachers always loved him, he had friends, but he just got so agitated by the other kids he always had his own desk usually up by the teacher (if she was young and sweet) or in the back or the classroom, in a corner (if she was old and cranky).

I do believe that kids now have it much harder than say, 20 years ago. They know too much. It was so much better to be blissfully ignorant.

On Friday night a 14-year old Freshman at the local high school (Max's school had he stayed) ran off the baseball field during practice, across the street to a Sheraton Hotel, went up to the 10th floor and jumped. He told everyone at practice he was going to do it. Some of them chased him then lost sight of him. Sadly, most of them saw his body hit the sidewalk. Suicide. But why? People said he seemed "fine" that day. 14 years old.

On Sunday night at 9:30, a gang fight between the SM13 and Graveyard Crips broke out. 30 teens/men apparently. Shots were fired. No witnesses or bystanders when the police got there. This took place 2 blocks from where I live. And where I walk my organic dog food eating puppy. Last time I walked there I thought the street looked a bit dicey. Saw a scary looking dude smoking his yard. The yard was an odd mix of baby toys and empty beer bottles and cigarette butts. When I got closer, I smiled. (What else could I do?) He smiled. Relaxed a bit and then told me what a beautiful dog my puppy was. I told him he was from El Salvador. He seemed to like that. Asked me how long it took to groom him. Said it must take a lot of time to keep him so white. He seemed really interested in the dog grooming. We smiled at each other as I walked towards my block, the "good" block. I wonder if he was part of the brawl on Sunday?

Today at 10:00 A.M. a student was shot in the head at another SoCal high school. The shooter, a 17 year old student, apparently brought the gun to school for protection, and when he dropped his backpack, the gun accidentally discharged and shot two other students, one who is currently undergoing surgery as she was shot in the head. I wonder who he needed protection from? Where did he get the gun?

Some days I just want to grab my kid and my puppy and go back to 1978.

I want to go where young teenagers practiced kissing album covers of Shaun Cassidy in the privacy of her own bedroom because that was the only thing to do in your bedroom: no computer, cell phones, text messaging, tv. If you were super lucky you might have a record player or maybe the phone cord would reach all the way across the hall into your room so you could have a private conversation with your best friend about boys.

I want that world where a teenager would feel pain (they always do no matter what the year) but instead of jumping off a buiding, shooting a classmate with an automatic weapon, or injecting heroin into their scrawny pale arms, they could pull out a denim covered diary, gently unlock it with a thick piece of foil that was supposed to pass as a key (high security indeed!), and write about it. Write about the fears, the pain, the shame, the embarrassments and humiliations that come with being 14, 15, 16 or 17.

And, then, once it was all written down, they could go back to practice kissing Shaun Cassidy. You know, just in case there was a chance meeting one day.

I know we can't go "back" but can't we make the "forward" better than the "present?"

Merry Christmas and All that Shit

2011-01-11T22:59:00.000-08:00

Well, he got out of UCLA and then right back into ... a new hospital on another 72 hour hold. This time I thought that perhaps a San Diego hospital might be a good alternative. I am getting sick of paying $11 to park in the UCLA parking lot for 30 minutes. That, and all the film premieres they have in Westwood theatres next to the hospital, is sort of getting me down. Two very surreal, but equally delusional, worlds happening simulatenously.

How did he end up in San Diego? I tried to go down south to visit my mom for Christmas on the Thursday before Christmas, but he flipped out and wouldn't get in the car. Apparently he had a date with the drug dealer at 3 and so he wasn't prepared to leave at 1 when I wanted to leave. Much drama ensued and I gave in, came back (from being parked around the block) for fear he would make good on his promise to OD on heroin. I just wanted to have a nice holiday (for once) and thought that planning his funeral would most likely put a cramp in the holiday festivities. Oh, I sound glib now, on January 11, but on December 23, not so much glibness on my part. (I've reached that very ice cold stage now. Apparently, I should have gotten here long ago.)

Ok, so I freak out, my mom drives up from San Diego that night and then she and I sneak out of the house early the next morning, with the puppy, tip toeing around, "Shhhhh.....don't wake....HIM!" It's as though we are talking about King Kong and not a 104 lb. 16 year old boy.

Yeah! We are in our cars, zooming down the 405 and both just so thrilled to have made our escape.

I have a very good friend who has agreed to pick up Max later that day and drive him to San Diego. They will both stay for Christmas Eve dinner and then leave the next day. I don't know why my friend is being so generous but she is and I gladly accept her offer.

They arrive Christmas Eve. He is almost drunk with happiness. Or maybe he'd been hitting those FourLocos again? Or some sort of drug. Whatever, he's nice through most of the dinner, then he leaves the table, lays down and passes out. Business as usual. We ignore him.

Then it's time to pass out gifts. He comes to, and starts this low, angry grumbling about how he "hates all his fucking presents. Worst fucking Christmas ever!" I lose it. This is the point where I hit the proverbial wall. I fall down to the floor, crying. I can no longer take this. It's over.

After much pain the police take him away again. Merry Christmas.

He stayed in that hospital for 5 days. Then with my good friend for 4 very long nights. She got a lot more than she bargained for and I owe her so much. I am also glad that people are finally seeing just how sick (and mean) he really is. He needs so much help and I am tired of doing this by myself and being the target of all his hatred.

He's now at another Los Angels area rehab (main residents: gang members ordered by the court to live there). After only 6 days he went AWOL. They found him but it's just a matter of time before he AWOL's again.

Then what? All I know for sure is that he is not coming home to live with me....for a very, very long time. Years even. I can no longer control him. I am scared of him, and for him. I cannot afford to have him live in my home. I cannot continue to put my life on hold and live like a prisoner in my own home, any longer. I am withering away and am at risk of becoming an accomplice in my own son's demise. I will not accept that role.

I love him. But I am now letting him go.

Tony Scott Movies, Car Chases, Drug Dealers, and the Psych Ward Again.

2010-12-12T12:26:00.000-08:00

Short version: He was being chased by someone* who was going to "jack" him -- for what? Money? Drugs? Cell phone? Who knows but I raced out of my office at lightening speed and tried to find him which was difficult because he didn't tell me exactly where he was before his phone went dead. I was hoping that it was just the phone that was dead.

There he is! on the other side of the street, skating in and out of the commuters trying to avoid the PCH traffic on their way home to their $5 million dollar homes in Malibu or the Palisades, after a hard day of pretending to read scripts, yelling at their underpaid assistants, and eating free-range, organic lunches on an expense account. [No I am not bitter.] I zoom down the alley trying to get to him so I can make my heroic rescue. My heart is pounding. Of course I pick the longest alley in the entire town. Ok, back on the main street, honk, screech to a stop, he hops in on top of all my boxes of files, furniture, junk, from the office [see previous post about me losing my job that day] -- out of breath, sweaty, crazed.

"Go!" I accelerate as though Tony Montana is behind me with his "Little Friend." When did I become the star of a Tony Scott film? This is not a role that I relish. (And yes, I know that Brian De Palma directed Scarface not Tony Scott.)

Okay, so that was November 17 the day I thought was the worst day ever. The reality is that it was actually December 7.

That was the day I found him passed out in his bedroom, covered in sweat, gurgling, black and blue marks on the inside of his arm and syringe poking out of his pants pocket. The gurgling sound was the worst. I'll never forget it. Of course, he told me later he was just "snoring." The ER doc thinks differently.

So, not only did he not quit smoking the heroin it appears that he has "graduated" to the needle. Yippee. This movie just keeps gettng better and better.

I had arrived home from grocery shopping to find him in the bathroom, a friend in his room (not DEVIL DAMIAN but he is involved of course; more on him later). Max broke the house rules again (no one over when I am not at home; all his "friends" are druggies and thieves) but I decided to put away the groceries then kick the friend out (he's sort of decent this one).

10 minutes later, the friend comes out of Max's room and tells me there is something wrong with Max as he "fell asleep." The friend seems concerned and volunteers that he only smokes pot and whatever Max is doing is not pot but that he hopes he gets healthy. He seems scared. Friend bolts, I run into his bedroom and there Max lays gurgling, sweaty and unconscious.

After several attempts to wake him up, I slap him. Hard. So hard it leaves a red mark on his face. Nothing. Call 911.

Paramedics and cops arrive. Off to the ER he goes. I am oddly calm. Hot paramedic asks if I want to ride in the ambulance with him. "No I'll drive." I do drive. An hour later. Finished putting away the groceries first. Was that wrong? Again, feel oddly calm. Maybe I am in shock?

Get to the ER. He's crying hysterically. So sad, he's so pale, tiny, but alive. Hugs me and keeps calling me mommy and tells me he wants to get sober. We both believe it but I know that the drugs are stronger than he is.

His mood shifts over the next 6 hours from sobbing like a little scared boy to sleeping again, to hostile "WHY are YOU doing this to me??? Get me out of here! I hate you! You're a horrible mother!" He even accuses me of abandoning him and not feeding him. [I am a gourmet cook; he will only eat chicken nuggets.] He tries every possible tactic to get out of the ER because he knows he is headed back to the psych ward again.

He is still in the psych ward 6 days later. I have no money, no job, no energy. I know I need to send him far, far away (to the land called UTAH) but it's $10,000 a month which I do not have. What to do? Oh, his dad did send me a check since he heard I am out of a job and kid is killing himself. It was for $65.00.

So, back to the drawing board. What's next? I don't know. I just hope it doesn't involve planning a funeral.

Sincerely,
Me

*the one chasing him apparently is the son or grandson of a very famous 1980s junk bond king. So replace, Tony Montana with small white Jewish kid.

Worst. Day. Ever.

2010-12-11T10:34:00.000-08:00

November 17, 2010. A day that SEEMED to be the worst day ever. [Insert male movie trailer voice.]

It started with a trip to Smart & Final. "I will feed the masses Hot Dogs today and they will love me for it!" Feeling good about providing a zero nutrition, nitrate filled "hot lunch" to the staff today. (Flashback to 3rd grade: Pomorado Elementary School Cafeteria. Lunch ladies with hairnets and plastic gloves serving up my favorite: fish sticks. Oh how I loved those "hot lunches!" My mom always packed my lunch so it was a special day when I got to actually buy a "hot lunch." So strange because my son has never had a "hot lunch" in his entire life. He's always been a picky eater. Ironic when you think about the things that he WILL put into his body: heroin is ok, fish sticks are not.)

So feeing good: no turkey sandwiches today gang! They're gonna love me. (Food=love, right?) Setting up, the word is spreading.... "hot dogs today, yippee!")Excitement abounds. (It takes so very little to make this staff happy. Well, for the most part. There's always that ONE GUY that has to whine and moan and complain about everything. But I digress, as usual.)

My junk food bliss was interrupted by: [insert serious (usually bitchy) female Australian voice] "ALL STAFF TO THE THEATRE NOW." Uh oh. That can't be good. In four years that only happened ........... uh, never. The upbeat hot dog vibe now replaced with a guilty verdict/life in prison sentence for a crime you didn't commit vibe.

We all gather, glumly. "We filed for bankruptcy today. The company is closing. You will not be paid on Friday. Pack up but don't steal too much." WTF? I can't quite process this. (Maybe it's why it has taken me all these weeks to write about it.) There is a general sense of sadness, disbelief, time stands still, what do we do now, huh? Some people bolt, laptop in hand, others frozen like a pillar of salt.

Should I finish making the hotdogs? It's sort of a blur. Where is my staff? Does the parking guy understand what just happened? He's gone already? Ok, I guess he got it. Right, we are not getting paid for our time so we're off the clock. But the hot dogs will go to waste! No, people can make their own lunch if they want. I have things to pack. Shit, so many personal things in this crazy disfunctional building/company where to begin?

To my office, that's where. Personal photos, artwork Max drew when he was in rehab, my party supplies I brought in for our last wrap party, my footstool I brougt in from home... so much stuff. My files! I must protect and save my files and thank you cards and awards from famous clients. Someone needs to guard this stuff right? I'm sure we'll open again sometime in the future and we'll need this stuff. If I leave it all the bank will just toss away all this history so I will be the protector of the memory!)

Call my son. Tell him the bad news. He's sympathetic but strong and supportive. Ok, we can get through this.

3 hours later, still packing, lingering, hiding from the rest of the remaining staff afraid I might burst into tears. I am scared. But, my son was strong so I will be too.

My cell phone rings. It's him. Max. Can't understand him. He's out of breath... is he runnning? Odd, he never exercises since he became a drug addict.

"MOM! HELP!"

"What?"

"I'M IN AN ALLEY AND THEY ARE CHASING ME WITH A KNIFE!"

"What? Huh?" [heart beating, grabbing purse, heading toward car]

"SAVE ME! THEY HAVE A KNIFE! THEY ARE GOING TO KILL ME!"

Ok, this day just keeps getting worse. But there is more. So much more.

Heroin.

2010-11-14T17:30:00.001-08:00

Just read my post from April where I mentioned that at least my son wasn't using heroin.

Cursed myself I guess.

Turns out he was smoking it since February if not earlier. About 5 weeks ago he called me at work, very upset. Said he needed to get help. "Yeah, yeah. You always say that," I grumbled to him while people swirled around me asking for more turkey. Man, these people can really put away the turkey. More pleading. From the son, not the employees for once. "Help me mom." I could hear a sincere sense of panic in his voice. Well, maybe this is finally a bit of good news! Hurrah! I had always heard that until they want help they won't change so this is it, the magic moment, the street paved with gold, the rainbow at the end of a violent thunderstorm, the half-off sale at Freddies! (aka Fred Segal.)

I ran home from work to find him pale and upset. I held him tightly, told him it was going to be ok and he would get the help he needed. We just hung onto each other and had a very rare pleasant rest of the day and night, watching movies (my go-to for all things that ail you).

He said he couldn't stand the thought of going to another residential treatment center, and certainly not back to UCLA, so we decided to pursue the intensive outpatient therapy which is what he was supposed to do after the rehab. (Didn't quite work out. Read older posts to enlighten yourself about the post-rehab drama.) Anyhow, feeling optimistic! Found a place in West Hollywood that would take him for the 4 month program -- every single night I would need to leave work early and drive him there for the first month -- then it tapered down from there. I was willing to do it because I am a great mom who really tries to look at the glass half full: while he's in the outpatient therapy I can sit at the Coffee Bean next-door and work on my lastest script. All good! He asked for help so he would get it, even if I had to take a second or third job. (God, I love this economy. That was said in a very sarcastic tone of voice by the way.)

Well, the next day he sent me a link to a website for a medication called Suboxone. I had no idea what that was. Hmmm..... He even called me at work to ask if I had gotten the email. No, I told him, I was busy washing dishes (don't ask) and hadn't found the time to make it to my office to check email but would do that soon. He made me promise to call him as soon as I read his email.

So, Suboxone is the current version of Methadone which is what they give heroin addicts to help them through the withdrawal and detox of one of the most addictive drugs known to mankind. Well. I guess he's trying to tell me something. (Insert sarcastic voice of my mother: "You think?") Deep breath. Deep breath. Deep breath. Heroin? And here I thought it was "just" pot, xanax (which the kids snort apparently. really?), ectasy, hash, acid, cocaine and well, everything else but black tar heroin.

Again, I ran home. (Yes, the employers have been very understanding.) Yes. It's heroin. But, good news! He hasn't "yet" gone to the needle "just" smoking it. But his "friend" Damian, the one that introduced Max to drugs, who Max always blames for everything (not ready to take responsibility yet) is "SHOOTING UP EVERY DAY." This is also the kid that threatened to kill me (or beat me up, can't remember because it was in a text message that I quickly read on Max's cell when he was in the shower) when his mom called me to ask for advice on rehabs since Damian needed to go to one since he just got arrested and it would help his case if he sought help. Thank GOD Max is not hanging out with him anymore.

Ok there is still time to save my kid! He's not hanging out with Damian; he hasn't gone to the needle yet! Off to the latest doctor to get a prescription for Subxone. Ok, that was handled. Now off to see the IOP. Good, found it, the meeting went well. So well, that while in the meeting we get a call from a very FAMOUS COMEDIAN that the kid loves and that I wrote to earlier in the day once I found out he doesn't drink or do drugs (and has dated some super hot chicks, made movies and has a mansion in the Hollywood Hills and is still very edgy and cool and popular with the college crowd -- someone my son can actually look up to in Hollywood, wow.). He is giving us tickets to his show and wants to meet my son. Wow! Faith in humanity has been restored.

Ok, go to comedy show. Meet another famous dude who is now sober (amazingly so) with a 3-D movie coming out the next night. (Ok, it was Steve-O.) He and son bond, take photo. The other famous comedian (ok, it was Dane Cook) shows up in the VIP room where we were whisked to by the owner of this comedy club on Sunset (ok it was Jamie Masada), and stops by and says hello. Kid is so happy. Comedian couldn't be nicer (and quite hot if I do say so. [Note to self: need boyfriend SOON. One date every 12 months is not healthy. Or right.] Dane Cook does his set, comes back and spends more time with us. All is good! Dane even said I was a cool mom. Did I mention how great he is? Life is great! Another photo op. Kid is going to be a-ok.

Insert sound of super fast car slamming on the BRAKES......SCREEEEECH.

Not. So. Fast.

Max "declined" to go to the outpatient therapy a few days after the visit. Not sure what happened but he came up with a "better" plan. Just find a bunch of doctors and do it that way. Can't say I'm not disappointed but at least he's still asking for help.

So there's a therapist, a psychiatrist, a pain management/anesthesiologist that prescribes the Suboxone, and Al-Anon (and blogging) for me. So we're on the right track. However, he's still angry and hostile and miserable but at least he's not hanging out with any of his "old" friends and he's getting off the heroin.

Insert dramatically depressing music here. Insert dark rain. Wet streets.

Every frickin' Sunday I have to do laundry ... at the laundry mat (again, don't ask) and come home today to find a bike on the front porch. Front door locked. Sneak around to the back door which is open. Quietly walk through the house.

Max hears me not so stealthly approaching his room, the door is open. He jumps up out of his chair and physically tries to block me from entering his room. When DAMIAN jumps off the bed and says, so coolly, "hi, how are you? Not sure if I am supposed to be here but thought I'd just drop by."

Cool as a cucumber. My kid is clearly upset, keeps saying "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." I leave, take the puppy on a very long walk in a much nicer neighborhood (hearing the voices of the other Al-Anon parents chanting 'disengage, disengage, disengage') but come home to a peaceful, yet empty house. No note. No text. No email. No call. Feel guilty because he's not here and I'm enjoying the peace. But know that this turn of events is, mostly likely, not a good thing.

He just called. He's at Damien's house now. I asked for Damian's mother's phone number. He said he'd text it to me. That was an hour ago. Nothing. But at least he let me know where he was. Right?

I am sure this story is to be continued. One way or another.

Urine.

2010-11-13T21:17:00.000-08:00

So, I just had to report that today was spent being assaulted by urine. So frickin' gross. It started when I tried to wake up the son (at 11) but he wasn't budging. I just stood there and stared at his greasy hair, thin, pale body, and felt...well nothing oddly enough. Then he woke up. Was fairly pleasant but informed me he had dropped his cell phone during the night and could only find the battery and cover. This is one of many cell phones I have purchased since he was 8 or 9. Yep, he was an early adopter as they say in the tech industry. Or more accurately, he was the early adopter and I was the trendsetting parent, always giving in and making sure my kid had whatever he needed to feel special and not "left out." I truly wish he felt left out now, then maybe he wouldn't be a drug addict.

Anyhow, after being informed that he only has parts of the $350 cell phone that is constantly being dropped and lost and "broken" (it is less than 4 months old)I drop to my knees like a good/bad parent and start the hunt. It is so dirty on the floor! Dust bunnies the size of Godzilla, stale tortilla chips, popcorn, pretzels, dirty black socks that were once white, rolled up pieces of paper, matches. Ah! What is that I see? Oh, just a piece of foil. I don't make a big deal of it but wonder if it is from the heroin days or is that related to pot? Sometimes I wish I were more experienced with drugs then I wouldn't have to spend so much time on Google. (More about the heroin use later -- which is the newest bump in this already bumpy road.)

Wait! I see the phone! It's by a film canister. Wow, haven't seen one of those in a long time. Remember when we actually had to take the film out of the camera -- "oh, I hope I got it out ok" -- and bring it into a place to get developed and then .... the waiting, waiting, waiting, for the photos? "Oh. I hope they came out ok. Especially that one of me and Dalai Lama / David Letterman / Meryl Streep / The Pope !" And then the day arrived, the photos were ready! You rush over to the local Walgreens, pay, get the nice fat pack of (hopefully perfect) photos. You take them out to the car in the parking lot and of course, thumb through them before driving home. Ah, the disappointment. The sadness. The anti-climatic ending to what should have been a great journey. Most of the photos are of my thumb. The others are undistinguishable. Is that a ghost? The white shadow in the background? "No, that's Grandma." Oh. I had to pay for each of these? Shit. But I digress. So, I take the film canister and without missing a beat open the cap....look in.... see some liquid. Liquid? In a film canister? Naturally put it right up to my nose and INHALE as deeply as I can before I hear the sounds of my son saying "No! Don't smell it!" Too late. It's urine. Urine that's in the process of fermenting. "It's pee. It's over a year old. I told you not to smell it."

By now I have run to the bathroom, no! Don't dump in the sink! (Don't know why I did't think of flushing it down the toilet, the rather logical thing to do, but I was in a state of urine induced insanity. Run to the kitchen. NO! Not in the kitchen sink. Run outside, throw it on my lovely purple lavendar plant. Poor plant. Fully expect it to be dead tomorrow. WTF? Why would someone have a film canister filled with year old urine? Oh. Right. Drug testing. Apparently it came from the body of the kid -- 4 years younger than my son -- down the street. Wonder what he got out of it?

So, that's how the day started. I spent the rest of the day cleaning the house and trying to get the lingering smell of urine out of my facial vicinity. I could not get that smell out of my mind.

Did I mention we have a new puppy? (There is a connection to the urine induced insanity, I promise.) Yep. The puppy is super cute and I love him more than anything but sadly my son is not the most able when it comes to cleaning up urine-soaked carpets. So, the pee smell in our tiny house just won't-ever-go-away. Of course when I am not working at the day job, the son doesn't really take the puppy out for walks (even though he is now technically home schooled via an online high school) unless it's to go a block away to purchase or sell drugs. Although he, the son and the puppy actually, are getting better at housekeeping chores. The sad fact remains that I have thrown out three carpets that were beyond redemption but the few remaining ones have this horrid odor that just won't go away. Well, that's not true. The smell does go away, so I get tricked into thinking I have managed to save another carpet. But of course, the odor always creeps back. It seemd especially strong today but it was probably my early morning urine experience that has me quite obsessed with pee on this lovely Saturday. So, the rest of the day was spent sprinkling rosemary-lavendar powder on the carpets and vacuuming. Didn't work. So I performed a combination of pet odor stain and smell remover along with a liberal dosing of Fabreze and soy candles. Didn't work. Went to the hard-core stuff: "Urine Be Gone" (as seen on TV) heavy dudty spraying on the carpets then checking with a black light for spots. So gross. (Note to self: stop using black light. Will drive me insane.) I guess I just need to throw out the rest of the carpets and start over. I always feel like I am starting over.

Urine. The smell that won't go away. Just like my son's drug habit.

Long and Short Summer

2010-11-02T13:58:00.000-07:00

So it's been a while.... after he got out of rehab and I got tired of running away to cheap motels and trying to just avoid him, I came up with a better plan: I sent him to El Salvador. The country with the most violent and dangerous city in the world San Salvador, and home of the notorious MS-13 gang. Desperate times call for deseprate measures, right?

So his absent dad bought some property down there and agreed to take him for a week or so but I was able to get 5 weeks out of it. Yeah for me! All of July to myself... no more hiding out in cheap motels. Had a bit of a challenge getting him his passport (rush! more money!!) and then onto the plane. He was going to go. He wouldn't go. He would go. Sat in the car in the parking lot at LAX then I got out. He sat. I kept walking. He got out. He almost didn't make it past security. I pretended that I wasn't with him,but then he made it through. The plane was delayed naturally. Had to sit there for over an hour and I thought I had it timed out just so that we would get to the gate and he would get on, no more time to delay or wait. But no, the plane was delayed. Ok, he passed out in waiting area by the gate. I don't even care that people are staring but I do care that the cleaning lady keeps rolling her super loud cleaning cart back and forth in front of us. Doesn't she know that we don't want to wake the sleeping monster??? Holding my breath. Afraid to move because any slight movement might wake him up and then he freak out or refuse to go or something worse. Boarding the plane. Strangely it's super quiet now that the cleaning lady is gone. Maybe all the passengers can read my mind. Keep still. Keep Quiet. Don't make any sudden moves until the monster is on the plane in his seat where he can hopefully pass out again.

He got on the plane and made it to El Salvador. Miracle. I avoided most of his calls except for the one telling me he was bringing home a puppy from San Salvador. Great. However, it's the cutest dog I've ever seen. So sweet and tiny and just a good little pup. Maybe this will the cure?

More on how things are progressing now. Good and bad mostly bad. But the dog is still alive and lovely and now sleeps on my bare feet his white fluffy fur keeping my bare feet warm. I never thought I'd love a dog more than my own son. Oh, that's harsh. Not true but sometimes I feel that way. Is that wrong?

A month later and, well, just broke.

2010-06-19T21:13:00.000-07:00

Well, let's see....in a nutshell he got out....was extremely hostile the day I picked him up, not the happy Hollywood ending I had envisioned.

Listening to James Taylor .... "When this old world just starts getting me down and people are just too much for me to take"....I go to shady motels and watch stupid TV shows, get tap water ice cubes from that amazing machine located near the stairwell, pull those black-out curtains, and pretend I am in the South of France. Is it bad to run away from your kid? After you've spent your last remaining dollars on him in an effort to "help" him? And he still hates you, now more than ever? He almost has me convinced that I am the crazy one, the one to blame, the horrible one. So, basically nothing has changed in the past 5 or 6 weeks.

Let's see, other than I am now officially broke, my son does drugs everyday rather than every other day, and I am getting so many conflicting pieces of advice from well-meaning people of all walks of life -- including the local police department and my employer and my family -- but nothing makes sense to me. I have never been more confused in my entire life. So, what do I do? Just go. Go away. Drive and spend my last few pennies on cheap motel rooms where I can just .... be. Alone. Is that wrong? Not too deep down I am hoping that someone will figure out that I have abandoned him and they will take him away from me. But I always return. Guilt really sucks. I wish I had no guilt otherwise this would be so much easier. Fuck.

So the day to day reality is that he went back to school right after getting out of rehab (he used the day he got out) and he refused to adhere to any of the terms of our contract. Namely that he stay sober and go to those 12 step meetings and stay in school. So, of course, after a week back at school they kicked him out again as he was a "safety risk to himself or others". So a week at home while I was at work doing the grunt work of 10 people (they all got laid off- yeah! good econonmy!), HE got to spend the week relaxing, sleeping in watching TV and playing X-Box. I begged the school to take him back because there was only a month left and god-dammit, I wanted something to come to some type of a conclusion. At least he could finish the school year!

I know this makes no sense but short story is that he's still using drugs, I am broke, rehab did not work, he refuses to get help, I am about to lose my job for a variety of reasons, and well, life goes on. One way or another.

Mother's Day -- Not Father's Day.

2010-05-12T22:47:00.000-07:00

Up and Down. Up and Down. So it goes. Max hasn't run away from the "residential treatment center" so I take that as a good sign. However, he's only got 2 weeks left then what? I hate to say it but I am getting used to him not being here, at home, where he truly does belong. Does that make me a bad mother? No. I think it makes me human which are pretty adaptable creatures. I do want him back, but I would much prefer if the version I got back is the sweet, kind, funny, compasionate, helpful, smart, loving kid that I know resides within his sullen, sad, hostile self that is currently going through rehab.

Max and I did have a nice mother's day. We even got to go out to lunch and it was one of the best mother's days I've had in years. He was polite, funny and actually ate a tone of food (always points in my book since he's such a picky eater). Mother's Day fell on a Sunday which followed a Saturday which was the day his dad came to visit from 600 miles away. That was a miracle in and of itself. I think the visit was a big joke to Max's dad because everything is a big joke to him.

We had what they call "multi-family group therapy" on Saturday. I was happy that some of the pressure would be off me and surely onto Max's dad. I was right. Max point-blank asked his dad why he has never told him he loves him. You could hear a pin drop. Of course, the dad, muddled and messed up that he is, couldn't quite answer the question. He tried to say the right things: "You are brilliant Max! You can learn Spanish! You can learn to play an instrument! You can be a success!" -- sadly he couldn't just say three simple words: "I love you." which is really all that Max wanted to hear. Another mother from accross the room said directly to the dad "he's being very clear on what he wants! Just tell him you love him!" Glad someone else said this. A total stranger no less. I've been saying it for years but for some sick reason it just doesn't sink into Max's dad's very messed up brain. (God I hope he gets therapy soon before it's too late. Oh wait, he's already 60. Forget it.)

Heavy duty day. I won't even talk about the other very sad issues that came that day. I just truly wish that Max had a better male role model.

Life goes on and it's up to US mothers to help break the destructive cycle that infests quite a few of our male species.

Wine and Meditation

2010-04-26T20:02:00.000-07:00

So on Sunday my good friend insisted that I go to church with her. CHURCH? How long has that been? I was a bit reluctant but she insisted on picking me up (which is a very good thing because I probably wouldn't have gone otherwise). I am glad we went. The Agape Spiritual Center is not like the hypocritical churches of my childhood. No, this was full of cool LA people (they all looked liked actors), singing and well, just being spiritual. I even meditated which was rather miraculous for me. (OK don't tell anyone but I fell asleep. That still counts though right?)

After the service, still feeling the love, I went to the church bookstore where I stocked up on books that will surely help both Max and I. Secret for Teens! I know that this is the one book that will do the trick. All he needs to do is become a master of his thoughts! Think positive and you can have whatever you want. He will probably only think about weed. When he called later that night, still excited from my efforts at finding peace all I wanted to do is tell him about my day at church. I even lied and told him the girls from the Pretty Wild E show were there (he has crushes on these girls)....I think he saw right through my lies. Surprisingly, he really wasn't interested in my new books or my day at Agape. I really don't know why..... He only had one angry question: when do I get out of here?

The new calm, spiritual me was gone in a second. I guess it will take more than one Sunday to transform me into a zen master. I really want a quick fix which is probably why we are in this position now.

So what is the logical thing to do? I went to the wine store and selected some very lovely Italian wine which I am now drinking. (Thank you Groupon, my new most favorite website.) Is it hypocritical of me to drink wine? Do I need to drink all the booze in my house before Max comes home? Can I ever have a cocktail in front of him again? This is all new to me.

Maybe God will have the answer for me next Sunday. Meanwhile, chin chin.

This is for your own good.

2010-04-25T08:04:00.001-07:00

So in the chaos of what has become my life, I forgot my password for this blogger thing and gave up many times, which is pretty indicative of my life in general. I know it doesn't sound like it but I am feeling much more optimistic this grey morning.

Max was in the hospital for 11 days and even had 3 really good days last weekend. I was feeling great then on that last Monday night visit, the angry, sullen, hostile man-boy was back. He hates me, how can I do this to him, I am ruining his life, I am no longer his mother. He told me didn't take his Adderall that morning and maybe that's why he was so anxious and agitated. I don't know if I should believe him or not, but I told the nurses and then he denied it right to my face in front of the therapist, social worker and doctor. This kid has some mad lying skills. I still think he should become a lawyer or politician. Or a Hollywood Agent.

I have been useless at work so they sent me home. Thank God I work at a place that understands these types of issues, very intimately. I am sick to my stomach every day, can't eat, can't breath and feel frozen with fear indecisiveness. What do I do with him? My insurance has run out and I have major anxiety about this "vacation in the hospital" -- how will I pay for it? Even my co-pays for the 7 days they did cover it will be huge. And then what? Where should he go after the hospital? Some people think I am over-reacting and he should be at home. Some people (most of the doctors and therapists that have gotten to know Max over this past week and half, say he should he sent to UTAH to one of of locked facilities for the year), some people think he just needs a 30 day rehab. UTAH is $10,000 a month and is not covered by insurance. How do average people get help for their loved ones?

Late Wednesday night I got a call. He has been accepted, even though he's a flight risk, at a rehab in California close enough to home so I can visit. Everyone kicks into high gear. Doctor calls in prescriptions, I pick them up, pack his bag, hire an interventionist and his partner an off-duty cop, to get him from the hospital to the rehab because I know he won't go willingly. $1,000 for a 45 minute drive. Again, how do people afford this stuff?

Three large men drag him out of the hospital, no shoes. As suspected he is not going willingly. For someone who is under 100 pounds, he certainly has a team of medical professionals, and a cop, scrambling for control. They won't let me ride in the elevator with them so I take the next one and follow behind trying to keep an eye on the situation but also hoping that no one will think I am with them. This is one of the worst sights ever. I run to the bathroom and throw up. My hands are shaking. How can he make me feel this way?

I only want to help him because I love him so much. I hope that one day he will realize this. For now, he still hates me.

Macaroni and Cheese

2010-04-17T11:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was another day of up and down. UP: he was going to a local 30 day rehab center where they could help him....DOWN: NOPE! They found out he tried to escape from the hospital (well he did actually)...so he's considered an AWOL risk so they won't take him. She said in 25 years she's never once heard of anyone escaping from this particular hospital. If only I could get Max to use his "evil genius" for good....

UP Again: He just called me and sounds really happy! DOWN! Car stopped quickly in front of me and Koo Koo Roo dinner I had purchased for us hit the floor. Macaroni and Cheese everywhere. I swear it's going to be one little minor thing like that that will send me over the edge.

UP again! He was happy and smiling and didn't verbally attack me tonight during our visit. Could have something to do with his double dose of anti-depressants or the fact that I arranged a visit for him from some young tatted up guy I work with (thank you TT!) and Max really likes him.

DOWN Again: My sister is out of it again and slurring her words and repeating herself. Again, feeling all alone again.

Stayed up until 4 am again. Can't sleep. Feel like I keep seeing things fly around my house in the dark. Damn, maybe I am the one who needs to be hospitalized? Or at least a new pair of contact lenses.

DOWN!

My Son Is In The Psychiatric Hospital

2010-04-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

My son is in the psychiatric ward and I put him there. He hates me, even though I was his room parent every year since kindergarten, never missed a field trip (even though I worked full time), threw him elaborate birthday parties since Age 1, took him on trips to foreign countries as well as local foreign places (Legoland anyone?), took him to every single doctor appointment except one time when I myself was in the emergency room having a spinal tap (damn, I should have done better), rocked him to sleep when he wouldn’t stop crying, gained 45 pounds (which I have yet to lose 15 years later) with my pregnancy, cleaned him up after a bout of the stomach flu, comforted him after 2am nightmares and made countless batches of chicken nuggets (the only food he really likes). But you get the point. I still could have done better in his eyes. What does that mean right now? To him, I would be the best parent if I just let him “live his life” – which means staying out all night, getting mostly Ds in school, and doing lots of drugs. I guess I am too protective of him and should just…let him be. I suppose that I should not be bothered that his drug test showed pot, cocaine, ecstasy, vicodin and xanax. I guess I should be happy there wasn’t any heroin. Of course, that would be just a matter of time. He hates me because I love him and am trying to help him.

I went to visit Max in the hospital tonight against the advice of the well-meaning “been-there-seen-it-all” nurse Cheryl and teenage psychologist intern, Amanda. I brought Max an In-and-Out Burger which I thought was a good idea. I didn’t realize that they use American cheese and not real cheddar, which was a major faux pas on my part. Although I think he forgave me since he ate the entire thing. He was sitting on the floor in the dark in the corner when I arrived in his at first seemingly nice room. Upon spending more time in that room I am starting to hate it as well. I’ve really only spent about 3 hours in it total, rather than Max’s 6 nights. I understand why he hates it. Even though the hospital is a $1.6 billion dollar facility, there is still that austere sadness and underlying air of despair and depression innate to all hospitals. Maybe it’s really not a good idea to lock up people to “help” them. Maybe we should just set them free in a field of flowers and let them roam around in nature? But I digress.

Once Max started eating his energy came back in a big and volatile way. His hatred this evening seemed to focus on someone else rather than me for a change! Hallelujah! Seems that Dr. Amanda and Nurse Cheryl were the “fucking bitches” of the day. Finally, I get a break! After a 15 minute tirade against his prison wardens, the anger, predictably, turned back to me. His mother and only visitor so far. Since I am to blame for all of this, I need to take the brunt of his anger. Nurse Cheryl told me not to engage him in discussions about what would happen when he was released from the hospital and to stay on “neutral topics.” I tried to talk about the weather, I really did, but he was having none of that. He was convinced that I was sending him out of state to get rid of him because I didn’t care about him. He said he knew that I had asked every family member for money, which was PROOF that I was getting ready to send him away. I tried to remain neutral. “Think it’s going to rain?” He just kept pulling me back into THAT conversation. Truth is, I don’t even know what’s going to happen next. I wish I did.

The venom spewing tirade was interrupted by a girl named Leah, another patient, who happened to wander into his room against unit policies. She was a larger girl, probably 14, and was very happy to meet me. I was happy for the diversion and was just hoping she wasn’t dangerous when I saw a faint smile come across Max’s face. Ah, his sense of humor was still in there, buried deep, but there nonetheless. There was still hope. Leah remarked how lucky Max was to have a view of the parking lot and a burger and fries and milkshake from In-and-Out. “Lucky!” she said drawing out the word as though channeling a 1985 Valley Girl. Leah’s room didn’t have a view and she didn’t have a burger but she thinks the hospital food is “fantastic”. Max rolled his eyes when she said that. I absent mindedly remarked “gee, I wonder how many cars are parked on the top level.” 44 turns out. Max and I patiently listened to Leah count each and every one of them. Max was still smiling, a very rare sight indeed. Leah told me she lives in the Valley and has no idea why she’s been in the hospital for the past week. Leah and Max bonded over their mutual hate of their “prison” and agreed that there’s something very, very wrong, because clearly neither one of them needed to be there.

After a few minutes Max (very politely I might add) asked Leah if she could leave so he could have some private time with his mom. As she left, she shook my hand and told me how nice it was to meet me. Max asked me to close the door and then told me that Leah constantly tells him how “sexy” he is and how she wants to have sex with him even though she’s bi and has never had sex yet. Oh Lord help me.

Max was still in a good mood and proceeded to tell me about Nate, another patient. He is very tall and very large and aggressive but not on purpose. He’s been restricted from the common rooms. Max seems to like him even though he sounds a bit intimidating. Today he came into Max’s room sans pants or underwear and proceeded to look at the window while mooning Max. He then turned around, for the full frontal view. Next, he went into Max’s bathroom and proceeded to eat his shampoo and deodorant. For his final act, he jumped on Max’s bed with Max still on it, and proceeded to roll around on his clean white sheets, with his nude body. Max laughed when telling me this story and so I left on a high note. Maybe there is hope after all. He hugged me before I left.

So then I get home. I forgot to turn the porch light on and it’s one of those super black nights out. I fumble with my door keys when I realize my security door is locked. I never lock it. I can vaguely see something wedged between the security door and the front door. Is it a bomb from one of the local teen drug lords I am making it my personal mission to bring down? What if they are still inside the house? What if my landlord heard about the police incident and has evicted me? All crazy thoughts but I haven’t been totally coherent for at least a week now. Ok, go around to the back door and go in that way I tell myself. I am terrified that the horrid white possum that comes out every night will run across my flip flop clad feet. Ok, made it through the gate, into the yard, now up to the back door. The key is not working. There is glass everywhere. The window is broken. Oh, wait, that was from Max. He was so mad he slammed the door and the window broke. Struggle with the key, getting paranoid. What if Max’s hoodlum friends are in the house looking for his stash? I did notice that the spare key is missing again….

In! Finally. I try the front door, no can do. It is not turning. Turn on the porch light. Grab the flashlight and get back to the front door. No possum thankfully. The box. What is in that box? Looks like something from UPS. Probably not a bomb. Back in the house. The house looks fine. Nothing is missing. No one here.

The locksmith Rob comes although I know that’s not his real name. My guess would be something more like Ranjit or Rodolfo. I don’t know but he’s polite and tells me he has never seen a situation like this. After a few minutes he gets the door knob off and the box falls out. It’s from my Aunt Shirley in Texas. Strange, she’s never sent me anything before. Maybe she’s heard about Max and has sent me a care package. A bottle of wine and a massage gift certificate sound really good about now. I pay Rob the $275 (!) and he promises he will write a letter explaining that the work was necessary due to the UPS person leaving the package in between the two doors. I almost feel bad because the UPS person tried to do the right thing to keep my package safe. But I can’t afford the $275 so I will have to battle UPS. I probably won’t do it because I am getting really tired of fighting.

I open the box. It’s a collection of random items. The note tells me that these were items from my Grandmother who recently passed away. Her costume jewelry which she loved. Some note paper. A porcelain poodle. And photos. Tons of photos. Her, me as a child, my parents, me and my sister when we 6 and 8. And Max. Tons of photos of Max. When he was 10 and modeling. 8 and smiling a smile with missing teeth. A baby picture. His birth announcement all baby blue and white stripes. I was so proud of those announcements. They were printed and very fancy for 1994. I felt like a very chic mommy when I mailed those out.

When I picked out those baby announcements 15 years earlier, I remember wondering, what was Max going to be like when he was a teenager. And then, the lightness from my one good visit just an hour ago vanished. The tears came back again.