Do not disturb

“Mommy, why do you have a garden flag that says ‘Welcome’ when you don’t actually mean it?”

I had to think about that for a minute.

“I’ve had it in the closet for a couple of years and figured I should use it at least once.  And besides, I’m pretty sure the neighbors think I’m cranky.”

If I were to make a list,  things that don’t make me cranky would be much shorter,  but I’m trying to work on that.

Being in my 40’s makes me exceedingly cranky.

Discovering an empty wine bottle when it’s much too late to go buy another.

Opening the front door on a lovely rainy morning only to have it ruined by my neighbor blaring  Banda music.

Finding a dog poop stuck to the rug.

Slow internet connections that cause pixelated movies.

Being excited to read a new book only to realize I’ve read the same sentence 29 times.

People knocking on my front door.

Yes, the Welcome garden flag is probably not the best choice for me but I was in a particularly good mood when I bought it and had decided I would try to become more friendly.  I’d have people over, we’d sit and chat.  But no, the dog hair and poop prevent that from happening and I remember why I’m cranky again.

“Mommy, this flag is better for you.”

Cranky

Impossibly Measured

I can measure my up and down, and unfortunately, my side to side.

But the affinity my hand has for yours;  that magnetic inclination to feel your hand holding mine, I cannot.  How does one measure a feeling?

The width of my smile, the lightness of my heart, twenty-three years of memories together?  That’s a start.

How frequently I creep up behind you to smack your ass-so much so that I’ve ruined your iPhone…

How many times you make me laugh in one phone conversation, the fact that I continuously attempt to make you a Radiohead fan, the coffee cup full of thoughts I have about you through the course of one day…

It can all be measured without numbers;  with how close, no matter the miles between us, our hearts connect.

Measure

My son, the meth addict

I’m not sure how to start this;  I don’t know where to begin.  How do you tell the world that your son uses drugs?

 

My son is addicted to meth.

 

I returned from my trip to Vegas feeling refreshed, inspired, relaxed…

Those feelings didn’t last long.

I came back to my house after being gone a week-I’m not the best housekeeper, but I try.  I knew I was leaving my 21-year-old son in charge of the house-I spent the weekend cleaning.  I mopped, cleaned the bathroom, did the dishes, vacuumed, stocked the refrigerator…he was set.  I knew he would probably have a few friends over, which I dreaded, but I needed him to be around the house to care for the dogs and cats.  I didn’t ask him to do anything but make sure they were all fed, could go out to relieve themselves, and keep the house locked up.  I don’t think this was too much to ask.

While I was gone, I would text him periodically to get a status report.  I wanted some peace of mind.  He’d respond when he felt like it to say, “Yes, the dogs have food. Yes, I locked the house.  Yes, I have not been abducted by aliens.”

The floors were covered in black footprints, the sink was full of dirty dishes, there were clothes strewn about (not his, but stranger’s clothes), and the door was not locked.  I found a broken meth pipe in my kitchen sink as well as two miniature plastic baggies.  I looked inside the refrigerator and found that someone had broken off one of the cubbies on the door.  I don’t know what the hell happened.

My son and I spend more time arguing and fighting than we do having any sort of meaningful relationship that a mother and son should have.  He’s lived in this house his entire life.  I would find out years later that some kids at school introduced him to marijuana in 6th grade. You can say all you want about marijuana-tell me how great it is for cancer patients, how it is the cure for all that ails you, that it will bring world peace.  But don’t try to tell me that it is not a gateway drug.  My experience with my son tells me the complete opposite.

Before I told my boy that he could stay in the house and have a couple of friends over, I had kicked him out.  I told him that he could stay next door in the garage (my deceased Grandmother’s house, long story) because I was sick of all of his drug buddies disturbing my household at all hours of the day;  it was nonstop.  Unfortunately, his living in the garage turned into hordes of people also living in the garage.  So now, instead of these undesirables coming to my door, they were frequenting the garage directly next door to me and entering the premises from both the front yard and the alley.  The garage had turned into a drug den.  I couldn’t catch a break-there were people walking and driving at all hours of the night in order to do God knows what besides just getting high.  There was even a mom who would drop off her 17-year-old son next door, and I’m quite sure she knew what was going on.

I confronted him.  I told him I was done, I couldn’t put up with this.  How could he bring his drugs into my house when he has younger siblings that live here with me (thankfully they are old enough to know better than to pick things up and put them in their mouths)?  Back to the garage, ye go!  We argued, it got animated.  I told him I’d call the police on him to which he replied, “Go ahead, I’ll slit my throat!”  He said that twice so I called the local police department and told them that my son was suicidal-they promptly appeared on my property and said they’d talk to him.  One officer was very smiley which I felt was inappropriate, given the circumstances.  They talked to him for less than five minutes and then left with no further contact with me.  Nothing.  That left my son free to return to the garage.

Sunday morning, my son showed up at the front door.  I asked him what he wanted and he said he was hungry.  Fine.  I let him in and he went to the kitchen where he proceeded to try to pour a bowl of cereal from an empty box.  He kept shaking it over the bowl and, of course, nothing came out.  I opened a new box and poured some for him, all the while taking mental notes of his strange behavior.   He began to take a bite full of dry cereal and said, “Hey, don’t you want any milk?  Your cereal is dry.”  He said it was fine but I poured some milk on it anyway.  He stood in the kitchen doorway eating his cereal as it spilled all over himself and the floor, which he didn’t notice or didn’t care about.

“You’re either drunk or high, which is it?”

“I’m not.”

“What are you on, you’re on something.”

“No, I’m not.”

He set his bowl down and went to his room and shut the door.  I went to check on him a few minutes later and caught him semi upright on his bed swaying from side to side. I took video as proof to show him later.  I told him to lie down and gave him a nudge so he’d roll on his side.  At this point I decided to call my husband and ask his advice and show him the video because he was acting out of character.  He told me I should call 911 because it seemed that he was overdosing on something.  Cue 911.

While the paramedics were tending to my son,  one of the officers asked me to go outside so he could ask me some questions about the events leading up to this.  I explained that he’d threatened suicide and nothing was done, and that I was at my wit’s end with this drug culture he’d brought into my house, into my family, and into the garage next door.  I’d spoken to this particular officer on a separate occasion pertaining to my son and he was well aware of the situation.  Out of all of this chaos, I was struck by his kindness.  He gave me some background information on some of the kids that were hanging out next door, gave me some advice, and above all, made me feel like I didn’t totally suck as a human being.

The ambulance whisked my son away to our local hospital.  It’s about a five minute walk from here but I’m sure the bill is in the thousands just for the gas to propel them forward.  I waited for two hours in the emergency waiting room before they found him a bed.  Sunday is a busy time in the ER, apparently, or at least this particular Sunday was.  One man decided that he needed his leg checked out.  He’d hurt it recently and could walk on it but it just didn’t feel quite right yet.  A mother brought her young son in whose head hurt-I don’t know if he fell or what but as she was standing in line, I heard him say with tears in his eyes, “Mommy, my head really hurts.”  Her reply?  “And tears help you how?  Why are you crying?  Stop it and go sit down.”  She was busy updating her social media while her son sat, alone, on the furthest chair he could find from her.

I was wondering who, out of the entire waiting room, was actually there for an emergency.  Were any of them waiting to hear about their son who was possibly overdosing?

So many thoughts go through your head.

If only I’d done things differently.

As a Mom, torturing yourelf isn’t going to help.  You didn’t force your child to use drugs.  It won’t change anything.  You have to move forward.

The doctor asked him if he’d used any drugs, he told me.  I’m thinking, “Are you kidding me?  He lies to me, his mom, do you really think he’s going to be honest with you?”  I wish I’d said that, but I didn’t.  They ran a urine test, did an EKG, blood tests…they don’t wait for the blood tests to come back, apparently.  The urinalysis showed marijuana and meth.  I told the doctor about the threats of suicide and he said, “Well, that was a week ago, we can’t do anything.”

I’m ready to scream at this point.  Nobody listens.  Nobody cares.

I’m witnessing first hand why there are so many homeless in my area.

 

To Be Continued.

 

 

 

I wacked my brain…

Sometimes I have so many writing ideas swirling around inside my head that everything becomes a meaningless jumbled mess.  I can’t focus one idea and turn it into typed words so I find that I need to clear everything out.  My mincemeat brain needs a break.

I started this morning with three goals I wanted to accomplish by days end:

  1. Get the dishwasher loaded and running
  2. Wash all of my bedding and throws
  3. Tackle some weeds with the wacker

I managed to get the dishwasher done quickly and this always brings relief.  It’s not that I hate loading and unloading it, it’s the moving and attaching that bums me out because something inevitably falls off the top onto the floor as I’m pulling the beast into place.  It’s a portable dishwasher-I’m happy to have it because I hate hand washing dishes.  I can never manage to get the temperature just right so I end up scalding my hands and fiddling with the cold which wastes more time than I’d care to spare.  Either way, what I’m saying is, the top of my dishwasher is always piled with crap but I did get it going and I didn’t forget to add the soap. Bonus.

I’m in a uniques situation, currently, which prevents me from using my washer and dryer so for the past two days I’ve inhabited the local laundromat.  This is inconvenient but for now, I don’t mind.  There’s a lot of hustle and bustle at this particular facility and I need to figure out the best time to do my wash-I chose a busy time these last two days but it didn’t seem to slow me up.  I was trying to visually rearrange the set up of the washers and dryers to better accommodate the large amount of people as I tried to squeeze myself between the folding tables and row of double-decker dryers.  Add the laundry carts to the mix and quite often you find yourself in a traffic jam.  I watched one woman cram a washer full of too many blankets and then chuckled to myself minutes later when that washer sounded ready to explode from the furious churning it was forced to do.  I try to find humor in the simple things.

Lastly, after leaving my Ryobi weed wacker battery charging throughout the night, I was pleased to discover that I hadn’t ruined the wacker by leaving it out in the deluge of precipitation we’ve received over the last couple of months. My mom told me I had probably ruined it but I responded  that I figured, since it’s an outdoor tool, it should be built to remain outdoors-rain or shine.  Maybe not quite Ark-onian levels of rain…but it started right up and I was able to tackle some weeds without being hit in the face more than three times with tiny pebbles.  Today was a good day.

I’m not sure if I was able to clear my mind enough to start my new little piece of fiction, and maybe it’s a bit more jumbled in there than when I started my day, but I have clean dishes, clean bedding, and a clean walkway that I was able to hose off after tackling some weeds.  So, even if I wasn’t able to clean up the spiderwebs in my brain, I was able to clean off the ones by my front door.  Baby steps.