Wolf at the Door

When I think of meth, it brings to mind The Big Bad Wolf.

Knocking at the door, “Come out little piggies, come out!”

As I have images of this wolf, the Radiohead song Wolf at the Door comes to mind.  I love Radiohead and listen to them, oh, my kids would say far too often, but I find Thom Yorke’s voice soothing and their music is melodious and hits me where I like it-right in the heart.  So when I hear this song, it brings forth so many emotions tied up with my son.

Meth is certainly the wolf at the door.

He was doing so well.  He seemed like he might make it this time and be strong.  But after his legs healed he started having people hanging out next door after I told him repeatedly not to allow that.

“We aren’t doing anything wrong, I just want to hang out with my friends.”

I told him to go do that at their houses, if they had any, because I didn’t want it here.  I’m all too familiar with that scenario.  But he didn’t listen.  He was climbing in and out of his window, as well, which, as a condition of his return wouldn’t be allowed.

It all blew up like in the song- a flan in the face.

I sent him a text telling him, yet again, that I didn’t want anyone next door and that Matthew had discovered two people in the LOCKED patio and that it had to stop.  I told him I’d start calling the police if I found anyone there.  He proceeded to tell me to go ahead because they won’t do anything anyway.  I went on to tell him that maybe it was best, then, if he left, especially if he wasn’t interested in following one simple rule.  He told me he wouldn’t leave, no way, and I couldn’t make him.  I hopped in the car with Matthew because I was going to tell him to get out.  I’d had it.

I got to the house pretty quickly, fuming, actually, and found him sitting at the computer with a pissed off look on his face.  I told him that he needed to leave;  enough is enough.  He had not called his public defender to reschedule court, nor had he called the rehab facility whose program he needed to attend.  He was healed and taking advantage.

The wolf huffed and puffed…

Matthew said something to the effect of, “What’s your fucking problem?”

That was it and he jumped up out of the chair and got into Matthew’s face-he’s got a few inches on Matthew as well as five years.  It certainly wasn’t a fair fight but fists were flying and I yelled him to stop.  He wasn’t in the mood to listen so I got on the phone with the police and as he heard me call he yelled, “No, NO, NO!” and ran out the door.  I told them what happened, they came quickly, took mine and Matthew’s information as well as an account of what happened.  I’m fortunate to live in a city with a nice police department.

Since Matthew got punched in the eye, the officer suggested I have the fire department come out and see if he had a possible broken nose or any other facial fractures.  They were kind when checking his face and everything seemed to be intact, thankfully.  I declined a ride for him to the hospital-I live about five minutes from there so no need, especially since nothing was broken.

The police said they’d keep looking for him and they’d put a “Stop and hold” on him so that all officers would know to keep him.

Felony child abuse.

I’ve tried SO hard to get him back on the right track.  I tried to keep the wolf from the door but like the song says:

I keep the wolf from the door but he calls me up, calls me on the phone

Tells me all the ways that he’s gonna mess me up

Steal all my children if I don’t pay the ransom

And I’ll never see them again if I squeal to the cops…

He got picked up the next morning and is now in jail.  He has court tomorrow.  I fear for him in there-he’s like a little kid with a stunted brain who finds new knowledge impossible to retain.  He’s been there before, doing the same shit, only now it’s ten times worse.

I haven’t been able to sleep well since Sunday.  Matthew is very angry, rightfully so, and doesn’t want to see him again.  I’m just plain sad.

Meth is a wolf that will huff and puff and will eventually blow your house down

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I have to keep telling myself that this is not my son.  These are the words of an addict lashing out.  I’ll always love him;  he’s my boy, he just can’t live here and blow my house down.

(I asked my daughter to draw me a wolf for this post and this is her artwork!)

You can count on Mom

I got a call last week from the oldest son wanting me to pick him up because he was hurting and hungry.  Many emotions swam over me at once-panic, dread, sorrow, heartache…my child has been in trouble for so long and it’s impossible for me to turn my back when he clearly needs me for the most basic essentials.  I drove about a half an hour to a sketchy part of town and waited for him to come out to my car.  The first thing I noticed was how gaunt his face looked.  His pretty blue eyes did not shine and he was very pale.  He was looking far older than his mere twenty-one years.  He put his back-pack in the trunk and off we went.

Not knowing what to talk about, I left it up to him to speak first.  He started telling me about how bad his legs hurt and how his head had been throbbing for days.  He looked like a lost puppy.  I didn’t bother asking him if he was hungry, instead driving straight to a drive thru.  He wanted a double western bacon cheese burger.  I got him the large combo and he was done with the fries within five minutes.

We got to the house and I suggested he shower and take a long hot one to wash away some of the filth that had surely attached itself to his wounded legs.  He happily obliged.  As he showered, many questions went through my head:

  • what am I going to do with him?
  • how long will he stay?
  • is he going to try to break into the garage again?
  • when are they going to have room for him at rehab?

I needed to get some laundry done and seeing as I’ve been house sitting for my mom, I could do it at her house.  I told him that if he wanted to sleep here  he should get me the sheets and blankets off his bed because I hadn’t touched anything since he’d left previously.  His friend had given him some skateboard guts so that he could put his back together and he wondered if I’d take him to the skate shop so they’d put it together for him.

We got that done and I wondered if he’d turn around and sell it for drugs.

He left for awhile, happy, because he had a functioning skateboard again.  It’s nice to see him with a genuine smile, even if it’s small because he’s exhausted.

Please don’t go get meth.

I got all of his bedding and clothing washed and left it folded in a bag in his room.  I didn’t want to do too much because I didn’t know what to expect and didn’t want to be disappointed.  And, as sorry as I felt for him, I didn’t want to bend over backwards just to be shat on again.  He didn’t come home that night but showed up the next morning, put his sheets on his bed and promptly went to sleep.  I asked him one time if he was doing alright and he said sleepily, “I haven’t been in a bed in so long.”

I checked on him periodically but he slept for almost five days.  He got up to use the bathroom occasionally and I gave him a gallon of cran-raspberry juice to keep by his bed so he wouldn’t drink out of the container in the refrigerator.  I didn’t see or hear much from him but I was content knowing he was safe and not in jail.

He wasn’t getting beat up by the police.

I assume that those five days were spent detoxing from meth and who knows what else. He swears he has not, nor will he ever, use heroin.  Who knows.  I told him they make that shit with so many chemicals that he may have inadvertently used it at one point.  Of course, that’s a great way to get people even more hooked, right?

His legs are infected and draining. I brought him some antiseptic liquid that his supposed to clean the wounds and relieve some pain but if they still look the same tomorrow I’ll have to get him in to see a doctor.  I’m not quite sure why the hospital spent thousands getting him cat-scans but wouldn’t bother to bandage his bleeding legs.  He went directly to jail after the hospital and staph is a popular infection to pick up-especially having open wounds.

I try to make sense of the nonsensical and it leaves me frustrated.

For now, he is at home and I’m thankful.  Relieved.  He’s my firstborn.  I had so many dreams and desires for him as I cradled him all those nights, years ago.  My only wish now?

Stay alive.


I didn’t post the other pictures showing the infected areas because they aren’t pleasant.

My Rocky Bottom

The oldest boy texted his dad informing him of his latest arrest.  Apparently,  he tried running from them, well, biking from them.  He didn’t get far before he was tackled, body slammed, and face planted into the asphalt.  He said his fingers got pretty messed up and somehow his leg had incurred an injury which he says was a cut to the bone.  They took him to the hospital where he received a cat scan which revealed a concussion and they wouldn’t stitch his leg wound.  And now I ask, How far down is rock bottom?

California has had its teeth pulled regarding drugs.  An individual can walk up and down the street carrying meth, a pipe, various other drugs and their paraphernalia with nothing more than an officer checking for felonies and then being transported to the jail overnight and released the following day.  It’s nothing.  It doesn’t count.  The state voted to reduce drug charges to misdemeanors so now they are nothing more than the equivalent of a traffic citation, only there don’t seem to be any fines.  How would they pay them, anyway?  California would rather make up the difference on me for not having my dog licensed on time.  $300 for failing to register your dog vs. getting a talking to by police for carrying meth.  Make sense?

These kids need help.  No, I don’t want to see them in jail, but I’d wager that most of them are dealing with psychiatric issues that need to be dealt with and I’d think the state could come up with a few rehab facilities that are set up like jails only not actually jails.  Keep them confined but get them clean and feed them.  But our governor would rather waste billions on a stupid bullet train that will never get built.  It’s hard to feel hopeful for the future when you see these young people with no options who will continue to spiral down until their crimes turn violent and they end up in prison or dead.  I’m no bleeding heart, but damn, there has to be something.

This has been my morning-well, in actuality, the past five years of my life.  Worrying about my oldest son who seems hell-bent on self-destruction with no way to get him on the right track.  He’s brought the criminals around who have inhabited the garage next door.  Saturday I discovered a blanket thrown over the outside security light and a blanket on the grass covering a block of cement that I’m sure someone was going to use to break the back door.  I called the police about it and they sent a giggly woman who spent a grand total of two minutes checking it out.  She happily returned to flirting with her partner before they drove off.

I didn’t realize that the rock bottom being referred to was my own.