The Road to Hell
I am the mother of a child with serious mental health disorders.
And today I fucked up.
He sent me some concerning messages. Finished with ‘bye’ and then didn’t respond to any of my further texts or calls.
So I panicked. I left messages for his doctor and his therapist because it’s after hours. Then called the police, several states away.
He scared me and I panicked.
And now he’s extremely pissed with me and I don’t know what happens next.
I’ve damaged our fragile trust and I don’t know if he’ll allow me back in.
And it’s killing me.
Not just today. Every day. Whether I hear from him or not. Whether it’s a good conversation or not.
We recently spent several hours together and it was GOOD. And my hope rose — but all hope now is heavily tempered with the pain of knowing that any moment the GOOD can shift to BAD. There’s a lot of walking on eggshells, stepping carefully, feeling gently ahead for soft spots or sharp edges. And there are far more sharp edges where I trip or pull back, bite my tongue or say that one thing that sets him off. Something that a couple of days ago was fine.
He’s my one and only son. My child who I share so many interests with – Doctor Who, X-Files, Twin Peaks, Harry Potter…
We have the same twisted sense of humor. He’s wicked smart. The green flashes in his eyes come from me. And the light dusting of golden freckles across his nose. We talk books, movies, music, religion (or lack thereof)…
He’s artistic, creative, imaginative.
Although between the illnesses, medications and a brain injury none of his creativity comes easy to him anymore. And I know he feels that lack. And it pains me.
I’m his mother. I’m supposed to be able to make things better. To help him.
When I look at him I don’t just see the man he is now, I see the boy he was. The boy who slept with me until he was six and I was too pregnant. And even then he’d come sleep on the floor by our bed. The boy who looked so lovingly at his baby sister and touched her so gently. The boy who would watch ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’ year round if we let him. The boy who from the moment he was mobile didn’t stop – if he could climb on it, over it, through it, under it, swing on it, walk on it, etc. he did. And has a few scars to show for it although somehow he never broke a bone or needed stitches. The boy who picked wild hot peppers then touched his face so had to put his face in a bowl of milk. Whose friends mothers loved him because he was kind and helpful. The 17 year old who was so miserably sick with the stomach flu that he brought his bedding in to my room to sleep by me, even if it was on the floor.
The boy, and now the man, who has never had a problem telling me he loved me.
And I love him so much my heart is breaking.