Driving under the Influence of Stress and Anxiety

Tuesday

There’s so many things wrong (clue: *) about my Tuesday diary entry :

“8.15am, freezing cold morning, minus 1. Left* T2 and T3 at home, both ill with colds*. Was out looking for Teen1 : we were supposed to go to a meeting with the Principal* to discuss his future (or lack thereof) at the school*. Went to Focker’s place* (see post of 12 August) ; when he saw me, he ran out the back. Drove around looking for him, roads icy*. Feeling panicked, frustrated, exhausted, high anxiety*, searching everywhere I could think of. Decided to call police***, talked to a Youth Aid person to ask for advice and help. Shattered. Worried.”

I look back at the day as I write this post and in all of it, I can only wonder at how I am still alive, how there’s no damage to people or property (see 30 July post), and how lucky I am I wasn’t pulled up for illegal driving/mobile phone use.

Tuesday was a really bad day. Following a series of T1s random absences from school, rudeness in class, being caught smoking behind the gym at school, swearing at the principal and then a teacher, a family meeting was requested but Teen1 had decided not to go, exiting the house leaving a trail of expletives and ‘make me’ comments behind him.

As I parked up in a side street, I knew it was time to meet the Police Officers from Youth Aid whom I’d been speaking to by phone of late. I was tired and cold and felt I had run out of options. It was either I went to them, or I had a feeling they’d be coming to me soon enough. The day I finally decided to cross into Police territory, to say my son was at risk, was so hard.

The Officer told me to stop driving around (!!), to leave it to them to look for him; I gave him the Focker’s address, and I went home and waited.

Two officers arrived with T1 an hour later. Sure enough, he was back at the Focker’s place, the adult in charge there uncomprehending as to what the problem was. My son looked hounded, was wet and cold, and I had to keep my arms crossed so as not to reach out and embrace him.

One of the Officers gave him a ‘good talking to’: they pointed out the disrespect he was showing to his home and to me, the danger he was putting himself in, the dead end he was headed towards by hanging out where he was and with whom…

It was ugly. He looked hunted and haunted. (I felt a bit like that myself). What the police officers said to him was no different to what I’d been saying to him, so to hear it from someone else gave me some reassurance that I wasn’t over-reacting or catastrophising the potential risky path T1 was on.

He told them to “fuck off”. That stunned me. The sheer gall, arrogance, desperation, strong will, disrespect – or whatever it was that could have a child say that to a police officer. If anything, his brain was not in working order - that much was certain. I felt like an observer looking through a window darkly. The officer commanded him to get into his uniform, and to get into the police car to be taken to school. Interestingly, he did what they said and they got him there, and into class. Our meeting with the school was postponed.

Sadly, T2 and T3 were both home ill on Tuesday and, from a couple of rooms away, would have heard it all. It breaks my heart that the collateral damage within a family in situations like this my well be irreversible (a boon to future therapists and psychologists probably). I spent the rest of the day close by the two youngsters, quiet, calm, a candle burning, the odd game of cards played, a story read, Tropical Escape muffins made for afternoon tea. How best to heal such wounds?

Wishing all parents calm and peace within, and without.

War. Truce. Peace. Definitions

war (wôr) n.*

1.

a. A state of open, armed, often prolonged conflict carried on between nations, states, or parties such as parents and teenagers.

b. The period of such conflict. Can be six days (Israel Arab war of 1967) or six years (parent – child conflict occurring when teen is between the ages of 13 – 18 years), or can extend indefinitely.

See: history books, CNN, newspapers for numerous examples of long running global conflicts (e.g. Middle East between everyone, United States with almost everyone, Korea with its other half, Tibet with China, and China with everyone else over Tibet).

See: library shelves, internet blogs for advice on generational repetitive teen/parental conflicts (e.g. 90% of households in the western world).

c. The techniques and procedures of war. Military science. Can be developed by besieged parents and teenagers against each other:

Parent: removes privileges = Teen: removes part of the bedroom wall. With his fists.

Parent: cuts off pocket money = Teen: steals money and alcohol.

Parent: imposes curfew = Teen goes AWOL

2.

a. A condition of active antagonism or contention: a price war; a war of words, such as those most commonly used in a teenage/parental conflict.

Explicit antagonism:

Teen :

“Fuck off out of my room”;

“What do you know, you are SO old”;

Parent:

“How was school today?”

Implicit contention - statement with contention bracketed:

- Teen:

There’s a party on tonight (and I am going).

- Parent:

Let’s talk about that. Where is it, will there be supervision and let’s agree I pick you up at 11.30pm. (Only on my terms)

- Teen:

I hate you. You’re the ONLY parent who ever wants to know all that shit. I’m going anyway. I don’t care what you say. I might come home at 2 or maybe 3 if I feel like it. And by the way, I hate you saying you care about me: Stop fucking caring so much. (I’m going , I can see that she cares, but I’ll deny it).

- Parent:

If you walk out this door, there will be consequences (economic sanctions will be imposed),

You know you are making the wrong choices (these hostilities must no longer continue)

You know what the rules of the house are (I fully intend to deploy the troops)

I’ll never stop caring (civilians caught up in collateral damage is regrettable)

I’ll never do your washing again (trading relations will cease)

I hate your behaviour, and sometimes you too (the War on terror has begun).

Note:

Neither side hears the other though all the verbiage, resulting in war (wôr ) rather than peace (ps)

b. A concerted effort or campaign to combat or put an end to something considered injurious:

i) the war against global warming, poverty, trade in black diamonds etc;

ii) the war against verbal abuse, breaking house rules, using drugs, leaving food to mould under bed, American gangsta rap played at 90 decibels repeatedly, etc.

Tactics used can include:

withdrawing privileges; initiating interventions; arranging counselling; accidentally breaking the stereo; the cat scratching the cds; banishment to another planet.

truce (trs) n.*

1. A temporary cessation or suspension of hostilities by agreement of the parents and teenager, usually becoming permanent after teenager reaches 25 (or 45).

2. A respite from a disagreeable state of affairs: either through parents going on a camper van circumnavigation of Australia, or teenager leaving home. Preferably reached through written or verbal agreement (see “Peace”).

peace (ps) n.*

1. The absence of war or other hostilities: a harmonious country; peaceful home. Desirable. Preferably attained prior to, rather than following atrocities against humanity, or children leaving home.

2. An agreement or a treaty to end hostilities: written or verbal agreement on matters such as respecting parents, people and things, safety of self and others, and duty of care to self and others.

3. Freedom from quarrels and disagreement; harmonious relations: family members living in peace (ps n.*) rather than being at war (wôr n.*)

with each other.

*(Source: Farlax’s online Free Dictionary, heavily re-engineered)

Wishing all parents sleep with hearts at peace, not hearts at war.

Family Interventions - beware hidden hypocrisies

Sunday
I decided to employ some shock tactics and call in the family druggie.  In the process, we were shown a graphic disincentive for drug use. 

He – Sam - is a recovering narcotics addict, who has full custody of his teenage children, has a new partner, and a baby daughter, and he offered to come over and talk to my boy.  

Sam’s story is heartbreaking and redemptive; he’s been sexually abused; raped; estranged from and then reconciled with his family; taken a rap with the law; battled with drugs and seen many of his teen and early adult friends jailed or dead from drug abuse; got himself clean; saw his ex-partner ruin her life from drug use; has a new caring partner; and is thriving as a beautiful man seeking joy and empowerment and healing in life with his daily practice of acceptance and self belief.  

We arranged Sunday lunch and an intervention ambush/family meeting, following yet another of Teen1’s all nighters.

Sam’s gentleness and compassion for Teen1 was moving; his powerful questions about T1’s needs and wants should be written up as a template for all youth counsellors; his hard core explanations of what drugs temporarily provided him and what the drugs took away from him were raw and real; his detailing of the boundaries he puts in place for his children sounded fair and reasonable; his prompting of T1 to think about the effect he’s having on his younger brothers….made my tears well up. 

Sam’s son, the same age as T1, took over when his father had finished talking.  He told T1 that he goes to parties, he has a curfew of midnight, he texts his dad where he’s going, he doesn’t go out every weekend or stay out all night, but he still has fun and lots of mates…

On the surface of it, it was the family intervention every despairing mother would hope for – someone else who loves her child stepping in with their love and compassion to provide support and as well as give the hard core experiential lessons.

To his credit, T1 sat through it all.  

He made only one comment to me after the intervention – “Don’t you think it’s fucking hypocritical to make me listen to all that crap when I’ve seen his kid getting trashed at parties, and he’s told me his dad smokes dope?”

Bugger.

I feel crushed, naïve and even more guilty.  I thought I was getting a powerful message delivered by someone close that might turn my boy away from his avowed intention to do drugs, and temper his arrogance regarding consequences.  Sunday was supposed to be a well intentioned and well executed family intervention full of love and strong messages from someone who lives every day with the consequences of his bad choices.  Instead it was blown to bits by the allegation of adult use of illegal drugs: don’t do as I do, do as I say….  

Whether its true or not, and I suspect in hindsight it is true, T1’s comment provides a lesson.  Parents, in a hyper state of concern to be good role models, still have to consider their own behaviour where it is excessive: whether that is the chardonnay charged Friday nights with friends at the kitchen bench, too many beers at the rugby, the occasional joint, talking on the mobile in the car, swearing, leaving our dirty laundry on the floor … our hyper alert teens see all our little and large hypocrisies.  And they process and exaggerate them with finesse and at will to support their own behaviours or arguments.

So what was the graphic disincentive for drug using? Sam showed us where all his teeth have rotted or fallen out as a result of being a long-term methadone user.  T1 was suitably grossed out.  

Will it be just that one image that will deter him?  The one image that will sneak into his mind, into the still developing part of his brain that processes risk and consequences, and that will have him go on to be sensible around drug use?  Was it worth it or not to embark on this particular intervention?  I really don’t know and I still feel crap about where it went wrong.  At least I tried.

Wishing all parents a worry-free sleep.

A dirty little secret

I’m relieved sometimes when Teen1 doesn’t come home.  It is just so much easier. 

It didn’t start off this way.  I’ve spent three months with mounting anxiety and little sleep.  I’ve been in shock at how fast all this has happened.  Sometimes when the front door is slammed in my face as T1 walks out the door, I stand for minutes at a time blinking moronically at it, as the shock waves work their way through my brain and nervous system.  

I live in dread of him coming back in asking for something – usually for money – knowing it will develop into an argument when I’ll be accused of parental neglect bordering on the criminal, followed by shouted insults and a slammed door.  He isn’t the only one raising his voice, as much as I try to keep breathing, slowing down, and waiting before opening my mouth – arrrrgh.  The one thing I try to hold inside myself is not to let this boy make me feel guilty – for not giving him money, or for the starving millions of children and the drought in Africa that he somehow in the course of his demands ends up accusing me of perpetrating.  Sometimes I’ll be left feeling doubly bereft at the state of the world AND at my own situation.

One recent evening, when I had no idea where T1 was, or when he’d be back, I realized that the house was quiet.  I’d eaten dinner with T2 and T3, and had optimistically rented a couple of dvds.  Seizing the moment -  and a box of chocolates -  the three of us snuggled down on the couch and watched The Time Traveller’s Wife together (definitely not the usual type of movie my 10 and 12 year old would choose to watch) – but they enjoyed it.  Or maybe they enjoyed the experience of cuddling on the couch together more than the movie.  Or maybe it was simply because we were together and a feeling of peace had descended on us.  Or maybe because this was another opportunity for them to have me on about crying at the sad, soppy parts of the movie.

On another evening, with T1 not having turned up after school or for dinner, T2 and T3 snuggled on my bed and we somehow ended up making up fantastical (and fabulously capitalistic) stories about what the house of our dreams would look like.  Theirs had indoor pools with 2, 5 and 10m diving boards, slides instead of staircases as well as a slide from the bedroom window to the outdoor pool, PS3s and TVs in every room, a massive rumpus room with a bouncing castle built in to it, an Italian chef who could cook meals from  (no less than) 5 countries, a fizzy drink dispenser, and a butler.  Mine had a kitchen with a gelato maker with all the flavours imaginable.  It was mum-children make-believe time like we used to have at bed times, and it was ridiculous and silly and fun.  

So there’s the dirty secret.  There are times, few admittedly, when not having T1 around can be a relief.  For a while I can forget that he has gone out into the night.  For a while I can just be a mum with my other boys.  I can be in my own home without coming under attack for not having any food in the house (as he stuffs a cheese, avocado, salad sandwich into his mouth, grabs the apples, drinks some juice, and throws muesli bars into his back pack), or for not having his sweatshirt washed (it is buried in the ‘floordrobe’ under everything else), or for not giving him money, or for… well, breathing some of the time.  It is nice without him around.  It is nice to detach my Self from him.

I tell myself that he will be ok, that he’s making some stupid choices, he and I will get through this stage and I am going to be kind to myself.  But then, I find myself still awake, not knowing where my son is, and the fingers of dread spread inside my heart.

Wishing you deep and peaceful sleeps.

It Takes A Village

Having moved to this town recently, I had virtually no contacts in my immediate community.  With Teen1 out in the night, there was noone to call, noone to give me information about what events were on, noone to reassure me that they have their eye on the boys and will be responsible for getting them from A to B.  

Out of necessity, I have become focused on building a new village.  Success in this is limited by lack of information willingly imparted by T1, so I have become adept at finding out names and numbers of kids (I resorted to swiping his mobile while he was sleeping – others might condemn this action as crossing those ‘private’ boundaries kids are supposed to have, but necessity breeds action! And I know parents who sneak a look onto their kid’s Facebook page – ‘just checking’ they say.  Unfortunately, by doing this you can also learn some stuff you really don’t want to know about).  

When my children were little and their friends came over to play, we parents made arrangements between ourselves.  By the early teens, it is still vitally important to connect with the other parents.  Unfortunately, my son started hanging out with the boys of those parents who don’t talk to other parents (aka: the Fockers – see my recent post).  Until I initiated bringing some of them into my village. 


Here is where we started to run into trouble.  As T1 took off into the night, he was adamant that he would not tell me where he was: “Why d’ya have to call my mate’s parents?  They think you are a psycho.  You are the ONLY parent (yeah yeah, I think) who wants to know.... Just fuck off and leave them alone….”.  

His key communication tools became “Isolation” and “Obfuscation”.  Isolate the parents, and, never give out the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth (and what teenager would ever tell their parents everything! I didn't).  I, however, very primly ignoring my own teenage history, discussed with him the need to maintain trust, and by him telling me where he was going and what time he’d be home, there would be no need for me to interfere (blah blah blah).  That went down like a cup of cold sick.

Hilary Rodham Clinton has been famously quoted as saying: “It takes a village to raise a child”.   It is a saying derived from ancient African proverbs.  Clinton used the phrase in the title of a book she published on the influences outside a family on raising a child.  Her Republican adversary, Bob Dole, sniffingly retorted that it doesn’t take a community, it takes a family.  


In indigenous communities around the world and throughout history, members of the extended family or of the wider community were collectively responsible for the upbringing of children (and for many other survival tasks as well).  Now, we are in a world where due to migration, economics, transportation and so forth, the nuclear family has shrunk to be so small that access to the collectivity of the ‘village’ is severely limited. 


So who does it take to raise a child in this new world?  In my view it still does take a village – or a community, a society, a wider group of people than just the family – to raise a child.  I came to my current ‘village’ only recently, and so lost the ten years of interwoven family and friends connections that comes with attending kindergartens, schools, sports and community groups.  The transition between countries, rebuilding a life in my new ‘village’, and making new connections with parents in the community took a lot of energy – for sure, it was energy well spent, and, being a ‘connector’ at heart, it has been hugely rewarding to make new acquaintances.  I am grateful for those who have joined my village – family, friends, school teachers, community workers, counsellors, police youth aid officers -  and I only hope that I have been able to contribute to them building their own strong villages.

Yet, ultimately, the village hierarchy starts with me, the Leader in the village.  It starts with me having the skills and strength to face the trauma of the confused young teenager changing into a young man.  In the middle of the night, when the young teenager is out somewhere with no guarantee he’ll be home, I am alone and I have to rely on my self-awareness and resolve and sense of abiding faith in my son who is severely challenging my coping resources ….  and keep the village home fires burning within my heart.

Wishing you a warm fire, a close-knit village, and a deep and peaceful sleep.

Meeting the Fockers

 (Remember the movie “Meet the Fockers”? about the couple with the name that is immensely satisfying to say out loud....).  

In my moments of anger and pissed off-edness in the middle of the night, I find myself cursing the Fockers : whoever the Fockers are; the Fockers who know where my son is in the middle of the night; the Fockers who don’t think to contact me.

The Fockers! Don’t they once stop to think that there’s a mother out there somewhere who is concerned about where her son is? 

At 2am, this is shadow boxing : anger directed towards unknown persons.  But I am in the middle of the dark night of the soul and my self-management skills are blanketed by anxiety and fear, anger and hopelessness.

There’s a dance in town, during the week.  I cannot believe how many dances are put on by schools and sports clubs each week, to raise money from teenagers for teenagers' activities!  Despite there being a heap of school work and assignments on, Teen1 decides he’s going out and he will not commit to a time he’ll be home. 

Cue: door slam. 

Cue: moronic look on my face yet again. 

Cue: long wait into the night.

Some Focker out there has my son in their house.  I rage and rage into the night.

Finally at 8am the morning after the dance, a call from the Focker Residence: “Can you come and get me”.  Oh Yeah. 

I knock on the Focker’s door.  And a Mum opens the door.  I look at her, and my rage disappears into the stormy, sleety day, and I feel an immense burden of sadness.

We are so different - but so much the same.  Her life is utterly different from mine - but we are both mums of teenage boys.  Her strengths and abilities and values may be vastly different to mine.  But we are both raising our boys alone.

I talk about my expectations.  I talk frankly about our boys doing drugs.  I talk about the importance to me of having good communication between parents.  I make it clear what my limits are.  We swap phone numbers.  I tell her I do not want my son at her house during week nights.  She asks, tentatively, if my son could come over to help hers with his homework.  Her son, she foresees, won’t go far in the school academic system, whereas she knows mine is bright and capable, and she wishes that my son might try to help hers.  Would I mind?

The burden of that request weighs heavily on me.  My son is on a path to getting himself expelled at present: how do I take this other boy into our circle?  I commit to nothing, but appreciate her desire to support her son some way.

I get my tired, ill, hungover, sleep deprived son to school in the nick of time, and I am so shattered, I call in sick to work. 

Another day, another Focker family dealt with, another whole community of Fockers out there I've yet to meet.  But I’m too tired to meet them, or to take any of them on.

Wishing all parents - including the Fockers -  a good night’s sleep.

My 2am Parents Club Muffins

Here’s a recipe for muffins, the preparation and eating of which will transport you to tropical climes, far, far away from the long dark cold NZ winter nights as you wait for your teenager to arrive home from goodness only knows where. 

Tropical Escape Muffins

2 cups flour

4tsp baking powder

1tsp cinnamon

½ tsp salt

½ cup caster sugar

½ cup desiccated coconut

Sieve these 6 ingredients into a large mixing bowl.

In another container, warm 100 grams butter until melted, then add 1 ¼ cup milk and 1 lightly beaten egg.

Chop ½ a fresh mango into fairly large chunks  (or use canned mangoes but these are not nearly as delicious) for about 1 ½ - 2 cups of chopped fruit.  Fold the fruit and the milk mixture into the dry mixture but be careful not to over mix.

Divide the mixture evenly between 12 muffin cases.  Bake at 220 ⁰ C for 12-15 minutes.

Eat hot at 2.30am as a fabulous escape from the parenting night from hell.

I invented this muffin flavour (with grateful acknowledgement to Alison Holst’s “Marvellous Muffins” book for the base recipe) when I was living in the tropics where mangoes were in plentiful and cheap supply.

Recently, I found myself at 2am pacing the house utterly distraught because I had no idea where my 14 year old son was.  So, short of being able to pack my bags and run as far away from being a parent as possible, I took to baking the “Tropical Escape Muffins”.  After which, I cleaned the house from top to bottom.

There was something about having an insane need to keep myself busy, to stave off the demons of imagination.  While I knew that my teenager was entering into a new world, and I had to let him go – the way it was being done contravened all my expectations for keeping me in the know about where he was going to be and what time he’d be home.

So  here’s the thing: at 2am, 3am, 4am I put myself through hell waiting for news, for a sign of my son’s presence, for a text to tell me he’s ok.  For a few nights in the last month, doing something with my time  - baking! -  seemed to help give me an escape from that hell.  Plus if I did get any shut eye at all, I woke to a clean house.  And muffins for breakfast. 

Teen1 did come home one morning after an all nighter, and complemented me on the muffins.  Between mouthfuls, he managed to say, “these are really good, when did you make them?”, before asking for another one. 

I clenched my fists to stop myself from throwing a muffin at him and said: “Umm, last night”.

May all mothers only ever bake these muffins in the daytime. 

Wishing all parents a deep and peaceful sleep.

Calling in the reinforcements

Another Saturday night disappearance.  Following the previous Friday night late night request to be picked up, I initiated a discussion around agreeing a time to be home.  But anything resembling boundaries or curfew or limitations on movement is being met with a ‘get fucked and leave me alone’ response.  What was a milestone, however, was his suggestion he text me every hour to let me know where he was.  I thought the offer was generous, but probably unrealistic, so suggested instead he text where he is going and again when he is on his way home – at the negotiated hour.  He agreed it was a good idea.  

Result: he's out the door mid morning and isn't heard from again all night!

By midnight with no knowledge of where he is, “detachment” and “extreme self care” and “having faith my son knows what he is doing” all washes away as the night gets longer, the silence of the night deepens and the concern in a mother’s heart grows.  

I kick into action.  I text some of his friends to ask where he is!  I send him texts telling him that if I don’t hear from him, that I will have to call the police.  Then I waver, because I have no idea if I should call the police or not.  A late call to a friend who has recently had the police out looking for her 16 year old daughter, reassured me that calling the police is a completely acceptable thing to do.

So I took a deep breath and dialled the police station.  Somewhere inside me, I had a feeling I was going to get acquainted with the police at some stage fairly soon.  The key question the police watch officer asked me, was if I thought my son was at risk.  At risk??  He is 14 years old, it is 1am, I’ve not seen or heard from him since 9am, I have no idea where he is, and it is cold and raining….. Of course I think he is at risk.  Such is the job of the police, however, a 14 year old boy who is not officially ‘missing’ is not a high priority.  This could be because they receive a lot of calls from distressed parents and most of the time the kids are not 'missing' and do return home.  The police officer advised me that they keep a general eye out for kids on the street, and I knew that there was probably little they could do of any use to either T1 or me.  I was advised to call Youth Aid during the week.

So I sit and I burn my computer playing solitaire.  I burn my fingers baking muffins.  I burn my muscles cleaning the house.  I do the washing.  I am exhausted and strung out.  
  
At 2.45am there is the dreaded/hopeful knock on the door.  Teen1: “yo.  Ah, yeah, my phone’s not working, so yeah, didn’t call you.  I’m really fucked, so I’m going to bed”.

Sometimes I think it has to be ok to want to strangle your teenage son.

Wishing all parents of teenagers, a deep and peaceful sleep.

Friday night on the town

Then

Despite desperately practicing “Detachment”, I still resorted to texting Teen1 during the evening.  Texts like: “I can come and get you and I won’t say anything, just let me know where you are”.  By the early hours of the morning, the texts were reading: “I will have to start calling people if you don’t let me know where you are and when you will be home”.  And then: “ At least text me so I know you are ok”.  Finally a response from him:  “Can you come and get me?”.

I was in the car and out the door.  Driving through the town centre was like being in the middle of a small town bad movie.  At one end of town, there were a couple of drunk teenagers fighting each other with their mates looking on.  One was obviously bigger than the other and the weaker one looked like he was in for a beating.  Further along the street, young girls were staggering in and out of a convenience store; a large group of young men were yahoo-ing along the street swinging their bottles around; a group of six or eight boys were climbing over the scaffolding on the front of a building and running along the shop awnings.  While I would in the past have ignored all that, it seemed in much sharper focus as I wondered what it was that my son had been up to.   I tried to remember if I thought that hanging out in town was a ‘good time’ when I was that age, but then remembered that I’d have been home in bed by 9pm getting a good sleep before playing sports the next day. 

I picked up my son outside the McDonald’s store.  He slumped into the car, pale, cold, eyes dead, no colour in his face.  I was feeling depleted, empty and terribly sad for him, my heart flickering with compassion for this boy who wanted a night out and to prove that he was all independent and grown up, but who looked bloody awful. 

True to my word, I didn’t say anything to him on the way home.  At the door, I couldn’t help myself: “I think you’ve been acting as if you’ve been drinking or doing drugs.  If you have, I think it is a really dangerous thing to be doing and we need to address this….”.  He cut me off:   “I fucking haven’t so go away and leave me alone”.  Mental note to self: don't bring this subject up at 2am in the morning when he's stoned, and think it is going to achieve anything....

I snuck into his room a half hour later when he was asleep and listened to his breathing.  I don’t think I am going anywhere for a long time.

Wishing all parents a deep and peaceful sleep.

We must let go or it will kill us

Then

Within two weeks, things had gone from bad to worse.  I was trying to amass as much information as I could on guiding and coping with teenagers (see my earlier post on moving from blame to action).  It was like searching through the road code while watching the car go off a cliff:  useless to search a manual when there’s little that can be done to stop the car from crashing.

I asked myself repeatedly whether I was overreacting. My friends, particularly a couple of close male friends and family members, had by now witnessed the change in my 14 year old and were very concerned.  We shared stories about what we'd been up to as teenagers – binge drinking, cannabis and other drug experimentation – which continued, for a few of my friends, into their 40s! 

But it was about more than teen experimentation for me.  T1 was 14 with his brain in the intensive development phase.  He had given the figurative fingers to  the rather generous boundaries I was beginning to offer him, and showed no self-responsibility for his actions or any care for the consequences.  He had decided that he had no obligation to tell me where he was going, who he was with, where he would be, or what time he would be home.   He was in the top academic stream at school, his grades dropped right off, he was wagging school and hanging out with kids who were already in deep trouble.  When he did come in, he was so obviously 'blazed' while hotly denying it.  He was demanding trust  but the terms "accountability" and "responsibility" where white noise to him.  

One night, waiting for him to come home, I opened up a package that had been sent me from a drug and alcohol counselling agency.  In it was a DVD, entitled “Bewildered”, put out by ALAC .  Check it out – it is free and it tells of several families’ experiences with alcohol and drug abuse (in NZ call 0800 787 797 for a copy).  I found it tough viewing – it was like looking into a room that I didn’t want to enter, but was being pushed from behind and I knew it was inevitable that I had to cross the threshold.

At the end of the “Bewildered” DVD I was exhausted and not a little sad.  In my diary after watching it I wrote: 

“I don’t want to be that person, that parent telling those heart-wrenching stories about their addict child.  I don’t WANT this for my son.  If he becomes a regular user, an addict, or if he gets into crime, it is the end of the broad and wide-open road of opportunities for him.  There is so, SO much he could do and be… this HURTS more than I could ever have imagined to see him choosing this path so young and so vulnerable.  I will do anything to help him to turn this around. Please come home.”

I see that diary entry now and I read: Denial.  Supposition.  Irrationality.  Bargaining.  Pleading.

All of these are normal but ultimately energy sapping approaches.  It is a heroic protestation for mothers to say “I would throw myself in front of a truck for you”.  What this suicide mission means in reality is that we will fight for our children - but it is likely to be in ways that are hard to envisage.  Not least, the teenagers don't want us to go anywhere near their 'truck' least of all try to take the wheel or, worse, throw ourselves in front of it.  

In my case, 'throwing myself at the truck' involved building networks, informing myself, connecting with some parents, ensuring the school was working with me, interviewing counsellors, texting my son’s friends, demanding other parents not provide a venue for my child to smoke dope.  

A key message in the “Bewildered” DVD was for parents to practice DETACHMENT.  (An oxymoron I thought: to practice ‘parenting with detachment’.) 

But this advice holds some gentle wisdom.  The DVD concludes with these words:

“In the end we realise that the only solution is to look after ourselves, have zero tolerance for their destructive behaviours and love them with caring detachment.  We genuinely hope that … you are able to begin the move from pain and bewilderment to a lighter place of acceptance and self-care.  We must let go or it kills us! “

Letting go and practicing loving detachment is part of a process, and I am still working through it.  The faster this state of being is reached the better.  At least then I might get a decent sleep.

Wishing you YOUR deep and peaceful sleep.