Butt Out? I Think Not.

For the first time since J’s first stay in rehab, and now the facility where he’s incarcerated, I didn’t visit last Saturday.

J. is pissed off at me. Indignant or self-righteously indignant would be an even more apt description. He’s indignant that I have the audacity to call the staff or his therapist when I’m concerned about something that’s going on with him, or when he’s dropped back into one of his really negative cycles. You see, J. is very good at restraining himself when he’s in a controlled environment (most of the time). He’s very good at not letting the staff or his therapist know what’s really going on with him. That I do, when he won’t, makes him mad. I suspect because it blows the facade he’s so carefully cultivated.

In any event he let loose on me on the phone the other day. Defiantly, arrogantly, he let me know that he’s an adult and he doesn’t need me trying to control his life or his treatment. He can take care of himself. Hmm…yes, he’s done a mighty fine job of that so far. I told him to take a look at where he was. His response? “Don’t even play that card!” Oh, no, I don’t need to. He played that card very well all by himself.

On the one hand, I don’t blame J. for wanting to assert his independence. He’ll be 18 in September. It’s a natural part of his development and of the evolution of our relationship. Normally, it would be time for me to be letting go of such close involvement. But, and this is a big BUT…because of the way that the last nearly two years have unfolded, relinquishing my level of involvement in his life hasn’t been appropriate, and he’s yet to demonstrate that it’s appropriate now.

Because J. will be 18 in September this is our (his father and I) last shot at getting him the help and treatment he needs. For J. to get the treatment he needs, the staff and his therapist in particular, must know what’s really going on with him. I told J. that if he began to be more open and honest with the staff about his mood swings, and how he was doing, that it would no longer be necessary for me to do it.

He vehemently stated that he’d tell them what he wanted them to know and that I need to butt out. It’s tempting, but I haven’t gone through all of this with J. to throw up my hands and give up now. It absolutely would be more appropriate for him to be bringing issues as they arise, to the staff himself, but he hasn’t been doing that.

I’ve long suspected that J. may well have bi-polar depression rather than simply depression, but we’ll never get an accurate diagnosis if he isn’t being honest. If he continues to put on a facade and hide what’s really going on with him. He’s learned over the last couple of years how to tell the therapists and staff at the various facilities what they want to hear. He’s learned well how to play the system.

So inevitably at the previous two rehabs the staff and therapists were in agreement after only a few weeks, that he was ready to go home. Despite my protestations that he was nowhere near ready, that nothing had really changed. Despite expressing my well-founded fears that he’d only return to the drugs and the path of self-destruction he’d been on before arriving. I was discounted as the “over-reactive” mother.

Sadly, time proved me right on both occasions. I know my son well, so I continue to pursue an accurate diagnosis and I continue to voice my concerns and opinions. Perhaps there’s some way to go about it that J. would find less offensive, and I’m certainly willing to explore that possibility, but butt out entirely? I think not.

PBS Special – Depression: Out of the Shadows

If your teen is addicted or seriously abusing drugs, it’s highly likely that they’re depressed and self-medicating. As serious a problem as teen drug abuse and addiction is, it’s typically a symptom of something deeper going on within your teen.

Depression is as misunderstood as addiction and carries almost as great a stigma. As parents it can be difficult to admit that our kids might be suffering from depression, but if they’re seriously abusing drugs to self-medicate depression, the depression must be identified and addressed.

Depression can be difficult to identify in teens in general because some of its symptoms are simply a more severe form of some of the behavioral changes teens tend to go through. Add drug abuse to the mix and it can be extremely difficult to differentiate what might be depression and what might be the side-effects of the drugs.

Educating ourselves about depression is one way to make identifying it in our teens easier, while also increasing our understanding of what depression really is, what the effects are, and how it can be treated. Depression: Out of the Shadows is, as the website states, “a multi-dimensional PBS project that explores the disease’s complex terrain, offering a comprehensive and timely examination of this devastating disorder.” It airs nationwide on PBS this Wednesday, May 21st.

What Next?!

Yesterday morning after finally getting a really good night’s sleep, I was feeling much more myself, not nearly so weary, and I was really looking forward to my visit with J. It was a beautiful spring morning…blue skies, sunshine and warm temps. After a relaxed start to my day, I made breakfast for myself and my fiancee and then headed out for my weekly visit.

J.’s friend C. is at the same facility and I was looking forward to seeing both the boys and C.’s mom. I was picking up the boys’ favorite sodas and she was stopping for ice cream. We’d eat and then play cards…joke, laugh, and make the most of our limited time together. At least that’s how I was envisioning it. That’s how it’s been more often than not. Unfortunately, that’s not at all how it went.

It started out well enough. With D. and I arriving at the same time, we called up to the boys’ unit to let them know we were there and then waited in the lobby for them to bring the boys down. J. was the first to arrive and he stood, with his nose nearly pressed to the window in the door, smiling from ear to ear, clowning for us, making us both laugh. The staff member opened the security doors and let us in and there was a round of hugs as we moved into the cafeteria for our visit. C. joining us a few minutes later.

Then we all sat down to enjoy our sodas, snacks, and ice cream. D. telling us all about the bumper sticker she’d seen on the car in front of her at the drive-thru when she was getting the ice cream. It read, “My child was inmate of the month at County Jail.” We all laughed. You might think we wouldn’t find it funny, considering where we were, but you’ve got two choices…you can laugh about it or cry about it. I choose to laugh about it as often as I possibly can because the tears are all too frequent as it is.

And, as it happened, the tears weren’t far behind…

We’d been visiting for about half an hour when J. mentioned he’d gotten a consequence in school the day before. (As you might’ve guessed a consequence is what the facility doles out for bad behavior.)

“What for?” I asked.

“I was up at the chalkboard during first period, and I drew a pentagram on the board,” he replied.

“Why in the hell would you draw a pentagram on the chalkboard?!”

“What? What’s the big deal?” he asked, as he feigned ignorance.

“It’s a satanic symbol, for God’s sake!” I replied.

One of the other boys in his class made a similar comment at the time and implied that J. might be a satanist. This only added fuel to the fire and apparently J. then proceeded to cover the chalkboard with pentagrams, “666″ and “Satan Rules!” until he was removed from class.

As he relayed the story, he then got into a philosophical debate with a staff member over the validity of being given a consequence for expressing a religious belief. WHAT?! If J. was looking for a reaction, he got one. I didn’t have to say a word. He could, no doubt, see my reaction on my face, and at that moment I have to admit I was speechless.

He went on to say that he wanted to “look into” satanism. To research it. He’d tried the “God thing” as he put it and “just because society has labeled Satanism as evil doesn’t mean it is.” Oh please. Are you freakin’ kidding me?! That’s just what he needs. A twisted belief system that would justify all his bad behavior and poor choices. And he actually expected I would sit there and calmly accept or rationally debate the issue with him. After about 15 minutes with J. getting increasingly agitated and angry, and me trying to choke back tears, as calmly as I could I told him I was not going to continue the conversation. At which point, he got up and stormed out of the cafeteria.

What was most difficult about this conversation wasn’t even the content of it but J.’s demeanor. I’m not sure I can even adequately describe it. At times, over this last year and a half, he becomes someone I don’t know. The look in his eyes is cold, empty…when my eyes meet his and I see that cold, empty stare looking back at me it scares the shit out of me and I find myself thinking, “Whoa, that is not my son.”

Maybe it is my son, I don’t know anymore, but it’s not who I’ve known him to be, and it’s downright scary. I saw that look in his eyes for the first time when he flew into one of his rages for the first time about a year and a half ago. Prior to that day he had never, never behaved that way toward me. J. and I were close, and arguments between us were rare. He’d occasionally get angry and yell, but this was something else entirely. This was a rage totally out of proportion to whatever had triggered it, and something I’d never seen before.

That cold, empty look in his eyes would appear again each time he ran. It wasn’t only when he was angry, but when he was in that incredibly negative mindset and on the brink of giving up. That look in his eyes yesterday, in addition to some of the extreme thoughts he shared, told me that we still had a very long way to go.

It was the realization that despite the progress J. has made, there are still some core issues and problems that are a long way from being resolved, that left me choking back tears and feeling disheartened, yet again, as I left.

J. called later that afternoon to apologize and to let me know that he wasn’t going to pursue researching satanism. He doesn’t really have access to the resources to do so right now in any event, and I knew that when he brought it up. That he brought it up at all, though, is evidence that he’s still struggling with distortions in his thinking during the worst of his mood swings.

It’s on days like that, that I try to remind myself that it’s all a part of the process, and I do my best to not to let the fear take over. I hold on tight to the hope that he’ll get through all of this and be able to find some peace, some happiness, some hope of his own for himself and his future.

So Very Tired

Exhausted, really. Run-over-by-a-mac-truck tired. That’s how I feel sometimes. Like I just cannot take one more thing. So physically, emotionally, and mentally tired that simply thinking about what’s going on with J. sometimes exhausts me. Forget about thinking about what lies ahead…that not only exhausts me, it scares the hell out of me.

This feels like such a long road. It’s actually hard for me to remember a time when I wasn’t dealing with this, a time when things were “normal,” whatever that is. Last Sunday was Mother’s Day. Mother’s Day last year, J. was in the first rehab program and I was able to spend a few hours with him, out on a pass. This year I saw him the day before Mother’s Day. We visited, as we have every Saturday since Oct. 19th over a cafeteria table for a couple of hours.

I usually manage to be upbeat. We talk, play cards, and if we’re having an especially good day, we manage to laugh over some silly joke. Last Saturday though, was hard. I don’t know why, it just was. I got choked up and it was all I could do not to let the tears that welled up, spill down my face. Despite my efforts not to let my emotion show, J. noticed and commented, and all I could say was that I miss him. I miss spending time with him somewhere other than the dismal cafeteria of the facility he’s now in. I miss the little things…dinner together, watching tv, joking, laughing, talking about something, anything, other than where he is and why.

To say that I miss him doesn’t really even begin to describe it. I miss him so much. I cannot allow myself to think about it most of the time. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to function at all, and so most of the time I don’t. But…when I do…it’s like a gaping hole in my heart. I desperately want my son back, and there really are no words for the pain I feel. It’s heartbreaking.

I know that it’s pointless to bemoan that things are what they are. I recognize the futility of wishing things were different. I do. Knowing that intellectually though, doesn’t stop me from feeling the loss of what might have been. Doesn’t stop me from wishing he were here. Doesn’t stop me from wishing I could go back and somehow prevent all this from happening. Not simply to prevent my own pain, but to prevent his.

A Year Later…

It’s been a little over a year since my first post to this blog. To say that it’s been a rough year would be putting it mildly. It’s been such a God-awful year that for much of it I simply did not have the energy to write about it.

Events in the past year with J. have been so excruciatingly painful at times that it was all I could do to function. The fear when he was on the run at moments so intense as to literally, physically, bring me to my knees.

Learning to accept the reality of what was happening and to let go of the fear, was a constant struggle. Even when, on the surface, it appeared as though I’d mastered that art, the fear was still there, just barely hidden, rising up in unguarded moments and in agonizing dreams during fitful sleep.

Six months ago J. was committed to the Dept. of Youth Corrections for up to two years. In our state, the Dept. of Youth Corrections attempts, where possible, to provide treatment to the minors in their care, rather than simply incarcerating them. J. is in one of the facilities that provides intensive treatment through individual, family and group therapy.

So for now, the long days and even longer nights of fear for his safety, for his physical well-being, that I had each time he ran, have subsided. The fear for his emotional, mental and spiritual well-being are still with me but are not as intense most of the time. Or perhaps, I’ve gotten better at shifting out of the fear when it arises than I’d realized.

I must admit, that over time, I have gotten better at taking the latest drama, (whatever it may be) in stride. While I can’t claim to be unaffected by what’s going on with J., each new drama takes less time to adjust to than it used to, so I guess it does get easier with practice. This just happens to be practice I’d as soon never have had.

I’m going to attempt to back-track and to post about the major events that have occurred over the last year. To pick up where I left off. Because while these subjects aren’t fun, and no one likes to think about them, I know that I am not alone in dealing with them. I know there are other parents out there, who, like me, are desperately holding onto the hope that their teenagers will make it. Will one day be okay, be happy, be self-sufficient, contributing adults. And we need all the help we can get.

Every Parent’s Worst Nightmare

The phone was ringing. Instinctively I was rolling out of bed in response before I was even fully awake. As I did so my eyes fell on the glowing red numbers on the bedside clock – 2:56am. “Shit, shit, shit” I chanted as I ran for the phone. 3am phone calls are never good news. As I grabbed the phone from the table where I’d left it the night before the “missed call” message flashed onto the screen. I flipped the phone open to see that the call had come from my friend D., the mother of J.’s best friend. “Shit, shit, shit….” I began chanting again as I dialed her number. No answer. My panic was rising. I hit redial. Still no answer. “Shit, shit, shit…” I mumbled under my breath trying to keep the panic at bay. I hit redial again and she finally answered.

“What’s going on?” I asked, skipping the niceties all together. “You mean you don’t know?” she asked. “Know WHAT?!” the rising panic clear in my voice now. “There’s been a bad accident,” she replied. “The boys totaled the car. They hit the steel streetlight support. J. was driving.”

“Oh, my God, oh my God, ohmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!” My panic was full blown. My heart dropped into my stomach, chills ran down my spine and my throat clenched closed as all the air was seemingly sucked out of the room in that instant. For a moment I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think. Then one word ran through my mind – breathe – as I realized I was gasping for breath, and the mother-instinct that has been fine-tuned over 20 years of raising kids kicked in and the panic receded enough for me to speak.

“Are they okay? Where are they?” My voice still sounded a bit shrill to my own ears and the dread in my voice was echoed in hers as she replied, “I don’t know. They’re being taken to St. Anthony’s.”

“I’ll meet you there,” I replied. I was already stepping into my jeans and looking frantically for my shoes. Two minutes later I was in the car, trying to maintain some semblance of calm so that I could drive. “Breathe, breathe, just breathe,” I thought. It was taking every ounce of will I had to prevent any other thoughts from running through my mind. My concentration slipped for a moment as I prayed, “Please God, please God, let them be okay. Please let them be okay.” I pulled my attention back to my breathing as I realized that silent plea was increasing my sense of panic.

Arriving at the hospital I asked the woman behind the reception desk about my son. She didn’t know how he was, only that he was in room 10. She gave me directions to room 10 and it was all I could do not to run. As I came around a corner my friend was nowhere in sight. My eyes were darting from side to side, checking the room numbers. Finally, room 10. My son, lying, still strapped to a back board, an IV in his arm, oxygen tubes in his nostrils, a neck brace around his neck, eyes closed. In the space of a second I took it all in as I rushed to his side. He opened his eyes, “I’m okay, Mom. Just a little sore.” An incredible sigh of relief washed through my entire body as tears welled up in my eyes. “I love you, J.,” I whispered.

“How’s C.?” he asked, as tears welled up in his own eyes. C. is his best friend. They’ve been friends since they were little boys in elementary school. C. is family. They’re like brothers. “I don’t know,” I replied and the fear in his eyes was no doubt mirrored in my own. “I’ll go find out. I’ll be right back.”

As I stepped back out of the room, into the hall, I looked to my left and could see D. standing beside the gurney C. was lying on. She looked up and our eyes met, the concern, the fear, evident on her face. As I moved down the hall toward her I could see that C. was also lying strapped to a back board, neck brace, IV and oxygen in place, eyes closed. “How is he?” I asked D. C. opened his eyes and again a wave of relief washed over me. At least he was conscious. “They don’t know yet. He’s in pain and they think he may have some internal bleeding. They’re going to run a cat scan.” I reached to hug D. and we clung to one another for a moment as if to a life raft. No words were necessary.

I went looking for a doctor. Someone who could tell me more about the boys’ condition, and about the condition of the girl who was in the car with them. When I found him he wasn’t able to tell me much except that they weren’t in grave danger and that they’d know more after they’d run the cat scans. For the moment, it was enough. They were alive.

I went back to room 10 to tell J. that although C. was conscious he might have internal bleeding. The tears welled up in his eyes again. J.’s concern for C. was greater than his concern for himself and I knew my son well enough to know that he felt responsible, and he was. “I nearly killed my best friend,” he said. “You’re all lucky to be alive,” I replied.

I didn’t know the half of it at the time. There were three police officers out in the hall. I hadn’t paid any attention to them yet, my focus initially on the kids. Then I stepped back out of the room to speak to them.

They explained that Justin had been driving way too fast for the road he was on. They believed he’d been driving upwards of 85 mph when he came around a slight curve in the road and lost control of the car. The officers all stated their amazement that they’d survived the accident with as little injury as it appeared they had.

J. recounted the accident for the officers a little while later. The last time he’d looked at the speedometer he’d been doing nearly 90. He came around a curve in the road and the car began to fishtail. He over-corrected and the car went sideways, bouncing up over the curb, taking out the “Right lane must turn right” sign about 30 feet from the intersection. Continuing to slide toward the intersection they hit the steel support pole for the intersection’s streetlight before spinning across all six lanes of the cross street, finally sliding to a stop about 75 feet on the other side of the intersection.

The skid mark alongside the pole was from the rear tires of the car as it slid sideways. I didn’t see the car but the officers said the impact took the trunk off the car. Had the passenger compartment of the car hit the pole, chances are they’d all have been killed. It was truly a miracle that they’d survived, and it was a miracle, even at that hour of the night, that they hadn’t hit another car as they spun across the intersection.

When asked what on earth he was thinking to have been driving so fast, J. replied, “We wanted to see how fast the car would go.” They’d been counting the speed out loud, “70, 75, 80, 85…”

The cat scans were run and several hours after our arrival at the hospital the boys were released. J.’s injuries were the least…he was relatively unscathed. C. was in pain from whiplash but there was no internal bleeding. The girl who was in the car with them suffered the worst injuries. Her whiplash was more significant with torn muscles in the front of her neck and contusions on her lungs. She wasn’t released from the hospital until late the next day.

It is only by the grace of God and what must have been an army of guardian angels, that these three teenagers survived what could well have been a fatal act of teenage stupidity and recklessness. That they didn’t kill themselves or anyone else is truly a miracle. That 3am call could have been so very different. Rather than spending those wee hours of the morning in the ER, we could have been identifying the bodies of our children in the morgue.

Round Three

After J. had been on the run for more than a month, I got a phone call from the mother of one of his friends, letting me know that J. was at her place. She offered to feed him and to try to keep him there long enough for me to send the police over to pick him up.

When J. missed a court hearing the week before, the Judge had said they’d have to issue a warrant. With a warrant out on J. they’d have to arrest him if they picked him up, rather than simply calling me to take him home. At this point, I was quite literally worried about J.’s safety since his cycle of self-destructive behavior was escalating every time he ran, and I knew from previous experience, that if I picked him up he’d only run again.

So I called the police, explained that my son was a runaway and that I had reason to believe I knew where he was and asked that they send a car to pick him up. About half an hour later I got a call from the officer who responded letting me know that he had found J. and asking how soon I could be there to pick him up. “Pick him up?!” I screeched. “What do you mean pick him up? There’s a warrant out for his arrest. I need you to arrest him, to keep him. He’ll only run again if I pick him up and I’m genuinely afraid for his safety.”

“There’s no warrant out for him. You’ll need to pick him up. I can wait here for you or you can pick him up from the Juvenile Assessment Center,” he replied.

“And if I refuse to pick him up? You’ll have to keep him then.”

“If you refuse to pick him up I’ll charge you with neglect and arrest you,” said the officer.

No fucking way. This cannot be happening. I’m desperate for help. J.’s behavior is increasingly risky and out of control, and it’s the lack of consequences by the legal system that’s exacerbating the whole problem. After weeks of not knowing where he is or if he’s okay, I finally think I’ve got an opportunity to have him picked up and held until his father and I can figure out what to do next, I’m desperate for help, and this cop is going to arrest me?! What the hell is wrong with this picture?

I tried to no avail, to explain to the cop what had been going on with J., to explain to him that a warrant was supposed to have been issued the week before, but he continued to threaten to arrest me, asking if I was home so that he could come do just that. I wasn’t home and I told him as much. I also told him I was NOT picking him up.

I ignored the calls from the Juvenile Assessment Center that began about half an hour later. I attempted to reach my ex, J.’s father, but he was out or simply not answering my calls. I left him a message and waited. About an hour later J’s father called me wanting to know what was going on. He’d just had two officers on his doorstep, and when he’d opened the door he’d fully expected them to be looking for J. To his surprise it was me they were looking for.

I was floored that this cop had actually taken it as far as to go searching for me. Unbelievable! When I’d last spoken to J’s probation officer she’d suggested that I do just as I’d done, if I happened to find J. She’d explained that while technically they could charge me with neglect and arrest me for not picking him up, that they usually didn’t act on it. Unfortunately for me, this cop was determined, but my ex had no idea where I was and told them as much.

After explaining to J’s father what was going on, he agreed that we shouldn’t pick J. up. So I continued to ignore the calls coming in from the Juvenile Assessment Center. Another hour went by before I got the second call from J’s father saying that the Center had called him and he’d decided to go pick him up. I was distraught. I tried to talk him out of it. I reminded him of what we both already knew…that he would only run again.

J’s father insisted on picking him up and trying to talk to him, to reason with him. I asked him to keep me posted. Another couple of hours passed before he called again. He’d picked J. up, talked to him for maybe ten minutes before giving J. an ultimatum to which J. replied, “Drop me here, then.” And so he did. As J’s father spoke I began to sob…I just couldn’t bear it…the pain, the fear, the constant sense of unease, of waiting for the phone to ring, of being afraid to answer, lying in bed at night, unable to sleep, wondering where my son was, if he was okay, if he’d ever come home again, if life would ever be “normal” again.

I hung up the phone only to dial the police, yet again, to report J. as a runaway.

On the Run…

It was midnight on the 18th, a month to the day from J.’s discharge from rehab. J. and I had had a minor conflict earlier in the day and I’d had a funny feeling that things weren’t right with him. He’d been in one of his periods of negativity where he could see nothing positive. I was feeling uneasy so I’d stayed up later than usual.

It was just as I was beginning to relax, thinking it was time to get some sleep, when J. walked into the living room fully clothed to announce, “I’m leaving now.”

“You’re doing what?!” I said, a look of disbelief no doubt on my face. “I’m leaving now,” he repeated calm as could be. I attempted to reason with him. He’d been doing so well since coming home from rehab. He had found a job that he was to start next week. He’d been planning to get his driver’s permit, and he’d been accepted into the school program he’d been wanting to get into. He was taking guitar lessons and loving them, and his dad had just booked tickets for a trip to Mexico for early July. Things had really been looking up. J. had been making positive choices and positive changes and was doing well in IOP. Or so I thought.

As he stood by the door, poised to leave, I reminded him of all of that, but I could see that I wasn’t getting through to him. He had such an empty, vacant look in his eyes, that it scared me. I can’t even quite describe it. Then he said, “I’m sorry. I love you,” and he was gone.

I sat there thinking, “What the hell just happened?” I felt numb. I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, that he’d just thrown away all that he’d achieved in recent weeks. That all that we’d all been through was for naught. I remember thinking, “This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.” But it was. It is.

At 2:30am this morning I got a call from the police. They’d picked up J. and some friends. They were out way past curfew and carrying a duffle bag. It looked suspicious. One of his friends had bags of pot on him and J. had a pipe. They were charged accordingly but because J.’s offense is a misdemeanor they wouldn’t keep him. I had to drive down to the police station to pick him up. I told the officer that I’d be lucky to get J. into the house before he took off again.

The officer seemed to think that perhaps I was mistaken because J. had told the officer that he was on his way home when he was picked up. What the officer didn’t know, what J. later told me, was that yes, he’d been on his way home but only to pick up his playstation.

J. came into the house with me, grabbed a hoodie from his bedroom closet, gave me a hug, as the tears ran down my face, told me he loved me and walked back out the door.

I was on the phone reporting him as a runaway, yet again, probably before the officer who had picked him up an hour and a half earlier, could even finish filing his report.

I sit here as the sun comes up on another beautiful summer day thinking about my little boy. He was always such a happy little boy. Always smiling, laughing, singing. Well, maybe not always. He knew how to pitch a fit when he was little too, but most of the time he was happy. One of the happiest little guys I’d ever seen. Full of energy, always living fully in the moment, taking pure delight in the simplest of things. He was such a love too. He was my cuddler. J. didn’t sit next to me on the couch when he was small, he was in my lap or pressed right up against me. He loved to be held, hugged, cuddled. What happened? It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

J. was my wild child too. Always into things, always keeping me on my toes, so I suspected he might be a handful when he hit his teen years, but never did I anticipate the extent of it. Never did I anticipate that I’d be sitting here in the wee hours of the morning, wondering what is going through his mind, wondering if he’ll get through this, wondering if he’ll be okay, wondering when the next middle of the night phone call will come and what words will be spoken when it does, feeling both numb and heartbroken.

Update: The next middle of the night phone call came less than four months later….in the early morning hours of Oct. 19th…

Home

After nearly 9 weeks in rehab, J. came home on the 18th. The insurance company finally put their foot down and no amount of pleading for additional time was going to make a difference. While I think he could have benefited from being able to really work the program in the way it was intended (over the course of a few months rather than a few weeks) the staff at the rehab were amazing and his counselor/case manager went above and beyond to insure that he (and we – his dad and I) got as much out of the program as possible during J.’s abbreviated stay.

J. himself says it was a life-changing experience he’ll never forget. It wasn’t always pleasant and it sure wasn’t easy for any of us, but we’re all hopeful that it was effective in eliciting long-term and continued change.

The process is by no means over. J. will be doing IOP (intensive out-patient consisting of nine hours a week of individual, family and group therapy, as well as twice weekly UAs) for another 2-3 months, and then once a week family and individual sessions for another few months after that.

While I’m not naive enough to think that there’s any guarantee that it’ll all go smoothly from here on out, I’m hopeful that overall he’s on a much more positive path now. In the week and a half since he’s been home things have gone much better than I imagined they might.

Overlooked Clues

The post I wrote yesterday, Is Your Teen Using Drugs? 15 Red Flags Every Parent Should Watch For, I wrote because there were clues to my son’s drug use which I overlooked because it never dawned on me that they might be significant.

I knew as much as two years ago that J. had tried pot, and I suspected that he was using occasionally. We talked about it, he admitted it. Back then he wasn’t very good at lying to me. He wouldn’t just announce it to me, but if I asked the right questions, very pointed questions, he’d admit it. Initially, we’d talk about it and he’d agree not to smoke pot anymore. Things went well for awhile, or so I thought, until once again, I suspected he was using, but I didn’t know for sure and I was reluctant to make accusations I couldn’t back up.

Then one day the phone rings and it’s the vice-principal of J.’s high school calling to let me know that J. is in her office and has just been cited by the police officer assigned to the school, for possession of drug paraphernalia. What?! The vice-principal went on to explain that during study hall he’d decided to show off a glue stick he’d turned into a homemade pipe. Yup, a glue stick. I kid you not. And it wasn’t just for show. It was useable and had been used, as was evidenced by the marijuana residue inside it.

Had I seen the glue stick in his backpack I’d have thought nothing of it. It’s a perfectly reasonable thing for a student to carry to school and there was no external evidence of the internal modifications that had been made. I’d have had to remove it and take the cap off to have discovered that it was being used for something far different than its intended purpose, and of course, prior to J. being caught and cited for it, it would never in a million years have dawned on me to look at it that closely. I mean, come on! It was a glue stick.

It was only after sharing news of this with J.’s older brother and he started listing the wide variety of other things teens commonly use to make pipes, that I learned that the disassembled pens, and the balls of aluminum foil I’d noticed a few times in the trash (and thought to myself, “Hmmm….that’s odd,” but then didn’t think any more of) were likely being used to make homemade pipes.

So yesterday’s post was my way of saying, “Heads-up! If you’re spotting some of these clues…don’t overlook them. Look twice. Ask questions. Take action.” Forewarned is forearmed.