Well, it’s been a minute since I’ve written and all I can do is give way to a pause. I heard from my son last night. He made sure to get on the phone via a three-way call because his calling account is compromised. The young man he called to connect us? As lovely a young man as you’d ever want to meet. I find my son is fortunate to have such a good and loyal friend who also seems to be a sweet and decent son.
He called to tell me he got the news. This is never a good introduction to a conversation with my boy. Seems the verdict came down and he will be spending a three-year sentence in a state penitentiary. I’m hoping county time counts in the grand tally of time served.
And so here I sit. I’m hungry but I can’t eat. I’m tired but I can’t rest. I’m restless but there’s nothing I can do to be still. I feel like I don’t deserve to eat or rest. I’m suffering because that’s what mothers do when they are broken-hearted and devastated. They suffer. I still fee like it’s my fault. Like maybe if I had raised him differently that he’d be better able to make better choices. Alas, if wishes were horses beggars would ride.
I’m terrified for him. This is next level consequence. We’ve only done long stints in County. More aptly, “he’s” only done long stints in County, which is bad enough. He just got out of solitary for breaking the rules. As a mother, it’s frustrating to wonder what it will take to learn that the rules apply to everybody. Regardless of solitary, I feel like he’s safer in County. He’s also within city limits so I can get to him more readily. Now, he’ll be taken away and it will take me hours to get to him god forbid something horrible happens. I can’t help but to forecast poor favor. I wish I had something of lighter substance to share. It’s all I can do to not vomit all over unsuspecting victims. You clicked on my page. Buyer beware and you are not forewarned.
Other mothers brag about college graduations and excellence with a musical instrument… or six. Other mothers speak of driving lessons and senior proms with corsages and bouquets of adolescence and youth spent well. I never did get to speak of such things. My own has been battling his own demons for a very long time and now it has come down to this. State prison. Early twenties will vanish and make a bitter man. How can I determine if he’ll learn his lessons well and never return to the hell that makes men hard? How can I guarantee that he’ll be okay? It is a mother’s worst nightmare to know that her child is in harm’s way and I’m powerless to stop all influences, all danger. So here I sit. Alone. In the dark. Putting down on paper words my mouth doesn’t want to speak. There is no way to protect him. There is nothing I can do to pull him from an environment hostile toward sentient beings and reckless souls. Three years in. Well, I can count my blessings that it’s not four or more. It’s with a hard swallow that I recall the freight train of self destruction that I couldn’t stop when I DID have the power. Now, it’s full steam ahead into a life of a young man who bit off more than he could chew. And I cry. And I pace the floors and I howl as I sit on the couch completely defeated. Destroyed. You can’t blame yourself, they say. Oh. I can. You betcha. I look back on the years and wonder where I went wrong and think of the countless mistakes and skewed ways of looking at life that I had. He grew up thinking life was hard because life was hard for me. It never occurred to me to offer a different view because it was the only one I could see. And now… his life is hard and is about to get a lot harder. Gee… thanks mom. But no. he never utters a word of the like. He tells me, “chin up mom.” “I need to know you’re doing well”, so I stifle back the tears, choke back the worry in my voice and pretend to be cheery during that one three-way call.