I was talking to a parent with a kid in residential treatment (PKRT) recently about the Boy. Her son knew my son somewhere along the way so when she read Jack's article, she reached out to me to commiserate. I told her a story about when the Boy was a defiant little shit.
"'Defiant little shit' is a technical term," I said. She laughed.
All kids reach a stage in their lives when they become a defiant little shit (DLS). If a kid doesn't become a DLS at some point, they are either
a) too young (but just wait), or
b) there is something wrong with a kid who can't stand up for themselves or have boundaries by time they are eighteen, or
c) the parents are super controlling or drunk and the kid is afraid to act out.
I remember a vivid incident when the Boy was a DLS. It was May 2016 and we had tickets to Billy Elliot. Two months prior, the Boy saw a flier for the show that came in the mail and asked if we could see it.
"Sure," I said and ordered the tickets. I ordered them early enough to get seats in the third row. Jack and I had been taking the kids to the Seattle Children's Theatre for years, so it made sense they would show interest in theatre for adults.
The day of the show came and the Boy was in a bad place. He was grouchy and tired and probably hungry. He was in no mood to see the play I had bought tickets to months earlier, but fuck it, we were going.
The Boy sulked in the car on the way there. He had a tantrum in the restaurant before the show, triggered by very mild rudeness from his sister. He stormed out the restaurant, didn't eat and was texting Jack "Fuck you!" when he was asked to return to the table.
The show was about to start, and the Boy settled down. I was anxious during the most of the show as we were in the third row. What if the Boy had a fit and disturbed the performers? I had a flashback to a Northwestern v Washington basketball game where he punched his sister for leaving him behind at the concession stand. The Boy was lost for twenty minutes. When he came back to our seats, he slugged Claire-Adele. We were sitting four rows behind the Northwestern bench. The security guard gave us the stink eye and watched us for the rest of the game, ready to eject my family if the situation got out of hand.
Fortunately, the Boy was fine during Billy Elliot.
After the show was another story. Here he was a defiant little shit. He sat in the front seat of the car where I usually sit. I told him to turn his phone off in the car, and he didn't.
When we got home, Jack walked the dog and the Boy melted down. He raged and threatened to smash his computer against the floor.
"Don't you dare!" I said.
"It won't break!" he yelled back as he chucked it against the floor.
The screen was demolished. Shattered.
"What the fuck were you thinking?" I screamed. I was pissed after being on edge for the previous five hours.
The Boy's anger flipped on a dime to sorrow. The gross realization of the damage -- physical and emotional -- hit home. He left the house. I texted Jack that the Boy was on the loose. I was glad he was gone. He needed to cool down.
Except he didn't cool down. He walked to the footbridge in Ravenna and looked over the edge. Jack was there with the dog, talking him off the edge, both literally and figuratively.
This week, after talking to this new mom with a kid in treatment, I realized that for the past four years, I have lived in fear that my son might kill himself, a fear that grew until the Boy was sent to treatment. It became more tangible as the Boy receded from the world, escaping into Netflix and Youtube and Instagram.
This week, the Boy called from Montana. He is been given the green light to run from his physical therapist since his ACL surgery.
"Mom, I ran on the track instead of the treadmill. I hate treadmills. I hate them so much I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it and these treadmills had Netflix," he said. He paused.
"I passed up Netflix to run on the track," he said. He knew meaning of this was not lost on me, that this was a major development. A sober alcoholic can pass by a bar and not walk in. The Boy passed a screen and didn't watch.
I finally feel like I can breathe. After four years, my fear of my son killing himself is abating.
Now that my fear is receding, I can step back and see the pit of despair that I was living in. I had glimpses of it before and it terrified me. Now, I can see the hole for what it was. I am starting to recover from the trauma.
In my recovery group, there are lots of people who became lost their sanity themselves after living with someone with addiction.
Why is it that we who live with someone with mental health issues or addiction become so sick ourselves? Why?
If my son had cancer and I dropped everything to save his life, I'd be considered heroic? Yet, when I tried to save my son from anxiety, depression, suicidality and screen addiction, I became just as crazy?
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