Looking Back: January 31, 2007

As I've mentioned here at least once before, my writings haven't always lived in this blog. Before I finally got the guts to go public, my stream-of-consciousness thoughts as the father of a son struggling with depression and addiction were tucked away safely on my laptop, in a big-ass Microsoft Word document that I creatively named "journal.doc".

Sometimes I go back and read the stuff I wrote in that journal. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's to see how I've weathered the storm. Maybe it's to see how far I've come as a person. Or, maybe, I'm just a masochist. Whatever the reason, a couple times a year I'll double-click "journal.doc" and reflect on was happening on this date all those years ago.

I did that this morning. And for January 31, 2007, this is part of what I wrote:

January 31, 2007

6:43am: You know, I was thinking in the shower…I'm in so much pain internally that I don't even seem to feel it anymore. I know it's there, but it's like I've become numb to the feeling. A very weird sensation. I'm hurting, yet I don't hurt. I wonder what that means. Am I losing my emotions? Have I reached a point where I’m just like Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest? I don't know. But if pain was a visible entity, and you sliced me open, I'm sure you'd see that I was full of it. I heard some injured Winter X-Games dude say something in an interview the other night after he injured his knee skiing or something: "Pain is just negativity leaving the body." If I no longer feel pain, but I know it's inside me, does that mean the negativity is no longer leaving my body? Does that mean I'm just going to become one big ball of negativity? I hope not.

I remember feeling that way. I remember it like it was yesterday. Being in so much emotional pain that I couldn't even feel it. Completely numb. Like the post-electroconvulsive therapy version of R.P. McMurphy near the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, just before Chief puts the pillow over his face and puts him out of his misery. Devoid of any feelings whatsoever.

That was not a fun time for me. Or my family.

Ten years later, though, I can honestly say I'm in a much better place. Sure, things with my son are better--not great, but better. But I know I've grown as a person, too. (Therapy helped. I highly recommend it.) I don't let things consume me like I used to. And I try to relax and embrace whatever life throws at me, as best I can. Am I perfect? Of course not. I'll be the first to admit that I still have my "moments," when shit hitting the fan can get the best of me. But even when that happens, I am usually able to recover relatively quickly. That, my friends, is progress. And life, like recovery, is all about progress, not perfection.

Thank God I didn't become that big ball of negativity. That means there's hope for everyone.

"We have a choice. We can spend our whole life suffering because we can't relax with how things really are, or we can relax and embrace the open-endedness of the human situation, which is fresh, unfixated, unbiased." --Pema Chödrön

Of Depression, Parenting, and...Cat Pee

It's been a difficult week in my world.

On Tuesday, a Facebook friend of mine's status update was, in fact, a suicide note. It started with "I began to think about ending my life several weeks ago" and ended with "I'm tired. SO I got the gun, loaded it up, and blew my head off." Despite a long thread of comments begging and pleading this person to please, please, please reconsider taking his own life, he went through with it. Now a teenage girl is left without a father.

On Wednesday, another Facebook friend posted that her 21-year-old son had gone missing. He left the house for school at 4 o'clock in the afternoon and hasn't been heard from since. They found the car he drove to school, but that's about it. It's a parent's worst nightmare and I'm praying hard for a happy ending for this family.

On top of those two things, my older son is still stuck in a major depressive episode. I know I recently wrote that I wasn't going to focus on my son and his issues in my blog posts anymore, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention his ongoing struggle.

Pardon my language, but depression is a fucking bitch, and like addiction it's a family disease. When one of your children is battling depression and talks about wanting to die more than they talk about wanting to live, you can't help but be consumed by it. Especially when that child refuses to try so many things that could possibly help them feel better.

Depression is a black hole of despair. When someone is in it, it's so incredibly hard for them to think there could be a way out. So they build walls around themselves and isolate. Deep down inside, they may actually want help, but they firmly believe that nothing will make a difference; so they don't even try. It doesn't matter how much you love and encourage them. The circular thinking--I want help but nothing will help me so why try anything because it won't help?--is maddening to the people who care the most.

Especially parents.

Yesterday my wife and I took one of our cats to the vet for a check-up because the cats in our house have been acting kind of strange for a while. (For what it's worth, our cats fit perfectly into our family. One of them even takes birth control pills for dogs to help him with a chemical imbalance in his brain.) We got to talking with the doctor about changes in our household environment that may be influencing the cats' behavior and mentioned that our son was back living at home and going through a major depression.

When he heard that, the doctor paused for a moment. He then told us that he had lost his oldest son, who also struggled with addiction, to suicide. We had a good conversation about addiction, depression, stigma, and how it all impacts the entire family. He said our cats may be acting weird because our son is home and feeling so low. And because our son is feeling bad, my wife and I are affected, too. ("You're only as happy as your saddest child," the doctor reminded us. Ain't that the truth.) Cats can sense when the humans they love aren't at their best, and that can sometimes lead to some bizarre feline behavior.

I confess: I don't like cleaning up cat pee from the basement floor or the front hallway. But in the grand scheme of things, it's just a minor inconvenience. So I'll keep doing it as long as I have to. Perhaps the cats' stray peeing will stop if my son can somehow find his way back to a happier place. I know he can do it. But until he decides he can do it--and I hope and pray he will eventually get to that point--I will keep the paper towels and disinfectant close at hand.

"I felt like my heart had been so thoroughly and irreparably broken that there could be no real joy again, that at best there might eventually be a little contentment. Everyone wanted me to get help and rejoin life, pick up the pieces and move on, and I tried to, I wanted to, but I just had to lie in the mud with my arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn’t have to anymore." --Anne Lamott

Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult

(Note: I wrote this piece on June 15th and submitted it to The New York Times, hoping they would publish it on their OpEd page. That didn't happen, so I'm posting it here in its original form. It also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the title "Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult.")

Broken Leg? No Problem. Broken Brain? That's Another Story

As the parents of an adult son who has struggled mightily with severe depression and addiction issues since he was a teenager, my wife and I have been through more health care and insurance ordeals in the last ten years than we can count. Over that decade, one might assume that some major improvements would've been made to "the system." Unfortunately, even though some things may be slightly better today, the system is still broken. And it's maddening.

Our older son is 26 years old and recently experienced a devastating break-up with his girlfriend, whom he'd been living with for a couple of years. He had already been fighting an almost debilitating bout of depression for several months, so the change in his relationship status really hit him hard and sent him spiraling downward to to a new low. My wife and I were so concerned with his well-being that we took him to the emergency room of a major hospital in Detroit to try and get him some help. But all we got was frustration.

If you want to find out how screwed up the mental health care system in this country is, try spending thirteen hours in the ER with someone who needs help but doesn't want to be there. Someone you love with all your heart, who is telling you he has lost his only reason to live. Someone you keep telling, "It’s going to be okay," but whose only answer is, "I can't do this." Trust me: It'll rip your heart out.

Five hours into our ER stay, we were still waiting to see the one and only social worker on duty and were told that there were three people ahead of us. Three hours later, we were told the exact same thing. It wasn't until four hours after that that we actually got to meet with the social worker. A twelve-hour wait for a person in a desperate emotional state to see a social worker at a major hospital in a big city. Does that make any sense at all? (Here's an idea: How about having two social workers on duty? Would that cut into the hospital's profits all that much?)

The social worker interviewed our son and wanted to have him admitted to the hospital. Our son was against that idea, though, because he has had several negative experiences in psychiatric hospitals over the years. (I don't think the twelve-hour wait helped much either.) The next option was to have our son admitted against his will, but the social worker said that doing that probably wouldn’t work out very well. My wife and I agreed with her.

That brought us to option number three, which was a partial hospitalization program at another local hospital. With that program, our son would go to treatment and therapy during the day, then come home at night. It was a great program, we were told, and it seemed like the perfect compromise. Best of all, our son agreed to do it. Finally, after thirteen hours, a glimmer of hope.

The next morning, my wife called the hospital to get our son registered for the program. When she hung up the phone and came downstairs, she had a sad look on her face. "What’s wrong?" I asked. Fighting back tears, she replied, "They don’t have any openings until five weeks from now."

Yes, the mental health aspect of our health care system is barely functional and in need of massive repair. No matter how hard you try, getting someone the help they need is like an Olympic event. If you have a broken leg, you go to the hospital, get seen relatively quickly, get the help you need, and are on your way. But if you have a broken brain, it seems like the system sets you up to fail. And for someone who is battling mental health issues, that's a recipe for disaster.

Three days after our nightmare in the ER, my wife and I are still trying to find our son help. Although we're frustrated, angry, and sad, we're trying our best to stay hopeful. I won't lie to you: It's not easy. But we love our son and a broken system isn't going to stop us from getting him the help he needs.

********************

Postscript: It's now eight days after our trip to the ER and we're still struggling. We've tried a couple of things that weren't a good fit. So we'll keep looking. Getting mental health care shouldn't be this difficult.

"There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold--with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer." --Barbara Kingsolver in The Bean Trees

Death Terrifies Me

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "Death Terrifies Me: Too Many Questions, and Not Enough Answers.")


Death terrifies me.

I'm sure it's because I'm getting older, but recently I've started thinking more and more about death. I'm 54 years old as I type this, which is, I'm reasonably sure, several years beyond the halfway point of my life. (I think it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to live to be 108.) And while death has never been a comfortable subject for me, lately that discomfort has intensified.

There are so many triggers in my world these days that make me stop and think about just how damn old I am. Business executives look like they're teenagers. Star athletes are younger than my kids. Records I used to listen to as a high school student are turning 40. Etc.

Over the summer, my wife and I had to buy a new washer and dryer. Not to sound morbid or anything, but I started wondering: Is this the last washer and dryer I'll ever buy? The same thing went through my head when we bought a new mattress, too. All of a sudden I'm doing a lot of math in my head, and all of the story problems contain the number 54.

"Dean bought a new washing machine when he was 54. If the average lifespan of a washing machine is 14 years, will Dean ever have to buy another washing machine? Show your work."

I can't help it. That’s how I think. I know that age is just a number, and 54 isn't really that old (is it??). I mean, in my head I still feel like I’m 18, and I feel pretty damn good physically, too. So why worry?

I worry because death is the ultimate unknown for me. Nobody knows what happens when we die, and that uncertainty scares me. When you die, do you stop feeling everything? Or does your soul live on, allowing you to observe and feel stuff going on in the mortal world? Do you really go off to heaven or hell, depending on what kind of life you lived? Or do you reincarnate and come back to earth as a cat or some kid who's just being born?

Too many questions. Not enough answers.

I also worry about how my two boys will fare when their aging parents are dead and gone. I know that since my own father passed away almost three years ago, I find myself missing him more than I ever thought I would. My dad and I didn't even get along for most of my life, and I still miss him. I oftentimes wish I could call him and ask him questions when I have to fix something with the tools he left me. And when some crazy play happens in a football game I'm watching on TV, I still kind of expect the phone to ring and my dad to be on the other end asking me, “Did you see that?!” Because that's what he did.

Last month, I had to be put under general anesthesia when I went into the hospital for a procedure on my heart. Twenty years ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about it. But now? I have to admit, there was a voice in my head telling me, "Hey, some people go under and never come out of it. Good luck." (On the other hand, maybe that wonderful feeling you have while being put to sleep by the anesthesiologist is exactly what death feels like. How awesome would that be?)

So I've decided I’m going to start reading some books about death. I'm going to start with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross's seminal book, On Death and Dying, and move on from there. I hope to read scientific books, spiritual books, and even books by or about people who saw the white light and maybe had a talk with God before returning to life.

What I hope to accomplish is simple: I want to become more comfortable with the idea of death. I want to get to a point where I'm (reasonably) okay with dying. Obviously, I don't want to rush things, but as I get closer and closer to that day, I don't want to be terrified. I want to be able to accept it.

I've wanted to write about my fear of death for quite some time. I wasn't planning on doing it today, but this morning I woke up and saw a post my oldest son--who has been struggling lately--made on Facebook last night. It was a video for John Mayer's song "Stop This Train," and it included the lyrics. One of the verses goes:

"Don’t know how else to say it
I don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own."

When I read those words, I knew I had to write this blog post today.

My father was the first person I ever watched die. I was at his bedside when he took his last breath at age 86. My mother may be one of the healthiest people on this planet, but she’s almost 85 now. And my wife's parents are in their "sunset years," too. Yes, death is inevitable, which makes it hard not to think about it. I just don’t want to be scared when I do.

"Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome." --Isaac Asimov 
 
(Note: “Stop This Train” lyrics © 2006 by John Mayer/SONY/ATV Music Publishing LLC)

Depression Sucks

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the same title: "Depression Sucks.")


Depression sucks.

If I had a dollar for every time I thought that or said it out loud, I'd be sitting on my own private beach somewhere sipping ice cold root beer from a glass with an umbrella in it.

As I've told you before, depression runs in my family. Relatives and siblings have struggled with it. I've struggled with it. My boys have struggled with it.

Right now, my oldest son, whose depression was in remission for a good three years or so, is suffering again. His depression has been almost debilitating for the last couple of months. It's making it difficult for him to get up in the morning, let alone go to work and live any kind of normal life. His confidence and self-esteem are super low. And I'm incredibly worried about him.

My son's been on the same antidepressant (Cymbalta) for a few years, but my wife and I fear that it's just not working anymore. Some people can develop a tolerance to such medications, and when they do, it's like someone flips a switch. Goodbye, happiness...welcome back, depression.

Yesterday, my wife called the University of Michigan Depression Center, an esteemed facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that offers some of the most respected assessment and treatment options in the country. Their website offered a ray of hope when we perused it prior to calling about having our son evaluated there.

Unfortunately, getting quality treatment for depression seems to be just as challenging as getting treatment for addiction. The person my wife talked to told her that they weren't seeing any new patients until next year, and that appointments couldn't be scheduled until November. Hardly the kind of thing you want to hear when you have a loved one battling a mental illness that makes you wonder about their well-being. Oh, one more thing: Unless the patient's primary care physician is in the University of Michigan--our son's isn't--you can only meet with the Depression Center people once. And nothing can be done about medications in that one meeting.

Really? So much for the Depression Center idea.

And here's a thought: Getting help for a mental illness shouldn't be akin to winning a damn lottery.

Thankfully, I reached out to some people I know and got a recommendation for a top-notch psychiatrist. (Based at--ironically--the University of Michigan.) So today we wanted to call and get things in motion so our son could see this new doctor. But one thing prevented us from doing so: Our son wouldn't get on the phone and talk to the doctor's office. You see, along with depression, he's also frequently paralyzed by anxiety, which makes talking on the phone agonizing for him.

My wife and I talked to our son for a long time today. He was at our house, and we did our best to comfort him and tell him that we understand he has an illness. We also told him that he had to be the one to seek out help. That no matter how much we wanted him to get help, he was the only one who could actually do it. (Damn, depression and addiction are so similar, aren't they?)

I hope my son's anxiety will ease up a bit so he'll be able to call the doctor's office later today. Or at least early next week. With the way he's feeling, I don't think we can afford a lengthy delay. If for some reason he can't call the doctor, I'm not sure what my wife and I will do, because our hands are kind of tied.

The fact that I'm having trouble getting help for my own son isn't lost on me. Believe me, I think about it often. I'm allegedly some sort of plainclothes "expert" at helping people who are struggling with addiction or mental illness, but when faced with my own family crisis, I have to sit back and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for my son to take action.

What is wrong with that picture?

Of course, I do realize that even as a parent there's only so much I can do. (My mom actually reiterated that to me this morning, bless her heart.) Parenting isn't easy, and when you're dealing with a child who's combatting mental illness, it's exponentially tougher. The one thing we absolutely must remember is that depression is an illness.

When my son left our house a little while ago, he hugged me and, in tears, said, "I'm sorry." I told him he didn't have to apologize. "You're not a bad person," I told him. "You have an illness. If you had cancer or diabetes, you wouldn't be apologizing for it. So don't apologize because you have depression. But if you had cancer or diabetes, you would do everything you could to get it treated. So you have to do the same for your depression."

I'm hoping what I said got through to him.

I'm hoping he makes that phone call soon.

I'm hoping he can return to being happy.

Today, it's all about hope.

"Gravity and sadness yank us down, and hope gives us a nudge to help one another get back up or to sit with the fallen on the ground, in the abyss, in solidarity." --Anne Lamott

Seven Years Sober Today

I just posted this on one of the online recovery forums I help moderate. I thought I would share it with you as well.


Just wanted to share with you all that it was seven years ago today that I quit drinking.

I quit drinking because the family therapist at my son's rehab facility told me and my wife, "Be the change you want to see in your son." My son was addicted to heroin, and as his addiction progressed I started to use alcohol as a crutch. I was self-medicating to help me forget about my son's self-medication. How messed up is that??

My father was an alcoholic, and I was definitely heading down the wrong path with regards to alcohol. A glass of wine after work became two glasses of wine. Then it was three or four. Then it was a whole bottle. Or maybe I'd finish a bottle and then open another one. I credit my wife for noticing that my wheels were coming off and expressing her concern to me. I needed to quit drinking. Period. The family therapist's advice was just the final kick in the ass I needed.

My wife never drank much at all, but she quit drinking at the same time. We both figured it would be the best way to set an example, not only for our addicted older son, but for our younger son as well. It's the least we could do, right? After all, parents are the most powerful role models children have.

Over the last seven years I've learned that alcohol is overrated, being sober is only as dull and boring as you make it, and life without mind-altering substances is so awesome. And real. I credit my wife and the family therapist at my son's treatment facility with motivating me to change my life.

To anyone who's reading this and struggling with any kind of substance use disorder, please know that you can get clean and sober, and it's so damn worth it.

Peace, hugs, and much hope to everyone.

-Dean

"Don’t. Give. Up. Because guess what? Me too." --Anne Lamott

Mother's Day / Father's Day

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "Why Father's Day Is So Difficult for Me.")


I didn't write a blog post this past Mother's Day. As I explained on my Facebook page, I started to write a blog post that Sunday morning; then I realized that the Mother's Day post I wrote in 2014 still applied. So I saved myself some keystrokes.

But after the day was over, I felt like I needed to document it in some way. I also started having some thoughts about Father's Day, which is right around the corner. And this is the result: A post-Mother's Day/pre-Father's Day post from my crazy mind.

Mother's Day was spectacular in every way. It started off with me making my amazing wife an omelette for breakfast, and ended with me cooking burgers and brisket for my amazing wife, two sons, all but one of my siblings, and my amazing mom. The day was perfect. To have all of those people who are so special to me at the dining room table at the same time just felt so good.

The happy face omelette I made my wife for breakfast on Mother's Day.

It really was the best Mother's Day celebration--as low key as it was--that I can remember. My wife and mom were both so happy. And they deserved to be happy, because they are both such loving, caring, unselfish people. Without a doubt, they are the two most incredible women I have ever known.

Me and my mom on Mother's Day.

A few days after Mother's Day passed, I started thinking a bit about Father's Day, which is coming up on June 21st. (The longest day of the year. Coincidence? I think not.)

Father's Day has always been an uncomfortable "holiday" for me. For most of my life, I struggled with it so much because my dad and I didn't have a very good relationship. In fact, for many years the only relationship we had was the standard biological one. Yes, he was my father. But I never felt the things that a kid should feel about his father: love, respect, gratitude, etc.

That's what happens when your dad's an alcoholic.

I remember countless Father's Days when I wouldn't even want to pick up the phone to call my dad, because saying "Happy Father's Day" to him was just me going through the motions. I got through those calls somehow, but it was not without a lot of anguish.

Then, in February of 2012, my dad passed away, just a few months after he and I reconciled.

As I wrote in my Father's Day post in 2013:

It's funny how things work out. I went 40+ years despising Father's Day because I didn't want to make that phony phone call or give the obligatory card and gift because I felt like I had to. Today, I wish I could make that phone call and give that card and gift...because I want to.

This Father's Day will no doubt be the same. I'll be missing my dad and wishing I had just one more Father's Day to spend with him so I could give him a hug and tell him I love him--and actually mean it.

Father's Day is also a stressor for me because I constantly struggle with a question I ask myself almost every single day:

Have I been a good father to my boys?

My younger son made this for me years ago.

Because of the relationship I had--or didn't have--with my dad while I was growing up, I would constantly tell myself that the one thing I was bound and determined to do in my lifetime, more than anything else, was to be a better father to my kids than my father was to me. Not just a better father, but a damn good father. Someone my kids would look up to and aspire to be like.

Given the fact that my father was an alcoholic/workaholic who put his whiskey and business ahead of everything else in his life, you'd think that meeting that goal I set for myself would be a slam dunk. I mean, how could I not be a better father? I should be able to do that blindfolded, with both hands tied behind my back. And how hard could it be to be a damn good father? Love your kids, say and do the right things, set good examples, teach your boys to be good men, etc. It all sounds so simple.

But you know what? It's not. And I'm not sure I've succeeded.

This really hit me hard over the last 36 hours or so. Yesterday, I had an email conversation with a younger friend--and by younger, I mean I'm old enough to be her father--and she said something that should have been very flattering to me. She said: "You are so awesome. Seriously. You're like the dad I always wanted!!!"

Wow. What a great compliment, right?

Except that the night before, something happened between me and my younger son that made me feel like I was anything but a good father, let alone the type of dad someone would actually want.

Over the years, my family has gone through some difficult situations, and we've all said and done things that we didn't really mean or ended up regretting. In life, when we're angry, we sometimes do some inexplicable things. But when I replay certain events in my mind, I feel like I've done way more than my fair share of these things. I've said things--hurtful things--to my boys in anger that I could never have imagined saying. Things that my dad, as shitty as he was for so many years, never said to me.

So I have to ask myself whether or not I am a good father.

Yes, my boys regularly tell me that they love me. And, over the years, both of them have also told me, on more than one occasion, that they hate me. (That's what teenagers do, right? RIGHT???!) But I often wonder how they really feel, deep down inside. I guess I think this way because I know that I put up a facade with my dad for all those years. I said one thing, but I felt another. It was just the easiest thing to do.

Nobody ever knows exactly how another person feels. That superpower does not exist. At least not on this planet. People tell us things and we have to take them at their word, because that's all we have to go by. If you spend your time second guessing what someone says, you'll drive yourself crazy; which is exactly what I've been doing to myself lately.

Someone I work with in my addiction/recovery advocacy work said something during a conference call a few months ago that I thought was brilliant. It was said in the context of parents dealing with an addicted child, but I think it applies to pretty much every aspect of life.

"You do the best that you can with what you know at the time. You learn as you go along, and you try to do better. And you can never go wrong with love."

That's some pretty great stuff, isn't it?

As parents, I think we're constantly learning. After all, parenting is one of the most challenging things in life. So I will continue to learn as I go along, and I will most definitely try to do better. Because no matter how good you are--or think you are--at something, there's always room for improvement.

Most importantly, though, I will continue to throw an abundance of love in my boys' direction. Because I love them more than life itself.

When Father's Day arrives in a few weeks, I will no doubt sit and ponder about all this stuff yet again. But until then, I'll try to clear my head and not be so hard on myself.

Damn. I like Mother's Day so much better.

"One of the worst things about being a parent, for me, is the self-discovery, the being face to face with one's secret insanity and brokenness and rage." --Anne Lamott

The awesome bookmark my older son gave my wife for Mother's Day.

The Red Roof Inn Incident

I've written in this blog on more than one occasion about how I became addicted to my son's addiction. The first time I heard that phrase--"addicted to my son's addiction"--was in David Sheff's amazing book Beautiful Boy: A Father's Journey Through His Son's Addiction (a.k.a., The Book That Saved My Life). Up until that point, I had never really noticed the stranglehold my son's addiction had on me.

This morning I flash backed to Tuesday, April 17, 2007, which was 10 months before Beautiful Boy was even published. I was looking through my electronic journal and read the entry from exactly eight years ago.

Damn, I was pretty messed up. How messed up? Here's your first clue: The journal entry was actually written from a Red Roof Inn about 10 miles from my house.

Eight years ago tonight, my son started an argument because he wanted to have a friend he had met during a recent hospital stay over to our house on Friday night. My wife and I didn't think it was the best idea for a number of different reasons (timing, our son's awful report card, etc.), but our son would not take no for an answer. The initial fight was between my wife and my son, but I eventually joined in. (Funny: When the argument first started, I told my younger son, "Great. Just what we need. Another fight." He told me, "Just ignore it. That's what I do." I probably should've taken his advice.)

When my son was using, he was full of anger. To make matters worse, I was full of anger, too. I was in the process of learning about addiction, but I was still in that "maybe-if-I-yell-at-him-loud-enough-it'll-make-him-stop" phase. Boy, could we yell and swear at each other. I'm surprised the windows didn't shatter.

The initial argument about having a friend over quickly deteriorated into something more. And worse. As I wrote in my journal:

"We then spent about 30 minutes arguing about school, smoking pot, [my son] wanting to be a rock star, [my son] wanting to drop out, [my son] wanting this and that."

It's amazing, really, how selfish people in active addiction can be. It's like self-entitlement on steroids to the nth power.

The journal entry continues:

"After 30 minutes or so of arguing, I just told [my son] and [my wife] that I would take the blame for everything. For [our son] being screwed up. For our family being screwed up. Everything. All because I likely spoiled [our son] because I wanted to be a better father than my asshole father was. With that I went upstairs, packed a bag, and headed off to the Red Roof Inn. Maybe my going away for the night will calm things down."

That's how addicted I was to my son's addiction. I let it rule my life. My emotional state and so many of my actions were totally influenced by my son and his substance abuse. When things with my son were reasonably okay, I was reasonably okay. But when things were bad, I was fucked up. And then some.

Another thing about that night eight years ago that illustrates my point: My wife and I had tickets to a concert we really wanted to go to. Of course, I couldn't go. At least that's what I thought at the time. In reality, I wouldn't go. Because I had let my son's addiction overtake my entire life. So instead of going to a live music show with my wife that night, I ended up in a Red Roof Inn all by myself.

I said in my journal that I went to the hotel so things at home would maybe calm down a bit. But deep down inside, I knew that wasn't the real reason I left the house. I left because I was running away from the problem. I had simply had enough that night and wanted to escape the pain. It was probably the coward's way out, but at the time it seemed like a damn good idea.

Addiction is a family disease. When a family member is struggling with substance abuse, every person in that household is deeply affected. That's just the nature of the beast. The trick is learning how to live a relatively "normal" life while all hell is breaking loose around you. Is it easy? Hell no. Is it possible? Yes, but it takes quite a bit practice. Thank God I eventually became reasonably good at it.

Peace.

"Angry people are not always wise." --Jane Austen in Pride and Prejudice