adoption, family

On the Frontlines of Food Insecurity

I heard the most ridiculous thing at a training given by the Department of Children and Families. The session was about health and safety for kids in foster care. The speaker was a registered nurse whose job it was to approve all medical treatment for the foster children in her region. Don’t even get me started on the times she described vetoing a medical doctor’s recommendation based on her shoddy anecdotal evidence.

The comments that irked me into feelings of mild violence were her views on food insecurity. “Oh that’s not really a problem. I don’t why people come to me with this. Just offer a variety of foods at dinner time.” She called this a “food tour” and opined that it always worked.

Seriously?! Ummm…no.

All of our children, to some degree, suffer from food insecurity. Because they spent large amounts of time without food, without enough food, or without appropriate nutritional fare, they have food insecurities. Two of our children don’t even feel safe unless they have a stash of non perishables in their bedrooms.

When the kids first came home, Carl couldn’t handle family meal times. His behavior escalated to what seemed like bizarre levels. We would sit down to a meal and politely pass the food around from plates in the middle of the table. Carl would grab between 3 and 6 dinner rolls and then scream at anyone else who tried to take one.

“Stop it! There will be none left!!!”

Carl would sit on his feet in a crouch with his arms protectively over his plate. No amount of cajoling or reminding got him to sit on his bottom would last for more than 30 seconds before he hopped up and perched protectively over his plate again.

His pupils would dilate and his heart rate would pick up. His voice got louder and his words were more oppositional. It was like watching someone handle being the victim of a hostage situation. Pure panic.

Inevitably the dinner stress would be too much for Carl. He would start by complaining he hated the food and would never eat it. This would progress to trying to grab all of the remaining food on the table. ALL of it. At some point after that he would throw his plate/cup/meal directly at me and run away screaming that we were starving him. Sometimes he would punch me.

At the same time, Sean would gobble huge amounts of food as if it were a race while Marcus and Mary sat turned away from the table, staring at the floor. They would not respond in any way, even if spoken to. It was as if they weren’t even there.

After everyone left, Mary would take her plate underneath the table, or to the floor, and finally eat her dinner. Marcus would eat whatever was left over when he awoke in the middle of the night.

None of it made any sense to me at the time. We did everything we could think of to manage this behavior. We put limits on the amount of ___ the kids could put on their plate at one time. We proactively switched over to paper plates and disposable plastic cutlery. My apologies to the environment but experience has literally shown me it’s better to have a plastic knife hit you in the face than a steak knife. After Carl’s outbursts he’d have to finish eating in his room. I didn’t know at the time that he felt much safer eating there.

Eventually we learned that our kiddos had a past history of stressful mealtimes. We already knew they spent a lot of time fending for themselves as toddlers and young children. Hence, Mary developed a taste for dog food and would sneak it whenever no one was watching. Apparently when bio mom was manic she’d begin cooking at 2 or 3 AM. Then she’d wake the kids up and insist they eat. Other times they existed on the Monster energy drinks and Jolly Ranchers they stole at the local corner store.

To this day, when Carl is feeling stress or anxiety it flares up. He will binge eat in the middle of the night. There is a far off, unfocused look that comes over him while he stuffs huge amounts of food into his mouth at an alarming rate. He’s often crying at the same time.

Have you ever seen a hamster stuff it’s cheeks full of food? This is sort of what it looks like. Carl will swallow without chewing. His cheeks swell to an unusual size yet still he keeps going. He stuffs more and more food into his mouth even before he swallows what’s already in there. This leads to choking and vomiting. As soon as Carl finishes puking, he immediately resumes guzzling food. Then he vomits more and eats more and so on. He chokes a lot when he gets like this because he forgets to breathe.

Last spring he suffered scratches to his esophagus because of the sharp edges of un-chewed food (think crackers or nuts.) He had also vomited so much that the acid was eroding soft tissue in his esophagus and stomach. He threw up so many times a day that eventually he was vomiting blood. The wait to see a specialist for pediatric GI took forever. We ended up in the emergency room at the children’s hospital four times in one month.

In the meantime we would wake up in the morning to find vomit, blood, and food wrappers of one kind or another all over the house. It was terrifying. This is when we got combination locks for the fridge. Our cabinets were already locked overnight to keep Mary out of the cutlery. Finally we got him in to do a series of tests, including an endoscopy.

The specialist concluded that Carl was reacting to his past, so it couldn’t be medically treated.  He asked me, completely straight-faced if we’d ever considered Cognitive Behavior Therapy. He told me that sometimes children who were traumatized need therapy. I burst out laughing. Yes, we’d been working on that for 4 years.

After the first winter together, the snow melted and revealed a surprise. Carl had buried all of his school snacks in the snow. Every day at school he would tell the teacher we refused to give him snacks. Meanwhile, he built up a stock in case he ever ran out of food again.

Carl would ask strangers for food at the store, at parks, at the lake, basically anywhere. While I stood behind him with a rescue-bag of goldfish in my hand I would hear him beg strangers desperately.  “Please,” he’d urgently whisper, ” Can I have some of that? My parents NEVER feed me. I’m starving!!!”

Once a well-meaning older lady kindly explained to me that children cannot go for long periods of time without eating. She kindly suggested that I consider snacks for the children. In response I pulled gently on Carl’s outside coat pocket. Imagine her surprise when three granola bars and a bag of almonds fell out!

Some things have helped. We developed a calm dinner routine where we take turns appreciating one person at the table for something they did that day.  Our goal was for Carl to feel safe at mealtimes. His therapist, L, helped him develop a self-talk manta. It goes, “I will have enough to eat. I will have these foods again.”

We let him keep boxes of power bars and granola  in his room. For years he slept with them in his bed. This was preferable to the chicken drumsticks and other perishables he used to hide in his pillow case!

We got frozen pizzas that Marcus could prepare and eat in the middle of the night. We stopped buying “high-value” foods that would trigger Carl into a binge. This included peanut butter, Nutella, candy of any kind and cream cheese. During the stressful spring season we padlock the fridge to prevent Carl from getting hurt while out of control at night.

Some things have never changed at all. For example, Mary literally does not know how to drink water.  If a glass is placed in front of her she will chug it as fast as possible without breaking. It doesn’t matter how much liquid you put in front of her. I tried to give her a huge water bottle once to see if it would slow her down. It didn’t. Instead she threw her head back and guzzled until I was sure she’d drown.  Instead she began choking and crying while continuing to gulp. Mary wouldn’t put the bottle down until I physically pryed it away from her mouth.

When chugging her water Mary still tilts her head as far back as she can. She also flings her left arm out straight to grab and hold onto whoever is nearest. She will clutch onto them until she is done rapidly swallowing everything in front of her. It looks exactly like a baby drinking from a bottle. Mary is stuck in this phase.

Unfortunately this also makes her vomit. Because of how unpleasant it is for her to chug liquid down and then puke, she usually refuses it entirely. She claims she is “allergic” to water and it always makes her sick. She physically cannot sip from a cup. That skill simply isn’t in her repertoire.

Eventually we learned to pour out two fingers of liquid at a time for her to drink or else we’d give her a straw. She was able to appropriately use the water fountain at school.

My point is this: food insecurity is terrible.  If a professional gives advice on this they should have some actual experience with kids exposed to starvation. Healing takes hard work and years of patience. Even then, that trauma is always with our kids to some degree. Because, really a “food tour” is NOT going to fix the problem.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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adoption, family

Report Card for a Trauma Mama

On the last day of summer vacation I brought Carl to the lake, all the while keeping a diligent eye on my son. It was hard to peg him at a distance. Carl spent the summer outdoors baking in the sun until his brown skin perfectly matched the dock color.

I hate to admit it but I panicked a little. Where did my kid go? I could see the headline now: “White Mother is Complicit in Hispanic Son’s Drowning.”

He kept bobbing in and out of sight as he swam away, and then back to, the dock. Drowning statistics were running through my head. Doesn’t it only take 30 seconds or something? The peaceful water lapping at the sand became suddenly ominous.

Through my sunglasses I glanced at a sign that read “Children under 13 must be accompanied by an adult.” This gave me pause. I realized in a flash that Carl turns 13 in two weeks. He will be a teenager. He can technically, by the law of the lake, swim alone in two weeks. What on earth was I panicking about?

Also, what could I even do if I saw him in distress? Paddle slowly over to him at the speed of an octogenarian or snail? I certainly couldn’t pull or drag him to safety. My back injury would completely sideline me on a rescue mission. So basically, I spent a good hour on the possibility that I might just watch my son drown. In this situation my mom skills were nonexistent.

I settled back in my ergonomic beach chair to contemplate my role as he ages. The house seems strangely quiet these days. Out of 5 children only one remains at home. Soon he will be a teen. I think it’s time to re-evaluate my skills. Let’s face it. I am most certainly not always up to the task of parenting. Sometimes I am magical and wonderful and thisclose to being Mary Poppins. Sometimes parenting adopted children from trauma gets the best of me. My report card is as follows:

Areas where I am crushing it:

  • Persistence- I don’t give up on my kids. I advocate in schools, in psychiatric hospitals, RTCs, therapists offices and so on with the persistence of an emperor penguin. No, seriously, an emperor penguin. These animals are persistent AF. Google this!
  • Scheduling- I can remember to throw laundry in overnight on the delay timer setting. I switch it over in the morning and go from there. I can rotate chores, emergencies, sports schedules and my medical treatment like a boss. I should probably admit here that Siri helps me.
  • Using Siri-I am totally counting this in the mom-skill plus column. Yeah, she can do anything. Enough said.
  • TBRI- Its a form of therapeutic parenting known as “Trust Based Relational Intervention” and I’ve gotten pretty good with this over the years.
  • Research- I’ve read books, taken classes, and done many a webinar on developmental trauma. I can quote Deborah D. Gray, Bassel Van Der Kolk, Karyn Purvis and Heather Forbes verbatim. I LOVE reading.
  • I bake my own bread- Yes, this one is real. It’s also not as cool as it looks. I have a bread-maker so I just add 4 ingredients in the morning and set a delay timer. Voila! Fresh homemade bread for dinner and it is hot out of the…er…oven.
  • Crockpot Usage- I am a crock-pot ninja.
  • Saying “no”- I don’t mean to my kids. I mean to everyone else who wants something from me.  My kids have worn me out with trauma drama. I’m sorry. I can’t volunteer for you. I just don’t want to.
  • Naming and validating feelings-If you’re having a tough day then I am here for you. I won’t advise. I will name and validate your feeling and then ask you (therapeutically of course!) how you think you might handle the situation. I can validate your feelings like a boss!
  • Apologizing- I’m not above it and I need to do it a LOT.

Areas where I need to take the remedial training:

  • Naming animal facts- see above under “persistent.”
  • Sports- Umm, I can totally get you there but I don’t know what you’re doing. Hooray for ball points!
  • TBRI- Hey, some days I’m a therapeutic master and some days I am back to grasshopper status.
  • Research- I’ve read everything I could find. I still don’t have all of the answers when it comes to helping my children heal from trauma.
  • Making dinner- OK, being the queen of the crock pot and the delay timer on our bread maker are my ONLY cooking skills. The stove and I have a tumultuous relationship that once ended up with me melting a leggo on the back burner.
  • Saying “no”- When it comes to a therapeutic recommendation or treatment for my children, I have a hard time saying “no.” Even if it isn’t evidence-based or isn’t helping I’ve given just about everything a try. This has the unfortunate effect of working me to the bone while the children either ignore or actively evade the treatment.
  • Naming and validating feelings- I forget my own all the time. I think our entire family would be better off if I could admit to having feelings rather than waiting until the boiling point.
  • Apologizing-  I just HATE to be wrong. I’m sorry, Luke. See? I can do it.
  • Letting go- This is the hardest one. I can’t actually do the healing for my children. At some point I need to give them more freedom to make decisions and hope they make the right ones. You don’t want to go to therapy (Carl) anymore? OK well then it’s up to you to practice the skills you’ve learned. I’m not staying up with you until 3:00 AM because there might be maybe a bug alive somewhere in the world. You want to live in your car (I’m looking at you, Marcus!) for no apparent reason? I’m going to sleep in my nice memory foam mattress and love you from over here.

All in all I think my report card breaks even.  I’ll just give myself an A and pick up takeout.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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adoption, family

The Storm Has Passed

I wonder if 13 is a fun age for mothers to enjoy their sons. Carl is less than a month away from turning 13 and so far we’ve been having a blast. Springtime is his annual storm of violence and rage. Thank goodness that season has passed.

I remember a similar phenomenon when Mary was 8. She was finally stable on medication. Her violent rages were gone. We went everywhere together and just enjoyed life. Shopping trips, singling along to Taylor Swift in the car, and sharing little jokes comprised our days.

At this time, Mary was really interested in whatever I was interested in. Rather than playing “school” over and over until exhaustion, she wanted to accompany me to set up my actual classroom.

Carl and I now seem to be hitting the same stride. With summer came an end to his emotional storm. Springtime brings out his fiercest trauma-related behaviors. Summer seems to bring calmer, more rational, times. His age brings out a new set of unexpected bonuses.

For the last two weeks we’ve been taking some time to hang out. We’ve been to the local lake. He’s started to watch more interesting PG-13 shows and movies. I’m finally able to bid Spongebob Squarepants adieu!

I think part of this happy period is that Carl can separate from me a bit. Generally, he can be very anxious as to my whereabouts in the house. I’ll often find him sitting right outside the door when I exit the bathroom. If he looks up and doesn’t see me he will shout a panicked, “Ma-ma? Ma-ma??? MA-MAAAA!!!” much like a toddler. It can all get a bit overwhelming.

At almost 13, he now wants to spend some time with his friends. They don’t necessarily think it’s cool for Carl’s mom to join in the Pokémon game every time. His poor friends don’t have to wait on playing with the matchbox cars while I finish dinner. Gone are the days where Carl says, “Wait for my mom. She has to be the yellow car!”

Not having to participate actively in all of his social interactions is freeing. As a mom, I’m supposed to want to spend every second with my child. I don’t. I enjoy alone time to pursue my own interests. Carl’s doing just fine navigating on his own. This gives me a bit of much needed breathing room.

Football season has started again. Unlike last year, Carl is able to accept that I’m not going to sit and observe a two hour practice each night. He isn’t so scared to be without me. I get to shop, grab a coffee, or catch up on some reading. A bit of me-time makes it easier to be a calm and happy mom.

Oddly enough, Carl seems to have entered the stage where he’s interested in what I’m interested in. I like reading horror novels, so he wants to explore the genre. I bought him a few of the young adult R.L. Stine books to start with. I don’t actually want him to be too scared. I like to read the news app on my phone, so he regales me with the news alerts that pop up on his tablet.

I’ve been watching “Once Upon a Time” on Netflix this week. It’s the ultimate girly-show. Carl has started to watch with me. He asks a lot of questions because he doesn’t know any of the fairytales referenced. Before adoption, his early childhood consisted of “Chucky” movies rather than books.

As we watch he’ll say, “Does everyone know about Excalibur? Who is the girl in the red hood that brings things to her granny? Why do they keep mentioning a glass slipper? How do people know this???” It gives me an opportunity to tell some of the stories he might not be otherwise interested in. I can catch him up on a bit of what he missed in his younger years.

When I make a cup of coffee in the morning he’ll sometimes brew himself a decaf one. He’ll sit and watch the morning news with me and share his thoughts on the topics.

Don’t get me wrong, I like playing matchbox cars as much as the next mom. It’s just sometimes fun to do more “grownup” things!

The most important thing is that Carl isn’t acting out violently right now. This soothes some of my own anxiety and PTSD symptoms. I’m not sure what adolescence has in store for us.

All I can say is that I am really enjoying this part.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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family

Days Like Today

The days like today are the ones I hold dear. Days of quiet. Days of kindness. Days of peace.

Carl has come out of his Springtime traumaversary. It’s been several weeks since he’s had a violent meltdown at home. My lovely cuddly boy is back. He bakes me with, we watch “Brooklyn 99” and play the card game “Dos.” These lazy summer days stretch on and soothe my battle-weary soul.

Mary is responding well to treatment at her residential school. We went on an off-grounds trip to Dunkin Donuts the other day. It was just the two of us. For a few minutes I forgot that the police were programmed on my speed dial. Instead I simply enjoyed her conversation and marveled at how she’s big enough to sit in the front seat.

We haven’t heard from Marcus at all since he came to get his things. In all likelihood no news is good news. We will hear from him when he is desperate or in trouble. For now I’ll have to let it be.

Luke gave me some Eucalyptus bath salts for Mother’s Day. I finally have time to use them. Here I sit in aromatherapy heaven, counting all the ways that I am lucky. Some days are very hard. Some days I count all of the things that have gone wrong, all of the things I must face.

Not today. This is a good day. Days like these are what I need to hang onto.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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adoption, family

What Have I Done?

There are times when rage bubbles up inside of me like so much lava. I choke it down and attempt to swallow it whole. It seems I can barely breathe for choking on my own anger.

Carl screams and screams at me. He pounds on his door and smashes the things in his room. When upset, Carl tries to assert his dominance. He speaks to me in the horrible way an abusive husband speaks to his wife. Carl makes a show of his physical strength in an attempt to…I’m not sure. Maybe in an attempt to intimidate me or scare me.

The last two weeks have been up and down with him. He’s gotten into several physical altercations at school. I’ve had to pick him up from his intensive outpatient program for throwing rocks at a boy and smashing him over the head with a water pitcher. They discharged Carl the next day because his treatment program was “finished.” At this point, Carl has done so much property damage at home that the drywall in his room resembles Swiss cheese.

Last Friday he slammed his own head against the wall in anger. On autopilot I gave him Tylenol and an ice pack. My calm face and quiet voice almost never falters. It’s like a therapeutic-mom mask that I’ve worn too long. I can’t take it off, even when I try. I also can’t bring myself to exactly care that his head hurts. From a detached place inside of me I check him for signs of concussion and then simply walk away.

The past two weeks have been hell. Actually they’ve probably been my family’s version of normal. Marcus has screamed and yelled at me about calling the police to check on him. Then he yells and swears at me to give him money. He questions why we ever adopted him. Why did we change his name?

On a two-hour round trip visit to see Mary she dismisses me after twenty-four minutes. Her therapist has inadvertently scheduled a trip to get Chinese food with her. If I stay, Mary can go the following day for Chinese food. I don’t stay.

I don’t stay because Mary wants the food more than the visit. If I force her to finish this visit we will both be miserable. Taking food from one of my children is akin to cutting off a finger. Disheartened, I drive home only to get a phone call from Carl’s school about yet another behavior issue.

My face is stuck in a small strained smile. I must resemble some freakishly macabre scarecrow. No matter how I’m feeling on the inside my outer veneer remains frozen.

The truth is that nothing is getting better with our children. I looked back at all the notes I’ve taken over the years. I checked all of the blog posts I never published, the data I never looked at cumulatively. The younger children only improved after completed trauma-focused cognitive behavioral therapy. That was the only time things improved.

At least, they improved to a point. When Carl began psychotropic medication things got a bit better. This first year showed the most, and the only, change in his trauma symptoms. Every Spring after this we’ve had the exact same experience with Carl.

We have been fooling ourselves thinking that things have gotten incrementally better over time. The data says otherwise. It says that beyond year one things have remained the same for three years. No matter what subsequent medication change or modality of therapy, Carl has been the same every Spring. He is physically violent and verbally abusive in the exact same way every year.

Now I stand in Carl’s room with my anger- lava finally flowing from my mouth. The veneer of my face has finally cracked.

“Enough!” I yell back at him. Yelling back is never wise. It doesn’t help anything. Still, the lava is spewing out now and I don’t care to stop it. “You cannot talk to me like this! You cannot treat people like this. Screaming at me every day is abusive. Trying to intimidate me by smashing things and throwing things is abusive. You are acting like an a**hole!”

He (of course) yells back at me, “You think you’re making me feel better but you AREN’T!”

I realize that I am uninterested in his feelings. I am uninterested in his healing. I am uninterested in helping him to feel safe. Instead I yell, “I don’t care how you feel! You are done treating me like this! You are done acting like an abusive a**hole!”

“If you don’t like it when we yell at you then WHY DID YOU ADOPT US??!!”

I open my mouth to deny this but nothing comes out. I want to say, “I always wanted you. I’d never second guess this choice.” The words never come. I choke on these, too.

It’s hard to admit that Carl has struck upon something here. A dark, ugly, secret part of me agrees with him.

Why did I do this?

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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adoption, family

Acceptance

Acceptance. It’s a hard word for me these days. It is hard to accept and let things happen. I am trying to understand that my children operate within their own emotional states. I cannot save them from this. All I can do is support what they need in the moment. All I can do is try to accept where they at, emotionally. It is hard!

It seems as though Marcus has moved in with his biological dad. We did pay for his car to get towed there, because at the end of the day we are his safety net. It’s hard to accept that he honestly can’t comprehend this. At least he is with Bio Dad in a house and not parked in a cemetery and sleeping in his car. BD is a mechanic and that is what Marcus believes he needs for survival. He’s safe(ish) where he is.

Accepting that Marcus wants to live with BD for now is OK. I think a lot of young adult adoptees want to find their roots and figure things out. He is 20, so he needs to be able to explore his connections. I think it’s hard to accept that he can’t have both families. He isn’t speaking to us right now. His car insurance notice came in that they were canceling because he owed over $700. I hope he goes to his court date but since he isn’t talking, I don’t know. I have to try and accept that Marcus can’t manage two sets of parents right now. That’s hard.

I have to accept where Mary is in her healing. She is working to get off-grounds privileges at the her RTC school. She earned horseback riding lessons that she can attend weekly if she is safe. The program there is amazing. They are so good with complex trauma and attachment issues. Mary, however, has a hard time believing she deserves any of these things. Instead of making it to her first horseback riding lesson, she had a violent incident the day before. She was so excited (and possibly anxious) that she sabotaged the moment.

We haven’t been able to take her off-campus since Thanksgiving. It’s hard to accept that she isn’t ready to be away from the safety and structure of the RTC. I have to work on accepting that she needs this level of restriction right now. It’s hard to accept that my little shadow is not able to get in the car and take trips with me.

Harder still is accepting that Carl is struggling. He is our most successful child. Carl is a gentleman who holds the door open for ladies in public. He carries my bags and hugs me in front of his middle school friends. It’s hard to accept that he also yells at me for hours and smashes his room to bits. It’s hard to accept that right now we need the emergency mobile psychiatric service team to come out 2-3 times a week for deescalation. It’s hard to reconcile the boy I know to the tornado of his emotions. I am trying to accept where he is emotionally at the moment. It’s hard to do.

In all my worry I turn to Luke. Late at night when my back hurts, or I’m filled with doubts, he wakes to hold me. Luke tucks me in close to his side. He shelters me from the storm of my own emotions. Never once has Luke told me I cannot feel what I am feeling. Right now I am in a space where I occasionally need a 2:00 AM snuggle session. He never questions why. This is acceptance.

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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The Prodigal Son is Homeless

He’s been sleeping in his car, apparently in a cemetery. Marcus is in another state, in a slum, sleeping on the street in his car. I cannot understand this choice for the life of me. Why does Marcus prefer living in his car to learning or skill to help him get gainful employment? He honestly can’t visualize his future at all.

He’ll say/shout, “I told you what I want for my future. I want MY CAR! I need to work on MY CAR! That’s what I need for my ‘future.’ I don’t have a future if I don’t have MY CAR!!!”

It baffles me and I feel as if we are always speaking a different language. Either way, we aren’t supporting him financially so that he can buy more pot and “soup up” the rusting Honda Civic from the 90s that has become his whole life.

I made a throwaway comment the day that he left. I sent him a text message (because he refused to talk to me) trying to convince him to go to his interview with Job Corps. I was so mad that he blew it off to work on his car. I said, “Unless you want to LIVE in your car…blah blah blah.” I didn’t mean that Marcus should literally live in his car. He did it anyway.

Marcus took off. I only saw him once since then. One Friday morning I found him asleep with some guy, in his car. He’d spent the night in his car, in our driveway. His bed was right there and he chose to sleep in the car. Marcus was wrapped up like a burrito in the fuzzy purple blanket I bought for him when he was a teenager. He didn’t really pack anything from his room but he took that blanket with him when he left.

Now, he calls because his car has been towed in the city where he’s been staying. He didn’t switch his license plates over from his first junker to his second. This means he was (recklessly) driving  an unregistered car when he got pulled over.

So, now he is sleeping…?

Marcus called begging for us to pay for the car to be towed to his biological dad’s house. His BD is a mechanic and tries to help Marcus on occasion. Marcus had no plan to go to his court date for this infraction, or register his car, or deal with his overdue emissions. As usual he had no plan for the future, no matter how immediate. It wouldn’t be so bad if he’d let us help him plan these things but he refuses to plan. Instead he calls and yells awful things at us.

Despite the fact that he called swearing and cursing me out, we knew he needed help. Unfortunately we couldn’t quite understand what he needed through all of the yelling and the obscenities. He is, of course, still refusing to come home. Marcus is clinging to the  phrase, “I was kicked out!”

He still won’t agree to any certificate program or apprenticeship. He is determined to…? His only plan is about his car. He says he needs to, “Get MY CAR back!”

Luke says that Marcus is like the fox. He heard a quote by Voltaire (and I am heavily paraphrasing here) that fits our son perfectly.  Marcus is like a fox you’re trying to free from a trap that bites you:

“It’s difficult to free fools from the chains they revere.”

**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

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