adoption, family

I Can’t

I can’t do it. I honestly just…can’t. It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s not that I’m sick of it. I just cannot. I’ve hit an immovable wall. I’d like to curl up and hide in my bed for several reasons.

The first of which would be my back injury. My last appointment with the neurosurgeon was a little under two weeks ago. We planned for the revision surgery to address the fact that my spine hasn’t fused and my hardware is loose. At the appointment the surgeon wanted to pull me out of work completely until after my surgery. I am obviously struggling and can barely move on a bad day.

However, I argued that I needed to finish out a few meetings and transfer things to my long-term substitute. I sort of bargained him into agreeing to let me work three days a week until I just couldn’t do it anymore. I needed a couple of weeks to get things done. He agreed that I could try this but that I had to call back for another note when I could no longer make it.

Fast forward to now. I cannot do it anymore. I wrapped everything up as best I could but I wasn’t even able to make it in on Friday. I called the surgeon’s office. For whatever reason, the physician’s assistant agreed to fax in a note stating that I was requesting not to work rather than a note of medical necessity. The nurse who called me asked, “Do you still want us to send it in? Are you sure you aren’t returning to work?”

Ummm….yes I am sure. I bargained for an extra two weeks which was most likely four weeks too many! I am not calling for fun, I am calling because I cannot do it anymore. I can’t. It has nothing to do with “wanting.” So now I have to wait until Monday to see if the doctor himself will change the note, or if I am about to lose all financial support and let my family suffer the consequences of my inability.

Then there is Mother’s Day. I can say that beyond a shadow of a doubt:

I hate Mother’s Day!

It’s a traumatic day for my adopted children. They’ve lost a mom, so it is hard. Things that remind them of their first mom bring up grief, anger, and a variety of complex emotions. Since she isn’t around, I get to bear the brunt of all that emotional baggage.

Marcus has taken off for parts unknown, as he typically does after an argument. At this point he’s given up most of the pretext of trying to get into job corps. This was what he had chosen out of a variety of options to further his future when we laid down house rules. Instead, he’s blown off the admission interview just days before his deadline. He had more important things to do like go to the junkyard and buy parts for his car, work on his car, and run out of gas money to get to work. Upon being reminded that his requirement to live at home without financial worry was to take one step toward bettering his future, he became very angry. He rage texted a few swears about me kicking him out and why did I adopt him just to tell him he has to leave and so on.

I know he was trying to hurt me. I know this is way of leaving, or processing, or whatever the reasons are behind this Marcus pattern. It still stung. He hasn’t returned in a few days and I’m pretty sure he skipped work Friday. He clearly isn’t coming home for our Mother’s day BBQ today because he isn’t even bothering to answer any text messages.

Mary isn’t here. It’s better than last year when Carl and I were locked in his room behind a deadbolt while she destroyed everything in a rage. Luke had to spend the day trying to safely contain her while we hid. It was awful. This year she is in RTC, she’s actually doing quite well, but it is still awful. I miss my girl.

Carl has been having a very difficult time these past weeks.

I just don’t feel like I have the energy left to cope with it. I know my children have trauma and it leads them to behave a certain way. It’s just that sometimes understanding isn’t the same thing as coping with. I selfishly want to hide away from my family all day because I’m miserable. So far I’ve managed to hide in my room with my essential oil diffuser, some cheesy television, and my laptop. Writing helps. Alone time helps.

I will need to emerge for tonight’s BBQ because my own mother will be there. The one good thing about this Mother’s Day is that I get to be with my own mom. Sometimes, only my mom can make things better. And isn’t today about honoring that very thing?

Until then, I just can’t. I can’t bring myself to emerge and deal with everything. My legs won’t move and my tears will start. So until my own mom comes? I just…can’t.

(Just as soon as I’ve finished typing this a text pops up from Marcus. And that’s something.)

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

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adoption, family

Am I Losing My Son/Mind? Part 3

When the state trooper arrives at our house to take a statement, Marcus has already come home with the car. He yells at Luke once and then runs outside. He parks himself on the hood of his car that-will-probably-never-run. This is where the trooper finds him smoking a cigarette and admitting he took the car without permission. Marcus agrees to remain calm and not escalate the situation. They have a calm conversation and the trooper returns inside, alone.

The officer compliments us about how nice our home is. He expresses concern about the amount of drug prevalence in the city where Marcus has been visiting Toxic Girlfriend. The whole event gets filed as a “domestic disturbance.” We are told to hide the car keys and call immediately if we think Marcus is driving under the influence. By the time the trooper leaves, Luke and I decide its time for bed. It would be better to approach Marcus when everyone is calmer and a bit more rational.

The next day Marcus again emerges after banking hours and demands the car for work. Still no gas. Still no car. He’s also lost parent-favor privileges and car privileges for the stunt he pulled the night before. We calmly but firmly let him know he must treat people well in order to elicit favors, such as rides to work.

Again he hides away and fires off a slew of curse-word laden texts to Luke. For whatever reason I am not the target today (this is a rare occurrence.) Marcus is angry. He feels that we are “unfair, Dawg!” He bemoans his fate at having to live in our rural location, calling it “East Bum-f-ck,” which sounds like an interesting town to me.

Soon after that, to our surprise, a taxi pulls up in front of our house. Marcus gets in and heads to work. He’s figured out a plan! At least he is resourceful. I am begrudgingly impressed. This an adult move. But then…

As Luke is leaving to work the overnight EMS shift in town, Marcus asks for a ride home. Apparently he didn’t plan that far ahead. He threatens to walk home at 1:00AM from work, which is two towns away.

We say, “OK.” We let Marcus know he will have to figure it out. If he wants his parents to provide favors, he will have to make restitution for his actions. If he plans to get to work he will have to plan how to get back from work.

I went to bed. There are just some problems I am not able to solve at 11:30PM. There are also some problems that really are not mine to solve. I’ve done my best. Marcus will now have to figure out the rest. Just in case, I leave the dining room lights on to guide him home.

At around 2:00AM my phone alerts me to the dining room camera’s motion-sensor. I peer blearily into the screen and see Marcus. He’s come home. He walks past the dining room and then leans back into the shot. He turns off the dining room lights before heading to bed.

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

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adoption, family

Am I Losing My Mind/ Son? Part 2

Marcus came home just in time to go to his second-shift job on Tuesday. He barely spoke to us, hastily agreed to put gas in the car, and then left for his shift at work. I got a text that he didn’t have any money left from his extended weekend. He said that he’d have to get up early the next morning and take out more from the bank to pay for “my gas.” He didn’t come home until we were already asleep. Wednesday afternoon rolled around and he was still in bed.

At this point Luke and I knew it was time to go over the house rules again. Marcus used to have future plans and ambitions. Somehow we ended up with a son who is going to work to buy pot, FaceTime Toxic Girlfriend all night and sleep all day. Not. Happening.

At around 2PM we pestered him until he woke up and came out for “the talk.” We gave him the tough love speech about living at home. He lives rent-free because he is supposed to be investing in Marcus. His four parameters are:

1) Complete daily/ weekly chores (he does this consistently so we praised him.)

2) No gas means no car. Pay for the gas you use or find an alternate way to get around.

3) No more pot. Not here, not on the property, don’t come home high.

4) There is a thirty day time limit to sign up for classes or job corps. Period.

Marcus took this about as well as you can imagine. He exploded out of the house to sit in his non-functioning car, rev the engine, and talk to his girl. We didn’t hear from him again until after banking hours. He requested to use the car. He didn’t have gas money because we didn’t wake him up in time to go to the bank.

Sorry, kid. No gas means no car. Maybe try using the alarm clock we bought you next time. Good luck getting a ride.

Here is where he loses it. He’s slamming doors and sending rapid-fire text messages that say things like, “This is f-ing b-sh-t dawg.”

When these tactics don’t work he takes the car. He actually steals my car. We keep dinner and lacrosse normal for Carl’s sake all the while texting to try and get the car back. Marcus sends vague text messages that he “will be home in 5 minutes” as the hours drag on. He isn’t at work. He isn’t returning the car. We live in a tiny town so the only responding officers to a problem are usually the state troopers.

Eventually Luke warns him that we will report the car stolen if he doesn’t bring it back.

“Do it,” is his only reply.

So we call it in and wait for the state trooper to come to the house for a report.

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

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adoption, family

Am I Losing My Mind/Son? Part 1

He’s been moody for weeks. He snaps at us and sulks around in his room. We know he’s been smoking pot. He disappears with the car or with friends to the “store” for long periods of time. His mood changes. He has been back in contact with Toxic Girlfriend and this never bodes well.

Marcus refuses to pay for his own gas when he drives my car to work. Directly after that he is mystified when the car is no longer available to him. It seems like he has given up all ambition to go to school, go to job corps, or get his electricians’ license. Marcus, at 20, has taken on the emotional state of an angst-ridden 16-year-old.

It isn’t out of the ordinary for children who have experienced trauma to be functioning on a much younger level, emotionally. It’s fairly common for children who have been in the foster system to have difficulty trusting in healthy relationships. It is, however, dangerous because Marcus now has the options of an adult. This part becomes tricky.

It started with a girl. The exact same girl who starred in the previous Marcus meltdown. He’s been into at least two girls between then but now we are back to Toxic Girlfriend and being-without-her-is-like-death. He alternates between yelling on the phone and crying into the phone.  Marcus cried continuously all Friday and then left “for the weekend” to “visit his bio-sister” in another city. This is code for being with Toxic Girlfriend.

So he leaves, after taking out $100 from his bank account. Luke reviewed a budget with him to include gas money to get himself to and from work. Despite being scheduled for several shifts, and an upcoming therapy session, he leaves. Marcus swears he will be home on Sunday. He swears he has a ride. He swears he understands what Luke went over with him about his budget.

It’s just that we “wouldn’t understand him” because “no one understands” him. He has to get away.

Sunday goes by. Monday goes by. More work shifts are missed. All we get are a few vague texts. They range from, “I’ll be home tonight,” to “I’ll talk to you guys in 5 minutes.”

On Monday a staff member is arrested for threatening to shoot up Carl’s school. This causes Luke and I to focus in on Carl and support him. Tuesday we decide to keep Carl home and give him Marcus’ therapy slot with their trauma therapist. We are pretty sure Marcus won’t make it back in time, anyway. It’s a good call because apart from a text from Marcus commenting on the school situation saying, “That’s so F-ed up!” we don’t hear from him.

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

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adoption, family

Fragile Peace

There is a fragile peace that lies somewhere between contentment and heartbreak. Lately I’ve felt more at ease about Mary. She is in a top notch private residential school. They know all about complex, developmental trauma. They understand the deep attachment struggles. I think that if anyone can help her, maybe they can. This comforts me when missing her rips away at my insides and keeps me up at night.

In a fragile kind of truce, Marcus and I are existing. After having the outburst where he smashed a TV in the basement (it was his own, he was waiting to sell it) he went dark. First, he cleaned up the glass and the wreckage. Then Marcus holed up in his room and spoke to no one, only sending angry texts to me occasionally.

The drama was apparently related to a girl. He loves her. He loves her as much as I love Luke. He can’t stand to be away from her. I never even gave her a chance/believe him/acknowledge his feelings. He is trapped here like an animal. He is caged in. Or so he says…I refused to have the fight. I  let him know that I wasn’t arguing with him and that I loved him. I’ve had a lot of practice at not taking the bait.

On the fourth day I went into his room and sat down at the edge of his bed. The last text just said that I was the mom and he was supposed to be able to talk to his mom about his feelings. He was cloaked in darkness and speaking in the softest whisper. I wasn’t allowed to turn on the light. He told me all about the girl, his feelings, how deep his love was for her. I’m pretty sure he dumped her a year ago because he didn’t like her anymore. Marcus is always back and forth this way.

I did the thing that I do best. I held him while he cried. I told him that he must be very heartbroken. I acknowledged the love he claimed, the depression, the fate of star-crossed lovers everywhere. And then I faced the thing I did not want to face. His move-out pattern. I told him if he chose to move back to that other state, into the city with those old friends, then I would support his decision.

He isn’t trapped. He’s asked to be here. He’s a grown man. But I made it clear that he didn’t need to start a huge fight with me to do it. I wasn’t going to make it easy by participating in the, “I-hate-you-I’ll-never-speak-to-you-again.” ritual. If he wanted a fight he’d have to do it without me.

So now we wait. Everything seems quiet. Marcus started a new job. Since our non-argument, I haven’t heard about the girl. Maybe the storm has passed.

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

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adoption, family

The Coming Storm

I’ve felt it coming. The oncoming of a storm settles itself deep into my lower back. The pelting rain and thunder is on its way. A real nor’easter is bearing down on us. The constant throbbing in my right hip repeats to me, “it’s coming, it’s coming.”

On these mornings I am frozen in bed, my muscles locked up and uncooperative. Attempting to move causes my bones to crack. My sacroiliac joints groan in protest. I am like the tin man without his oil. A half hour on the heating pad and some Tylenol help me to get to a functioning level of chronic back pain. Each groan and crack is whispering to me, “No matter what you try you will always end up back in this place. Always.”

We are seven months into Marcus’ latest return. The old wounds are still there, but just like anything else, we are learning to work around them. To be more accurate, I am learning to work around them. I am learning to stay so quiet. I am hoping not to rock the boat.

Over the last few weeks I can see him getting closer to me. Like a drowning man, he seeks the comfort of my life raft. Tighter and tighter he clings.

What he doesn’t realize is that each time he climbs into this raft, we all capsize. He mistakenly believes it will help him weather the storm inside of him. I want to believe it, too. Survival. This is what he knows.

But I know things, too. I am familiar with Marcus’ storm. Like the cracking of thunder he begins to smash things in the basement. The punching bag coping skill just isn’t working this time. Our house shakes in time to the thunder. Marcus is slamming doors and shouting loud guttural cries that have no words.

I’ve said no to taking my car out to “visit a friend” in the storm. It seems another storm has now moved in. A mere nor’easter is nothing compared to the Marcus storm. I felt it coming in my bones long before now. “He’s too close. He’s too comfortable,” they told me. “Soon he will be gone.”

Part of me wonders how we got here. Part of me knows how. We’ve been coming to this point ever since adoption finalization. Part of me wonders when it all began. Part of me knows it began long before I was ever in the picture.

All of me wonders if tonight is the night. Will he stay?

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

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adoption, family

The Quietest Mother

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I have to approach so slowly, so cautiously. Marcus is crying. It’s rare for him to ever cry out loud. Instead he will sit with silent tears streaming, unchecked, down his face. He is a statue of sorrow.

The well of hurt and loss inside him runs so deep. He isn’t like his other siblings. He hasn’t had the benefits of good therapy. He hasn’t had the benefit of a stable family, a place to stay longer than a few months. Foster care has trained him to be an island.

He’s crying. He needs his mom. He needs me. Marcus hates needing a mom. In the past, every time we have gotten close, he’s run. He will put as much distance between us as possible. He is a young man now but we’ve done this dance for years.

Eventually, he always returns. Then we continue the dance all over again. Perhaps, this time, he won’t notice me. I will be so quiet he won’t even notice a mother has crept up on him.

I try not to say “I love you,” too much. Even after the adoption I still tread lightly. I try not to show those deep feelings that so often spook him. I hug him sparingly and only if I warn him first. Keep things light, I tell myself. Don’t scare him off. Try to keep him this time.

In this moment I am so very quiet. I say in my softest whisper, “I’m going to hug you now.” Quietly, so quietly, I place my arms around him. And then suddenly he’s crushing his face into my shoulder. His embrace is fierce and tight. My sweater soaks up all his tears.

I stay like this, completely still, while he cries it all out. Later, he may resent having exposed this much emotion to me. Still, I stay. My legs go numb and my back is on fire. He is crushing me. I say nothing. I just stay here. I am the quietest mother.

Please stay, Marcus. I want you to stay.

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

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