Carefully, he drew the razor blade down his arm. Mustn't go too deep. He watched the blood bead up and trickle out of the line he just etched. It hurt, but he liked the pain. It brought a feeling of relief. A sense of control. It alternately dulled the pain inside and pushed aside the nothingness he sometimes felt. He craved it, with the same hunger that a junkie greeted a fix. For a few hours at least, he would feel strong again, and capable of coping with his life.
On April 20,1999, Dylan Kebold,18, and Eric Harris, 17, went on a shooting rampage at Columbine High-school in Littleton, Colorado. They killed 12 students and a teacher before turning their weapons upon themselves. The nation became consumed with trying to figure out what had caused these boys to carry out the massacre, which diaries confirmed, had been intricately planned for over a year. The aftermath, not only touched off mass sorrow, but tentacles of fear throughout schools nation-wide. Our high-school was no exception. We were already dealing with regular problems associated with city schools; gangs, and drugs. I can readily understand why, the authorities wanted to thwart any Columbine copy-cats, even though we were in the mid-west. Trench-coats were banned from school property ( the Columbine boys had hid rifles under theirs). Every rumor was treated as fact and duly reported to the authorities. Locker searches were impromptu.Any off the cuff remark such as; 'I could kill so and so', was gravely looked at. Two armed officers were posted at the high-school. Students were encouraged to report one another to their teachers or the police. Ultimately every rumor was turned over to the police for investigation. It became a witch hunt. Any student who wasn't of the 'norm' came under a watchful, suspicious eye. Michael was somewhat of a loner. He wasn't known as a trouble- maker but didn't back down from a fight. At 5' 7", and a slight build he wasn't an imposing figure. He wore his mahogany dyed hair longish. Baggy jeans and black Metallica t-shirts were clothing of choice. If it hadn't been for his over-bite, he would have looked like a lot of other teen-age boys. Though we had often discussed braces he steadfastly refused to get them, he felt on my salary they were a luxury that could wait. In a few months he would be out of high-school, and able to work full time. He looked forwards to that. Often he would say, "just wait, Mom, one day I'll be making some real money. Then you won't have to work so hard." He had worked hard to arrive at his senior year, and looked forwards to graduating that June. However, it suddenly seemed, he was collecting detentions the way some boys collect baseball cards. They ranged from 'messes' in the cafeteria, to failure to produce his school ID on demand. The oddest thing is they were all issued by Ms. J, an assistant principle, whom had recently acquired lunchroom duty. Michael claimed she had it in for him and several of his friends, because they were white. I viewed this as a skeptical excuse. True whites were the minority in this prominently Hispanic and Black district, but the idea, of a racist authority person seemed a bit much for me. I thought back over the years, 'the teacher doesn't like me,' was a tired easy excuse used for centuries. However, the inflection in his voice led me to believe that he at least believed it true. Since at my primary retail job, I worked with a lot of students from his school, I decided to ask around a bit. "THAT Rodman wanna be?" almost all said. "She's got it in for anyone who's different." Gently I'd probe for details. It seemed the woman was quite militant in her attitude towards those whom she felt, posed no real threat to her, the easy targets. Not the gang-bangers, known gang members, or tough looking kids. Nor the popular kids, or 'good' students. But the one's who were somehow set apart from the others, such as terrible acne, a speech impediment, extreme weight issues, or bucked-toothed, appeared to be her prime targets. If you were also white she seemed to especially delight in badgering you. Jumping on anything she could, even if it meant blaming you for someone else’s mess. "A Rodman wannabe?" I asked the first time I heard the expression. "You know, she acts like she's all that. Wears her hair real short and dyed real blonde. Thinks she's real hot ****." "But she is black?" "Yeah." Why would someone who is against those who are different go out of their way to be different themselves? This made little sense to me then or now. However since this seemed to be almost a mass opinion, I had to assume it had some truth to it.
I attempted to speak with Ms. J several times. I wanted to know exactly what was going on. Perhaps even meet with her and judge for myself her attitudes towards whites. She never returned my calls. Generally, a secretary would inform me after several minutes on hold, that she had evidently left, or was in a meeting. Would I care to leave a message? I always did leave my name, number where I could be reached, and that it was about Michael. After awhile I had the distinct impression that she was avoiding me. So I did what any parent would do, I spoke with the Principal, himself, and Michael's teachers. No one could help me with the why Michael was receiving so many detentions. All his teacher's said that though Michael struggled to maintain C's and the occasional B, he was a good kid. They admired his attitude and wished that more students shared it. I grew more puzzled while Michael's claim grew ever stronger in my eyes. I knew the other kids in Michael's group and reflected on them...they too were receiving detentions. Each in his or her own way was also 'different.' Eric, who was so terribly shy he couldn't look you in the eyes. Leslie, terribly thin.( If she weighed 100 pounds I would have been shocked.) Steve, whose face was terribly marred from acne, and Dave, who reminded me of a big, dumb mutt. Though each, at one time or another had their scrapes with the law, generally for petty crimes in junior high, not one of them was a 'bad' kid. They didn't belong to any gang. Didn't seek out or cause trouble. They were juniors and seniors, with average grades. To the best of my knowledge not one had a police record. Even if Ms. J wouldn't speak with me, their parents would. It appeared more and more that for some unfathomable reason our children were being singled out by Ms. J. "Mom, I just want to smack her!" Michael said in frustration more than once, telling me about yet another detention. "It isn't fair! She knows there's nothing we can do about her lies. I HATE that school! I HATE her!" and he would launch into another tirade about how she was singling him and his friends out, faulting them for things they hadn't done. I consoled him best I could. There was only a couple of months left of school. He would graduate, and he'd never have to see her again. His father worked for the school district, and I broached him with the problem. With his typical 'don't bother me' attitude towards me he dismissed the whole thing as a non-issue. School would be over in a few months. Michael had to learn to just take it. Same old Ed, I thought, don't stand up for anything that might rock your boat. Even if that 'anything' is your son. Mid-May, I received a call at work from the school informing me that Michael had been suspended. "Why?" I asked getting a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. " I'm not permitted to give you more information at this point. I was told to let you know about the 3-day suspension. His father has picked him up and has the details." I listened to the dial tone for a second.. What is going on? I thought. This isn't right. She can't give me information? What the hell happened? I found my supervisor and informed him that I was leaving now, family business. "What's wrong?" he asked looking down at me.
"I bloody well don't know. Something about suspending Michael. I really have to go..." I snatched up my purse from the cubby in the office.
"OK”, his tone indicated he knew better than to get in my way. "let me know if I can do anything." "Thanks," I called back over my shoulder as I hurried home. Michael was sitting hunched forwards on the edge of the sofa, rolling a can of soda between his palms. He didn't even look up when I entered and tossed my purse down on the table. Tension caused his legs to flex uncontrollably. "OK let's hear it," I finally spoke. In a voice that dripped with defeat, he muttered, " You're just going to believe them. Dad did. So what's the point?" He looked up at me. "I'm not your Father. I also want to hear your side of it. That's the point... I can't help you if you don't talk to me. Michael, you know that between the two of us, there is nothing we can't handle...talk to me." There was another long pause as he took a drink from the can, and began rolling it again unconsciously between his hands. I sat down in the rocker close to him, and lit a cigarette. "I wish you wouldn't smoke," he said automatically. "I wish you would talk to me," I countered. "I got all night." "You can't afford to miss work..." "What you aren't more important? Puh-lease...." I made a face, hoping he'd at least grin. Nothing. "I lost it ,Mom.....Ms. J got to me.....and I lost it..." his voice was taught. He shook his head almost imperceptibly as if in disbelief of himself. "I really ****ed up..." I winced at his use of the word, but I didn't bother to correct him. It had been a long standing rule in my home, that no words were taboo. If it was the only way to put your thought or feeling across, I would redeem it acceptable. However, I wouldn’t accept swearing just to use the words. I waited for him to continue. I could tell that he was trying hard to maintain some composure , searching for words that wouldn't come. Then as if he were somehow far way he began his account. It happened in lunch, they were all sitting together eating, shooting the breeze, when Leslie tossed a wadded up napkin at Dave, who batted it back. Instantly the crumpled paper became a ball being batted from one person to another , a form of hot potato, innocent fun. Just goofing off, laughing. Ms. J descended on them, growling that they had been warned about making messes. Someone, Leslie(?) whispered 'what mess?' "That's it! Everyone of you pass me your IDs. NOW!" They grumbled as they passed them up to her, knowing it meant yet another mass writing of detention slips. "That makes 3 detentions," Eric stated. Ms. J smirked. Every 3rd detention meant a 1 day suspension from school. By now Michael and his friends were out more than in school. "Michael! Where is your ID?" She demanded. "I told her it was there, Mom. All she had to do was look. But she was tripping. Saying no it wasn't. And she guessed that meant I had a 2 day suspension coming. I kept telling her it was in her ****in' hand if she’d just look!" "Is that the whole story?" I asked stubbing out my cigarette, sensing it wasn't. "Mom, she was IN MY FACE! I just wanted to hit her. She was being So stupid! All she had to do is ****ing LOOK and she wouldn't! But no, I can't hit her. So I turned away to gain control, just like you always say; 'control the situation, don't let it control you'. No offense, Mom, but that's just bull****," his voice was angry now that the verbal floodgates had opened." She grabbed my arm and demanded to know where I thought I was going, and...and…I lost it..." his voice trailed off. I felt my stomach clench. "Michael, did you hit her?" "NO!" the word exploded from him." I did not hit her! But I knew I was going to if I didn't get away from her. I was so mad, Mom. I started shaking. The next thing I knew I was slamming my fist into the lockers. And she's yelling at me not to be 'destructive!' I heard myself saying that if I wanted to be destructive I'd just blow up the ****in' school, or drive my car into her office and peel out on her desk! I didn't mean it, Mom," his words were tumbling over each other in the effort to get out. " She was just being so stupid. And then the cops were there and trying to handcuff me. And I kept telling myself to calm down but I couldn't. They were asking if I had explosives in my locker and other stupid stuff. And then dad was there..." his voice cracked..."The whole thing is stupid...all she had to do is look. She even handed my ID to the cops. I tried telling them that it was just words, that I had no plans to blow up the school or anything. But they kept saying I had threatened too.... I tried explaining. But no one would listen........" I sat in stunned silence, trying to absorb the account. It all sounded too fantastic, too illogical to have happened. When Michael next spoke, his voice was hallow. The voice of a broken spirit, " Dad told them I'd be evaluated, Mom. I can't go back 'til I am...He's with them. They think I'm crazy." He looked at me with the haunted look of a animal caught in a snare. I returned his gaze and answered his unspoken question, "I don't." Evidently, Michael's remark of ' if I wanted to be destructive I'd blow up the school,' was being treated as an actual bomb threat. Uniformed police and plain clothes detectives were dispatched to our home. They searched his room, the basement, and our garage. Looking for weapons and 'devices'. We were questioned about a book called, "The Anarchist's Cookbook". I knew the neighborhood grapevine was buzzing with rumors. Suddenly my son was a 'bad' kid. One cop actually told my son that if anything happened he would go down for it. That they had been told by a friend of his about the plans. It would be best if Michael came clean. Michael looked up at the cop and said, "then this friend is lying to you. There's never been any plan. This whole thing is stupid." I tried explaining that the remark was taken out of context. Detective Williams, a large black man, looked at me with understanding eyes. "Maybe so ma'am, but since Columbine, we have to investigate everything." I sighed, " I guess so... " I spoke with Ed, about the unnerving chain of events. Shrugging his shoulders, he simply stated that that was the was things were now. He had been given a choice either have Michael evaluated, or let Michael be arrested and the police would have him evaluated. Either way Michael could not return to school without it being done.
The earliest appointment we could obtain was in 2 weeks. This added more anxiety to the situation. That was enough lapsed time to put the diploma Michael wanted in jeopardy. I watched my son become more anxious and depressed. To their credit his teachers believed Michael was getting a raw deal, so they sent assignments home via Ed for Michael to do, which they would accept in lieu of class time and tests. Classes like P.E. and shop don't have homework. He needed to pass them to have enough credits to graduate, these teachers permitted a written report instead. I sat in the waiting room while Dr. Witowski spoke with Michael. After a bit, the doctor called me in and had Michael wait outside. I was told Michael was 'depressed'. "Considering the reason he's here, isn't that normal?" I asked. Whitman was a small white- haired man, with a bulbous nose. He reminded me of the pictures I had seen of gnomes in fairytale books as a child. "Yes, indeed," he had a thick accent, making it hard for me to understand his words. " However, there is much he is repressing. I understand you are divorced? And that you work two jobs?" I nodded. " In many cases, the child feels abandoned by both parents. No matter how valid the reason. I wish to continue seeing Michael." "Tell me this Doctor, is my son dangerous to himself or others?" " No, I do not think so. He is depressed yes, and suffers from acute growing pains in layman's terms. But, I do not see him in immediate danger." Michael did not wish to continue seeing Witowsky. According to him not matter what he said the doctor twisted it telling him no, that is only what you think, this is how you really feel. "He just makes me feel worse ,Mom." Secure that it was only growing pains, I let it go.
Michael was back to school for one day, before Ms. J accused him and another boy of plotting to kidnap her. Again, he was instantly suspended. "What the ****?" he was angry now. " They tell me get evaluated and I can come back and they start this ****?" "What happen, Michael?" "I dunno, Mom... We were in lunch and Eric said something about he'd like to put Ms. J in a trunk for all this ****, and I agreed. Next thing I know we're suspended." His eyes were bitter. He looked nauseous. "This is all SO ****IN' STUPID!" The words tore from his throat. Inside I was echoing the same thought. I was really becoming agitated. My work at both jobs was beginning to suffer. Though immediate supervisors were trying to be supportive, they only knew that it concerned my son. I did not give out details. Obviously though, when detectives come looking for you to talk, it's something big. And of course there were the rumors. Detective Williams, an officer and I stood in the bay at my second job. "He did what?" I asked in disbelief. "He actually said this to her?" "No, ma'am. He and another boy were overheard plotting in the cafeteria." "Overheard by whom? Exactly what was said?" My head was reeling. I was told that they were overheard talking about putting her in a trunk and teaching her a lesson. I grasped at a straw..."In what context was this said?" Detective Williams face was soft and compassionate. "I only got the report, ma'am, I wasn't there. But we would like to question the boy further. Your husband says he is given to acts of violence?" "Excuse me?" I could not have possibly heard right. " And he's my ex." I corrected almost from habit. "His father said that Michael could be violent? That the doctor said he was depressed?" Inwardly I sighed, damn you, Ed. What the hell do you think you're doing? "The physiologist did say that Michael is depressed, but he felt that he wouldn't cause harm to anyone. " "Well, we would like to speak further about this. When would you be home so we can talk to you and Michael?" "I get off at 10...be home by 10:20 or so.." "Then I'll meet you then. Thank you for your cooperation." with a jerk of his head, he and the officer left. I felt as if I was slowly being buried alive. Somehow Michael and I had stumbled into quicksand, and I had no idea how to get us out... The meeting solved nothing from my point of view. They asked Michael the same set of questions over and over again. Saying that Eric had already confessed, and had said Michael had planned it all out. Michael denied it repeating them what he had told me. I kept silent, but thought it odd. If they had any real proof why wasn't Michael being arrested? Or taken in for questioning? The whole thing made no sense to me. A letter came from the school, stating a hearing was to be held to decide if Michael should finish the year at an alternative school. This was really more of a half-way school for incorrigible kids, who were just short of jail terms. No way did Michael deserved that.Hearing...court, it sounded so legal. I didn't know if Michael needed an attorney or not, so I called up one I knew. Paul wasn't only an attorney, but a good friend. Even if this wasn't exactly his field he would point me in a direction. Over the phone I told Paul what was going on. " If you want, Val, I could make a case of it. But you're talking only a few more weeks of school left. And a school hearing is just a kangaroo court. You can call Simon Partridge, he's a school attorney. He might be able to pull a few strings for you. But really,you'd be wasting money. School boards will do what they want. " he was silent for a moment. " So this is what I advise you to do..." Paul and I spoke for a good 45 minutes. I will forever be grateful, that he took the time to dispense the advise he gave me. He even contacted Partridge for me, whom upon hearing it was Paul calling gladly said to add his name to the list. I arranged the day of the hearing off work. Together Michael and I entered the small conference room. His father was already seated at the table. Six people entered the room, and introduced themselves.The school principal, two case workers, the school physiologist, a member of the school board, and a secretary. Almost immediately Mr. Blakenship pulled out a sheaf of papers; the first was merely a formality for us to sign stating who was there. The second he explained was the paper work to have Michael transferred to the alternative school. I saw Michael's face crumple as his father signed the paper. It was as if I literally saw his mind tear, to him the signing was betrayal. An admittance to his guilt. That he was 'bad' and deserving of the punishment.
"Excuse me, but you're all acting as if this is a done deal," I stated as the paper was handed to me. Heads jerked in my direction. Clearly they had not expected this. Placing the paper and pen on the table in front of me, I looked at them. " I had been warned that this would be a kangaroo court, but I had thought you would at least go through the motions." My mother had always told me I had the gift of gab, and could charm the moon from the sky if I wanted. Well, now I could only hope I had a verbal assault rifle. "Why who told you that?" Mr. Blankenship's voice smacked of insincerity. "The signing of this paper will only expedite things should we find it in Michael's best interest to transfer. In that way he should graduate on time." "Where is this infamous Ms. J? I thought my son had the right to face his accuser? " More looks darted around the room, someone mumbled something about her being at another meeting. "I see," I allowed ice to creep into my voice. "Interesting isn't it? The woman can not be bothered to return calls nor attend a meeting that is deciding on the future of one she is attempting to ruin." I allowed my words to hang in the air. " Perhaps someone here can explain to me why all of Michael's detentions were issued only by her ?" Mr. Blakenship was the first to speak, " Oh, I doubt that..." "Look in his file...you do keep that on file don't you? " I turned my full gaze on him. " I urge you to investigate this woman. Word from the students I work with is she has it in for white kids. It maybe too late for my son, but what about those who will still be here?" I drew a breath, and kept my voice steady. " I can assure you that if she is NOT investigated, I will go public with this." Eyebrows arched around the room, more furtive glances exchanged. " If you doubt that I will, ask Dr.Peterson" I dropped the superintendent's name like a small bomb. "I don't think you understand what alternative school is..." one of the social workers began. She was a small sparrow like woman wearing a maroon pantsuit. " I know what Simon Partridge told me," I interjected, dropping bomb two, "and what Paul Granite, my attorney said about it." Bomb three. "Your attorney?" Mr. Blakenship's balding head swung towards me. "Do you really feel that you'll need legal action?" "If the need arises," I was careful to keep my voice sturdy. Don't falter now, I whispered to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ed staring at me, wondering who the hell this woman with wrought iron nerves was. " We're talking a matter of weeks until Michael graduates. I believe my son is being railroaded, along with several others... Now you may con yourselves into believing that once this 'matter' is dispensed with, then there will be nothing more said. That you can do as you please. I would take my words very seriously if I were you. For no matter what you decide is Michael's fate, I will see that Ms. J is fully investigated, and the school board exposed, for their negligence in protecting our children from tyranny. Am I quite clear?" I had locked eyes with Mr. Blakenship. I sensed he was weighing his words. " If we were to permit Michael to finish out the year here, what about the graduation ceremony?" "I won't go to it," Michael's voice came out just above whisper. "All I want is my diploma. I never want to see this place again." "So whether you will attend or not, is not an issue for you?" I saw confusion dance across Blakenship's face for a second, then ease as Michael shook his head 'no.' "Well, then...we will take this all under advisement. You will have our verdict within a week." He looked at the paper still unsigned in front of me. I picked it up and handed it to him. "You're signature.." he began. "When the decision is reached," I finished for him. They all stood in unison then, and gathering papers, folders, preceded to file out the door. The three of us, Michael, his father and I just stood there for a moment. Ed stared hard at me before he spoke, " I thought I told you not to cause trouble?" "I will fight for what I believe in ,Ed. These kids' need a voice. If it falls to me then fine." I suddenly felt weary. Self-doubt peeked at me. Had I done Michael more harm than good? They had decided to make an example of him, what if I hadn't made things any better but worse? "Mom believes in me , Dad." I saw Ed reach for his son, but Michael shrugged away, and turning on his heel said, "c'mon, Mom, let's go." I hurried after his long strides, but not before I saw the look of hurt and confusion on Ed's face. We were barely in the car when Michael said, "I can't believe Dad did that, Mom. How could he just sign those papers like that?" " Michael, I don't know if my NOT signing was right either. I mean if it will do any good...I'm punching in the dark here, you know?" "At least you're punching, Mom...at least you're punching..."
Ed tried to make up with Michael several times after that, but Michael had retreated to a place where Ed couldn't reach him. I saw my son grow tenser, and even more depressed. "Dad, believes the worst of me ....he wouldn't even stand up for me," I over-heard him telling friends. " He believes all the crap everyone else says. Doesn't matter what I say or do. He thinks I'm suicidal, because some social worker SAID I could be. He thinks I'm a looser because I don't get real good grades. I'm not something he can brag on. My mom sees the good in me, why can't he?" Over the course of the next few days all of Michael's teachers called me, either at home or work, stating they believed he was getting a raw deal, he wasn't a bad kid. There wasn't much they could do, because Michael was still barred from school property, but they could waive his finals, his final grade would be enough to pass. I relayed this information to Michael, hoping he would see not all adults were against him as he seemed to believe. "This means you will graduate, Michael. One way or another," but the black cloud descending on my son, only seemed to deepen. Around this time, I began to notice a series of small scrapes and cuts appearing on his forearms. Nothing serious. If I asked where they came from it was either he didn't know, or at the junkyard pulling this part or that from a wreck. A very logical answer, but there was something wrong with it. I couldn't put my finger on it. I just knew that those marks, didn't appear accidental to me. One night, Michael came storming in from his grandparents' house. I heard his father speed away and knew they had argued, again. All they ever seemed to do anymore was argue. With a few quick strides Michael had slammed the door to his room shut. BOOM! I heard the unmistakable sound of fist on drywall. BOOM! BOOM!
"Michael!' I called out , knocking on his door, trying the knob and finding it locked. "Michael! What's wrong?" Silence greeted me. Then as I pressed my ear to the door I could hear sobbing. "Michael? Open this door. Open it NOW!" "Go away, Mom. Just go away. Let me be." Michaels voice was heavy with tears. Part of me wanted to kick the door open. The other part staid me, give the boy time to compose himself. "Michael, I'm here. Talk to me ,baby. I'll be right here in the living room. OK?" More muffled sobbing. I went and sat down in my rocker. I felt a lot like crying myself. I wanted to help Michael. To fix what ever was hurting him...but how could I even begin, if he wouldn't talk with me? I picked up the phone and dialed Ed's number. He was the only other one who could tell me what had transpired to upset Michael so. I got Ed's answering machine. I didn't bother with a message, just hung up. I stared at Michael's door for what seemed a long time. Finally he emerged, eyes swollen ,red ,and puffy, and shuffled into the bathroom. I heard water running. Nose blowing. Quietly ,I went back and sat down in the rocker and flicked on the TV. He moved like one very old. I watched him make his way to the sofa and collapse into it. My heart wrenched. "Don't push." I told myself. "He'll talk in his own time."
"Want a pop?" I asked standing up. He nodded almost absently. Coming back from the kitchen, I passed the open bathroom door. A mess on the sink attracted my attention. The peroxide bottle stood open, and there were tissues here and there. I recapped the bottle and spied droplets of blood in the basin. I wiped them up,and placed the bottle back on the shelf. Entering the living room, I handed Michael the pop. "How's your hand?" "Fine." "Let's see," I said reaching for it. "It's fine." He jerked it away. "OK. Might want to put ice on it though." I sat down and sipped my coffee. "Want to talk about it?" Long pause. "They think I'm a looser, Mom." "They who?" "Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Uncle Mike and Aunt Sue. They all do. They said I'll never graduate. Never be anything. Dad told them everything that bitch, Ms. J said, Mom. And it didn't matter what I said. They all were against me. " Fresh tears rolled down his face. "Only you believe in me, Mom. Only you." I sat there for a moment lost for words. Surely this wasn't right. Michael was their only grandson, and I knew without a doubt, no matter how they felt towards me, they loved him. "Michael? Could you have misunderstood what they said?" "No, Mom. You know how Dad is. Well the principal said, these Professionals said. And they CAN'T be wrong, can they? They have degrees so they must be right. It must be fact. He told them stuff the way THEY said it. I'm just a ****-up. So of course it just made me look worse.," his voice cracked. I went and knelt on the floor by him. "Listen to me," I began, laying my hands on his knees and looking up into that tear-stained face. " Sometimes when everyone seems set against you, you just have to decide to show them how wrong they are. You will get that diploma. One way or another. And you will get a job. And if they can't appreciate how strong you were not to hit that woman, and to get this far, then it's their loss. But, baby, they DO love you. It might not seem like it at this moment, but they do. Really." He looked at me with doubting-Thomas eyes. "I love you. Can you remember that?" I asked as I eyed the long angry, scratch that went the length of his forearm. Just a scratch I told myself. Just a scratch. It seemed to be the longest week in our lives. Michael slept a lot, and rarely spoke. I worked my usual 9 am to 10 pm shifts. While others were planning graduation parties, and getting measured for caps and gowns, we awaited the school board's decision. Finally word came. They would grant him his diploma but he wasn't allowed anywhere near the school during the graduation ceremony. Ed brought the diploma home. Perhaps we didn't have the pomp and circumstance of a big ceremony, but he HAD graduated. Never have I seen anyone hold their diploma with such pride or reverence as Michael did that day. " I got it! I got it, Mom!" "You sure do." I smiled up at him. Once more I saw the old Michael.
The happiness of that moment didn't last long. Financially we struggled. Michael searched for work everyday, and argued with his father over everything. He wanted Ed to help him buy a car. Ed however,wasn't willing to go more than a couple of hundred. These beaters never lasted long, and were costly to repair. I understood, Ed's hesitancy on buying Michael a 'nice' car. For one thing insurance was sky-high for a boy's Michael age. For another, Michael loved speed. Michael wanted big, fast, impressive. Ed gave him small, sluggish, and it does run right? Michael's frustration grew over not being able to get work, and being at the mercy of our work schedules on what shifts he could take. His arms were constantly scratched, but I bought his excuses of the junk yard accidents, or playing too rough with the cats. July came, hot and heavy. Ed said there was an opening for summer help at the school. Michael leapt at the chance. All summer he worked with his father. Stripping floors, varnishing them. Moving classroom furniture to shampoo the rugs. He found the work boring. "Dad never tells me we're doing this this and this ,Mom. When I finish something I have to stand around like an idiot and wait for him to give me something else to do. It's stupid." Still, every morning he rose early and rode in with his dad. He saved a bit of every check to buy his dream vehicle. More than anything he wanted a pickup truck. He constantly showed me pictures in magazines, prowled car lots and ads, comparing prices. We both knew that new, it was almost a fantasy to ever have, but perhaps used. I never understood why, but whether he should get a truck or not, seemed to be a battle field for him and Ed. I would listen to Michael's grumbling, and tried to explain to Ed, that this was a dream he should be sharing with Michael. "OK, so you don't agree. Can't you just talk with the boy, instead of flat out 'no'? Does everything always have to be your way or no way?" I never got Ed past an explosive, "I don't LIKE trucks, that's why!" I knew Michael wasn't fairing any better, and to make matters worse, Ed enlisted the aide of his parents in talking Michael out of ever owning a second-hand truck. In Michael's eyes it was pitting them against him. Once again he was 'stupid' and 'didn't know anything'. Try as I might, I couldn't get Ed to understand, that it didn't matter if those words were ever used or not, it was the way Michael felt. "Well, it isn't that way, Val," Ed would say turning away from me. I noticed more scratches and cuts appearing on Michael's forearm. One day, after slamming into the house from a talk with his father, he disappeared into his room. Wham! Wham! I could hear him hitting the walls. Going to his closed door, I called out, "Michael, I'm not repairing any more holes! You need to learn to control that anger! Do you hear me?" He had fallen ominously quiet. "Michael?" I tried the door to find it locked. "Michael! You open this door, this second! You hear me, Michael?" More silence. "Michael, if you don't open this door, I will kick it down." Slowly, the door opened, Michael stood there, looking pained and annoyed. Something about his stance, the way he held his arm slightly back, drew my attention. " What you do? Hurt your hand?" I said stepping past him into his room. " Oh my God, Michael!" I gaped at the three large holes freshly punched into the drywall. " What has you so angry?" That's when I saw the droplets of blood trickling onto the floor. "Michael?" Instinctively, I grabbed his arm to look at the damage. He pulled away, but not before I had seen the long red line coursing his arm. It was too straight to be 'accidental'. I felt as if I had been suckered punched. I heard myself mouthing words, I already knew the answer to. "Michael? Are you cutting yourself?" "I'm only doing it to scare Dad, Mom." I stared up into those hazel eyes of his. "Well, you're scaring me! Stop it !" I held out my hand, "Let me see," I heard the don't-mess-mess-with-me tone in my voice. By the look in Michael's eyes, I knew he was reading my tone, debating on whether to defy me or not. He was no longer a little boy, but a young man, what was I going to do about it? Slowly he showed me his arm. The cut wasn't very deep. The blood was already staunching itself. " Make sure you wash that well. Use peroxide. You don't need stitches, but that will scar." I forced my voice to remain steady, and matter -of-fact. " Why are you trying to scare your dad?" "I don't want to talk about it. You wouldn't understand," Michael said flatly. "Try me, Michael." "I said, you wouldn't understand." "Maybe not. But, we won't know until you try." "Why do you care, Mom? It isn't as if you and Dad even like each other." "But we both love you. And if something is driving you to do something this stupid," I looked at his arm, " then I care very much, and I have the right to know." He pushed past me and went into the bathroom. I followed and watched from the door way as he washed the drying blood off. "Michael talk to me. Please." Silence. " Michael, maybe we should get you some therapy or something -" "NO!" The single syllable tore from his mouth. "Now you sound like him and everyone else. Everyone keeps saying I'm crazy, and depressed. Why can't you just let me be? This," he held out his arm, "THIS scares Dad into leaving me alone. To stop telling me over and over that the school psychologist said I was depressed. That they all think I may turn suicidal. That I better get my act together..." He seemed to be running out of steam. " THIS makes me feel better," it was almost a whisper. "Makes you feel better? How?" I felt my self dividing. Part of me morbidly fascinated, another part was in revulsion. Still another calmly denying that I was hearing him right, while still another was screaming hysterically, that he needed HELP. " I can't explain it, Mom. It just releases some of the anger, and pain. It feels kind of good." He looked at me, "Told you, you wouldn't understand." He went to step past me, and I placed my hand on his shoulder. "Promise me you won't do this anymore. Promise?" "I'm going out," he walked away from me. I stood there, scared, confused. He looked back at me with pity in his eyes. "I love you, Mom." He paused at the door, waiting for my traditional, 'I love you more' , reply. Instead I asked, " when will you be back? " "Couple of hours, I guess. Just going to chill with Dave." "Alright. Love you more." Inside I was in turmoil. I didn't know what to do. Something is not right with a person who resorts to self-mutilation. But this was MY son. Was he telling the truth? Was he just trying to get his Dad to back off? He didn't appear depressed to me. At least not severely. He went out, he had friends... true he seemed bored and restless at times, but.... he HAD been depressed during his last few months of school, but given what was going on who wouldn't have been? The more I tried to think and reason it out, the more confused I became. I reached for the phone and called Ed. Like it or not, SOMEONE was going to give me some answers. "Ed? It's me... Did you and Michael have a fight?" I listened to his strong, self-assured voice come over the phone. " Yeah, he wants to buy some old Chevy pickup -mudder. I told him no way. I just don't think he could handle something like that. Given everything he put us through I don't think he's responsible enough. And the truck would be a waste of money. If he asks you tell him no." " Did you go look at this truck at least?" "Didn't have to. It's probably a piece of ****. It's a ' '76, for crying out loud. And I don't want him having anything that big." " Well, maybe it IS what he needs, Ed. I don't know. Did you at least tell him why you thought he shouldn't?" " Val, I said no. That's all there is to it." I knew he was warming up for an argument with me then. "Val, I said" was the infamous start to just about every argument we ever had. It was the same as saying, you have no say so in the matter. I wasn't up for it, so I mumbled an excuse to hang up.
Bits and pieces from over the past few months jostled and churned in my head. Michael, had no direction, had no idea what he wanted to do with his life. He was, like so many others lost. He wasn't college material. He wasn't sure if he wanted to enlist or not.Quite a few of his friends were leaving in the fall. Off on the grand adventure of being an 'adult'. He was cutting himself...that sure wasn't good. He didn't want help either. I knew you can't force help down a person's throat. That's why rehab fails so often, the person doesn't want to be rehabilitated. I had no one I felt could give me advise on this matter. " God, what am I suppose to do here?" I whispered. Michael didn't come home until about 2 am. I hadn't been able to sleep, and I watched him stumble in the front door. Drunk. Obviously, stinking, falling-down drunk. I debated whether to speak or not. Looking back, I guess I should have been angry, after all he was still a minor, and I know all too well, that the answer to any problem isn't in the bottom of a bottle, but all I felt at that moment was relief that he was home. That he was safe. I watched him grope his way to his room and fall across his bed. I went and stood over him. Out cold. I simply stood and stared at the angry red line on his arm. I noted the numerous other small, pale scars. How many of those are self-inflicted? How long has this been going on? This isn't just trying to scare anyone....this is SICK. No! No! he isn't SICK, just lost and confused. He needs SOMETHING. Something to occupy his time.... I think that was the first night, I didn't sleep. I listened instead to the warring factions in my head. Arguing both sides, feeling myself becoming more muddled. Was this just growing pains? His rebellious stage? Or was it deeper and more sinister? No one wants to admit that someone they love has become mentally ill... I wasn't any different. Working both jobs the next day was long and even more tiring. Twelve hours dealing with the public on no sleep, doesn't put one in the best humor. When asked what was wrong, all I said was that I was tired, a bout of insomnia that's all. I knew Michael hadn't gone into work. I told his dad I thought it was the stomach flu. Michael had begged me to lie, and given his current status with his dad, I thought it best. The lie left me with a metallic taste in my mouth. I debated on trying to tell Ed what I'd seen and keeping my mouth shut. I knew he would blame me. Everything was always my fault, wasn't it? I wasn't looking forwards to him punctuating the blame with his fists either. That's how he drove home that he was right, and you were wrong. Painfully wrong... As the week wore on, I watched Michael become more listless. He still went to work, but when I came home, it was obvious that he and his father were still arguing. He expressed to me how stubborn his dad was being over that 76 mudder, his frustration that he wouldn't even go LOOK at it with him..."Guy's only asking $2000 for it, Mom, and all Dad says is noooooooo." He drew out the 'o', imitating his Dad. I smiled. " You are your Dad's clone you know that?" " Awwww no, Mom. Hell no! It isn't my fault I look like him!" " Yep. You're stubborn like him too... keep walking into the wall, don't look to see if maybe there's a way around it..." I waited to see if Michael would take the clue I was giving him.... "****!" I watched the light go on." Mom, you mean YOU'D come look?!" I saw hope fill that face for the first time in weeks. I think my mind was made up before we even pulled into the drive of where it was. Let me make this clear, I know very little about car's in general. I know they need gas to go, and oil to keep the engine running. However, I have been around enough mechanics to be able to B.S. about them. I looked at this 'mudder' and had one clear thought, "God, That's big!" The tires came to my chin. Which made it easy to check the tread. The bed wasn't too badly rusted, and the body needed some work. I had Michael fire it up. The engine spit and caught with a deep rumble and roar. Exhausts and muffler needed work. I spoke to the owner, a slight young man, but my eyes were riveted on Michael's face as he sat behind the wheel. The boy was absolutely glowing. " Can I give you the answer in 24 hours?" I had to yell to be heard." I want some mechanic friends of mine to check it out first." "Yeah. Sure thing, Lady. Sounds like a good idea." Michael babbled happily all the way home, as I explained that this guy I knew owned a couple of mudders and I wanted to pick his brain. I also wanted to call Jerry, the owner of the station where I worked and see if he'd check it out. "$2000 isn't a lot for that beast," I told Michael, "but it IS $2000 we don't have to throw away." " You mean there's a chance, Mom? I might get it?" His face suddenly fell, " But Dad said 'no' ," it came out a defeated whisper. " Well....you let me deal with him...if I decide it's ok." Jerry stared at the blue and rust beast. I watched him pop the hood and peer in jiggling this, touching that, while Jeff , my mudder pal cranked it over. " Wellllllllllllll," Jerry's southern drawl floated down to me as he jumped off the bumper, and signaled Jeff to cut the engine. "She'll need work. " "But is she safe?" I looked from one to another. Jeff leaned over, "tires alone worth more than $2000." "Safe? Yeah, she's drivable. Seems fairly sound. But it's no street vehicle," Jerry said. I smiled up at them, and thanked them for coming out. I walked around the truck, gnawing my lower lip. $2000 would buy a lot of groceries, pay some bills. " $2000 will buy a smile on his face, and something to pour time and energy into. Something that he can point to and say, I DID THAT, " my little voice whispered. "Buy some time for him. Time to sort things out for himself."
"Three rules, Michael, one) you can't drive it until you've made it street-legal, two) if you ever drive it high or drunk, it becomes mine, and three) you leave it named ' Premeditated Mudder '." I watched Michael's jaw drop, and his face light up like Christmas morning. " You mean it, Mom? I can have it? Really? " He was dancing about, unable to contain his excitement. " Really, Mom?" "Yes! Really!" I smiled at him. My heart soared a bit. Oh, yeah this is well worth $2000. Ed was not pleased. "What the **** are you thinking ,Val?" I instinctively backed up. Ed's frame filled the door way. "You bought him that...that piece of **** after I said no?" I saw the thunderclouds roll over his features. I felt my muscles tighten, preparing for the upcoming blows. My legs prepared to pivot, so that he would strike my back and not my face. Years of trying to out run him had taught me better. Running from him only made things worse. "Now, you are going to take it back aren't you? " He took another step into my small living room, "You'll tell Michael you thought it over and saw I was right..." "NO!" Even I jumped at the force of my voice. I pushed my shoulders back and stood straight. "I will not. I am NOT your wife anymore. Michael is MY son too, and I will do as I feel best for him. If you have a problem with that then get a lawyer. Quit trying to play hardball with me, when you aren't even little league. I mean it, Ed. If you EVER try to hurt Michael or me again, I will hurt you in ways you never dreamt possible," I had allowed a hard, cold edge to creep into my voice. " Now, please leave." For what seemed an eternity Ed just stood there gaping at me. I had always been so easy to bully. He did not understand where this new strength was coming from. We had been divorced 6 years , and in those years he hadn't hit me, but the 16 we were married had conditioned me to certain responses. This wasn't one of them... I held no 'power' where he was concerned. The fact that I had even left him was still a mystery to him. This was the second time I had deified his authority. The first when I had refused to sign at the school board hearing, and now. He spun suddenly and slammed out to his car. I watched as he sped away, then leaned heavily on the armchair for support, as I wondered at myself. The summer rolled to a close. As the school year started Michael’s job with the school district ended. He took work as a cashier at a local store, and worked on the mudder every chance he got.Somewhere along the way, he began hanging out with Leslie more and more. They had been friends during high-school, and as she entered her junior year, their friendship deepened and grew into love. Often when I arrived home from one job or the other, I would see the two of them together, her long blonde hair, tied back in a ponytail, leaning close to his mahogany brown hair, as she tickled him, or they wrestled on the sofa. Michael had never seemed happier. October brought on Michael's 19th year. I had never seen him so happy. Yet there were worries. I knew that he was smoking pot and drinking. I also knew he and Leslie were having sex. I confronted him several times on these issues. He'd smile that goofy smile of his, the one you just couldn't help returning, and say, " don't worry, Mom."
"But I DO worry..."
Looking back, maybe I wasn't such a great mom. Maybe, I should have been tougher on the drinking issue...harsher about the pot. Maybe I should have tied his penis in a knot...I don't know... But, the simple truth is, these were teenage problems I understood. God, forgive me, to me they were proof of his normalcy. Yes, we fought about it, sometimes bitterly. I recall one fight in particular.I had confiscated a 5th of Jack Daniels from him and some friends. Michael was furious with me, he even tried to snatch it from me as I poured it down the sink. Always I had gone through great lengths to not embarrass him in front of his friends, and here I was in front of them all pouring out their precious booze. "Bottom line you are ALL minors! You guys get picked up drunk, and who do you think takes the fall? ME, that's who!" I spat out the words, making sure they knew how much I disapproved. "We'll say you didn't know..." they protested. "Bull****! They won't care. I'm the only one here over 21. It's MY house. What you think they'll believe I lived this long and don't know drunk when I see it? Or what POT smells like??" Stunned silence...they hadn't realized that when I had come home early, that pungent sweet-smell had assaulted me as soon as I had crossed the threshold. They seriously thought I was 'too good' to know what it was. "No. I don't care if you're parents allow it or not. Not in MY house, whether I'm here or not!" With a final flourish I tossed the now empty bottle into the trash. "Now, I suggest you all leave. Not you, Michael. You, I'm not finished with..." Michael was angry. I could see it in the clenching of his jaw, and the narrowing of his eyes. We stood there glaring at each other,while the other boys beat a hasty retreat out. " How could you embarrass me like that, Mom? In front of my friends?" "Well how could you abuse my trust like that?" I shot back. " Michael, there are laws and rules we MUST obey..." "**** you, Mom!" My hand slapped him across the face without my knowledge practically. "I am your Mother, and you will not speak to me in that way!" Immediately , I saw my own shock register in his eyes...I had NEVER hit Michael before. "Fine!" he spat back, walking past me, "I'll just go live with Dad." "Fine! " Inside, I was trembling. I forced myself to remain in the kitchen and not go after him. I heard his bedroom door slam. I closed my eyes, and swallowed hard. "Please, God, don't let him be cutting himself in there...Please." I heard him blaring Metallica on his stereo as loud as it would go... I made myself count to ten before I went and pounded on his door. "Turn that DOWN!" Still the music blared as I pounded harder. Finally I tried to throw the door open but found it locked. Panic grabbed me. "Michael! You open this door NOW! Or I will kick it down!" My voice was almost a scream. In my minds eye, I saw him slowly drawing a razor blade down his arm... one final "MICHAEL!" and I threw myself against the door. The door was a cheap hollow-core, glorified plywood. It gave after just two lunges. I practically fell into the room. Michael jumped up from where he was sitting on the bed. I bellowed, "TURN THAT THING DOWN!" " Why the hell did you break my door?" he asked as he obeyed. "Why didn't you answer?" My heart was pounding in my chest, as my eyes raked his arms for signs of cutting...I felt my heart hitch with relief as I saw no new marks, just hundreds of old scars. "What do you want, Mom? Must be a helluva reason for you to do that..",he pointed at the door's molding hanging precariously. I looked at him, and decided to tell him a simple truth. "I just wanted to be sure you understood, that when you find out you're dad's is no bed of roses, that your room will still be here. This will always be your home." Was that a wave of relief I saw flicker through his eyes? "Really, Mom?" "Really,' I turned to leave his room. "Guess we better fix that door huh?" "Yeah, I guess. Mom?" I turned my head back towards him questioningly. "I love you, Mom." I felt my heart sigh, "Love you more." That October I began a new job as office manager for a small communications firm. For the first time, I was earning enough money that there was no need to work two jobs anymore. Life, it seemed had finally taken a turn for the better for us. Christmas came and went. Leslie and Michael seemed joined at the hip. They were always together at her house or ours. Leslie was not what one would term a 'good' girl. I knew she smoked weed, and drank, and was often truant from school. While she was always polite and respectful of me, I knew she had a real mouth on her. I also knew she had awaken something within Michael. He seemed more confident. More...alive. Despite, any negative thoughts or notions I had about Leslie, I felt she was also good for Michael, and I loved her for it. That, year was a golden year for him. He was happy and in LOVE. Again there was unexpected dancing in my kitchen, and though must of his time was devoted to Leslie, away from me, there was laughter. Oh, I had almost forgotten how laughter could be like water in a parched throat. Gone was the strained look from Michael's eyes. Now all he talked about was how he could better himself, so that he could take care of her. Seasons came and went, soon we were approaching autumn again. I don't know exactly when things started to unravel. I know sometime in August, Michael began talking about enlisting in the Air-force. Seems there was some problems in Paradise. Michael was growing discontent with his job pay, and evidently Leslie thought he wasn't spending enough time with her. September 11,2001: easy date to remember. Two commercial airliners were high-jacked and flown into the twin towers of the World Trades Center, a third crashed into the Pentagon. Terrorism hit home. So many lives lost, both during the attacks and in the after math. As a nation we grieved, and were angry. From that date, I can trace Michael's spiral easily enough, as well as my own. September 11th, had a domino effect. Small business was quickly affected. Within weeks, my place of employment was cutting hours. By October my 40 hours were cut to 20. I started looking for other work. Michael tried hard to pick up the slack, begging hours at work, and searching for more. I am staring at the box of unpaid bills, fighting back tears, as I look at a checkbook that offers no answer. "What's wrong, Mom?" "Nothing," I lie. I watch him look in the cupboards and the fridge. "Damn, I hate being poor," he grumbles. "What's for dinner?" His eyes look questioningly into mine. "Mom? What's wrong? Ain't nothing the two of us can't handle, remember? But you gotta talk to me." He offers me a smile.
I pick up the bill box and toss it back up onthe top of the fridge. "Just the money thing," I say hoping my voice doesn't reveal my fear. I haven't told him almost all the bills contain cut-off orders. I go about preparing macaroni and cheese for dinner. Mentally, I take inventory of what we have left in the cupboard. Isn't much. " You want a hotdog with this?" I turn towards him as I speak, only to find he has wondered back out of the room. "Where's yours?" he asks, when I call him that it's ready. "I'm not hungry," I lie. Silently, I remind myself, that I carry a few extra pounds, and what ever I don't eat is that much more for Michael, who was already thin. I was thankful, that on days he was with Leslie, he ate over there. Michael's eyes tell me he knows I'm lying. I drink coffee while he eats. Coffee is a bean, I tell myself, beans are food. "Did you check into that partial unemployment, Mom?"
"Yeah, I don't qualify. Government aide says don't qualify for food stamps, or medical either."
"It's cuz you're white, Mom. If you were Black or Mexican they'd help you." His voice is bitter.
"No, Michael, I just slip through the cracks is all..." even to me this is starting to feel like a lie. I had stared hard at the counselor when she said I was making 25 cents too much for any help. Her advice? "Kick your son out." I had to swallow my anger hard, and bite my tongue not to go off on her. I watch the last of the hotdogs disappear into Michael. "Mom? You got a dollar so I can go buy a pop?" "In the change jar, I think..." my voice trails off. Is there a dollars worth of change left? "Want the rest of this?" Michael says as he stands up. Barely a spoonful left.
"I love you, Mom," he says after he has counted out a dollar, and is heading for the corner store. "I love you more," I answer back hearing the door close behind him. I sigh and begin to eat his leavings one noodle at a time. This has become a ritual, my meals consisting of whatever was left. Trying hard not to eat more so that there would be food left for the next day. I stare at the calendar counting off days until payday... I see less and less of Leslie at the house. Michael is growing more tense. He is 20 now. I managed to bake a cake and buy him a case of Mountain Dew and a neat looking lighter for his birthday. The lighter had caught my eye as it looked like a bullet. I felt guilty about spending the money even though it wasn't much. The cake mix and frosting had been on sale, as well as the Dew. The lighter was $2. Under $10 total. Not much, but at least he knew I remembered. The date is October 7th. Michael exclaims over the case of Dew as he tears off the newspaper wrappings. "Mom! Thanks!" God, it's come to this...a ****ing case of pop is a TREAT? Something worth being excited over? Still I am pleased he sees it's the best I can do. He shows me the freezer where he put the case of chicken Kiev from his Grandparents and hands me the $50 from his Dad. "No, Michael. That's your birthday money, use it for you." Inside my heart breaks a little, Michael always so willing to share. "Well tonight you eat, Mom! I'll fix us some of that chicken. You want a potato too?" I nod yes. "I think there's corn in the cupboard." My first real meal in about three weeks, I think. It was a crisp fall night. Almost summer like. Michael came into the living room. He seemed tense, his jaw working as he said, "here, Mom. You need this more than me." I stared blindly at the wad of bills he thrust into my hand as he turned and strode out the back door. From somewhere, I felt the mental nudge that there was something terribly amiss. Yes, Michael would give me his last dime, yet there was something wrong with this gesture. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, then the alarm went off in my head. “Hurry! Hurry!” Cried a voice from deep within me. I found myself scurrying in his wake, filled with a sense of urgency and dread. Out the back door, down the stairs, somehow sensing that he was in the garage. Struggling to raise the heavy door. As the door slid above my head, I watched Michael step off of the tool bench. An electrical cord wrapped around his throat and the center beam. “NO!” Screaming I tackled him. The cord had miraculously stretched with his weight so that his toes were still on the ground. I feverishly climbed up onto the tool table and untied the cord. He dropped heavily, sobbing that I should let him die. Cursing that he hadn’t done it right. Fevered thoughts screamed across my mind as I checked his neck for marks, as well as his pulse. I could smell the whiskey, on his breath. “Michael, did you take any pills?” He shook his head no, then shakily sat up. “You sure?” A floppy nod yes. “Do you think you can make it to the house?” Again the floppy nod. My arm around him for support we made it to the stairs, where Michael more or less crawled up them and into the house. Passing near the restroom, I’m wondered whether to induce vomiting , when Nature took care of it. I stood there while Michael retched, again and again. I was at a lost what to do… I knew he needed help. Help that was beyond me to give. Somewhere along the line, I felt, that I had failed to give him the basic tools for surviving this life. He was sobbing, puking, and telling me what a ****-up he was, all at once. How he wasn’t the son I deserved. How all he wanted was someone to love. Leslie had dumped him for some ‘preppy’ guy. Once it was apparent all he had left was dry heaves, I helped him to the living room. He clung to me, bawling. Pushing hard against me as if all he wanted was to somehow get back to the womb. I held him afraid to let go. Terror tore at me from all directions. I stared at the drying 6 or 7 inch cut that ran from right above the wrist to his elbow. It gaped open, but wasn’t bleeding. “Oh, God… help me to help him. Tell me what to do…” I rocked Michael in my arms as he wept himself asleep, borrowed up against me. I sat there not knowing what to do. My thoughts were a ball of contradictions. I didn’t sleep nor leave him all night. It was the first of many sleepless nights. Morning, Michael stirs. Dazed he makes his way to his room and bed. Silently, I make sure his door remains open. I am afraid not to be able to see him. Zombie-like I make coffee, and light a cigarette. My body aches from having been in one position too long. I gnaw on a thumbnail and realize I have bitten them all down to the quick. “Michael,” I think, my eyes already twin red sandpapered discs, want to cry more but can’t. I’m tapped out. I place two calls, one to work and one to the suicide prevention line. A guy named Chuck answered. I told him I needed direction and explained what had taken place in the night. He was kind and considerate, but the best he could offer was to call the police so that they could arrest my son, and commit him for help. Arrest my son? This phrase tumbled in my head like a foreign phrase I couldn’t quite grasp. He didn’t need to be arrested. He needed help. Tormented once more I began searching the yellow pages for help. Funny, how so many ‘experts’ just can’t take on a new patient when they learn you have no insurance. Bitter was also the age factor. At 20 Michael was neither teen nor adult by law, in our state. For many crimes he would be judged as an adult, yet he was still a minor for alcohol. Because he wasn’t a minor, they could not treat him on my say so, they needed his consent, but at the same time I was legally responsible for his well-being. Emotionally and morally I felt responsible. This was my CHILD, my SON…I dialed numbers again and again, begging for help , direction. Like a recording they all said have him arrested… Michael sleeps the day away. Every 20 minutes or so I am checking him. Softly calling his name to besure there is a response, that it is ‘normal’ sleep. I light my St. Jude candle and pray for help. I beg for guidance and peace for Michael. I pray for strength. I talk to God and St. Jude for hours it seems. I go back to the yellow pages and the phone. Having exhausted all local sociologists and psychiatrists I begin calling churches. Someone had to have an answer other than the drastic arrest of my son. I give up shortly after 5p.m. when all I started getting was answering machines. I paced restlessly around the house. I was irritable from lack of sleep, and too agitated to sleep. Michael was a specter, drifting from his room to the bathroom and back. His face looked drawn, haunted, slightly nauseous. I tried tempting him to eat something, anything. He just shook his head. Sad doesn’t come near describing him. In vain he tried calling Leslie several times, with each failed attempt, I saw him slip further away. I finally got a name through the Individual Development Association. Mari Wilson. She was soft spoken, and very compassionate. Yes, if I could get him there she would talk to him. Getting Michael to consent was difficult to say the least. I begged, pleaded, and cried. “Michael, if you broke your arm I would take you to a doctor. This is a different type of break. This is out of my league…I CAN’T fix it. Let me get you help…” His biggest fear was they would lock him away. “ No,” I reassured him, “not if you walk in. Only if I have to involve the police. Don’t tie my hands, Michael. Come with me to see this woman tomorrow.” Finally…he nodded. “For you. Mom. I’ll do it for you.” A small wave of relief washed over my aching heart. Leslie came over that evening. They sat in his room talking, while I stayed in the kitchen. I sat at the worn table, sipping coffee, wondering how things got so out of hand. Was it somehow my fault? Had I failed Michael in some way? Was it Ed’s fault? I immediately dismissed that idea. Ed and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things true, and he had his share of faults, but one thing I knew without doubt; he loved his son. Oh, I had all the questions, but no answers. It is so easy when someone else has a problem to say ,’well, do this or do that..’ but when you are IN it… the issues are not black and white. No matter how objective you try to be your emotions get in the way. Self-doubt slams against your brain, time and again, like a battering ram. Always, second-guessing yourself as to what is the right thing to do in this case… I know Ed was just as lost as myself, maybe even more so, because I hid from him and others all the facts. They knew Michael was ’depressed’ or ’ill’, nothing more. Simple truth? I was terrified to admit even to myself, that Michael was on a dangerous teeter-totter. His mood swings were an out of control roller coaster ride, and it was plummeting now. Careening, down an embankment so steep it threatened to tip over. It was tipping, and Michael was slipping… I felt helpless. Eye-witness to an impending disaster. I didn’t see Leslie until she spoke, “I have a request,” she began. I looked at her, her flaxen hair pulled back into a pony-tail, her eyes were sad and confused, mirror image of my own eyes, I’m sure. “Don’t make Michael go for help. He’s afraid they’ll lock him up.” A note of pleading colored her voice.
“Mija,” I used the Hispanic endearment easily, “ I have no choice. You’ve seen his arm? Know what he tried to do?” She nodded softly, “but…” Her voice trailed off. “ I feel responsible.” “You aren’t. Leslie, I can’t tell you what to do. But, to lie to him now…to come back as his girlfriend, if that isn’t how you feel, is wrong. For you and him. How long could you live that lie?” Her blue eyes study her delicate hands. She murmured, ”I don’t know.” “He needs to learn to cope with life…I thought I’d given him the tools to do that. I, guess I was wrong…but I have to give him every chance there is, Leslie. I have to get him help. Sometimes you have to appear cruel to be kind.” I place my hand over hers. “Leslie, this is NOT your fault. This isn’t anyone’s fault. This is Michael needing help, that we don’t know how to give.” She suddenly hugs me. “Tell me what to do,” a soft begging whisper in my ear.
“Be true to you. That’s the best I can tell you.” With a small nod she releases me, and leaves the room. Next morning, Michael gives me grief over going. “ What if I promise not to do it again, Mom? Don’t make me go, please?” I sigh, a deep inward sigh. It would be so easy…NO! This time I can’t back down. “Michael, you said you would do this. Did Leslie change your mind?” “Why do you say that?” “Because you were set to go until you saw her, and if that’s why then I’ll cut her out of your life completely. Because then she is the poison.” “No, Mom, no…I’ll go.” We rode in silence. Michael pensive, under a black cloud. Once in awhile he opens his mouth as if to speak, but then closes it. As for myself, I am praying, that this woman will have an answer. That she can help my son, where I had failed to do so. We sat side by side on chairs, and Mari sat across from us. The room we were in didn’t look much like an office. Book shelves lined the walls, and instead of a desk a table stood in one corner. She was not an impressive woman. I judged her to be in her late forties. She wore her graying hair short, and large brown doe-eyes peered at us through glasses. She smiled softly, and I read compassion in that smile. Getting Michael to talk was like pulling teeth. He stayed polite but barely answered her questions. I sat listening to the strained exchange. “Michael, do you know why you’re here?” “Not really.” She glances at me, and I look back. “Your mother seems to think you have a problem. Want to tell me about the other night?” Michael looks at me, with that how-could-you look. “ Michael, they can’t help you if you don’t tell them what is wrong.” He sighs. We’re quiet for a moment as he searches for words. The clock ticks as the words slowly emerge from him. He tells her how he got drunk and decided would be best to die. Her response is nonjudgmental, she explains how booze is a depressant, and since you’re already depressed it just magnifies it. She asked Michael about using alternatives to cutting himself, to cope, such as a rubber band around his wrist, and snapping it instead. He gives her a wry look. I can tell he is listening, but trying to act as if he isn’t. Mari and I exchange looks, I see she senses it too. “Cutting is often used as a relief. A sense of control, a way to dull inside pain.” It’s almost as if she is speaking out-loud to herself, her voice is so calm and soothing. “ Self-mutilation, self-injury, such as cutting, isn’t as rare as you think, one in 250 people repeatedly hurt themselves.” “Why?” I ask. “Reasons vary. No one is really sure why. Sometimes the person themselves doesn’t know why. Only Michael has the answer as to why he does.” She gives us a few names and numbers of doctors that might help. “Michael, I’d be happy to speak with you any time. This card has our 24 hour hot line number on it. You can always talk with someone there, if you can’t reach me. OK?” She smiles up at Michael. He takes the card and is on fire to get out of there, as if suddenly afraid that men with white coats are going to emerge. November is unseasonably warm. I’m still looking for work, as the owners have advised us to do so.The end of this job looms in sight. I watch my son grow thinner, and thinner. Never heavy to begin with, the loss is easily notable. He misses Leslie so. I try not to nag about the counseling, which is difficult at best. The metallic taste of fear is constantly in my mouth. Except for some asprin, I dump all medications. I even hid the knives and anything else I thought he might use. He sleeps a lot, but begs Ed to buy him sleeping pills. Ed alerts me to this; telling me he refused to do so. I wonder how much he knows, and if he is tormented too. I just can’t bring myself to attempt speaking about it with him though. Damn, is it pride or fear that keeps me from it? While Michael sleeps, I seem to have given it up. I survive on cat-naps taken on the sofa now. If Michael stirs from his room, I am instantly aware of it. He speaks to me, almost in random thoughts. Everyone tells him to forget Leslie and move on. Why did he loose her? What did he do wrong? I have no answers. “All women are whores, except your mother, and your father will disagree,” seems to be his mantra. One night he says to me, “You know dad only married you so he could have a **** when he wanted? That’s all you were to him, Mom, a ****.” I hear hurt and anger in his voice. What am I to say? Yes, I know… He apologizes for not being able to protect me from his dad better. I tell him,’ you were just a little boy.’ Even so he is angry that he couldn’t make the beatings stop. “ I’m sorry, Mom. So sorry.” I am stunned , that he remembers them at all. He had been so young, during those violent years. He asks me what it means to dream you’ve sold your soul. He dreamt he sold his to make her happy,but the demon told him, “It isn’t you.”I tell him it means he needs to let her go and continue on with his life. He starts looking into joining theAir-force. He thinks ‘ those guys are cool’. Still his voice is hallow, and his eyes pools of agony, and confusion. He begs Leslie to see him. I wince over-hearing his plaintive cries to her on the phone. Sometimes she says she’ll be over and blows him off. Others she does. On those times, I can almost see the old Michael peeking out. I see a faint glimmer of hope in those hazel eyes then. Wasted hope. After she leaves his moping is even worse. I ache so much for him. One night he tells me he’s going over to her house. I ask him if he thinks, it’s wise, but he is determined. He spends the night there. Maybe, I think as I watch hours tick by, maybe, they’ve made up… The next morning, I am getting ready for work, Michael comes in, staggering down the hall…”Mom?”His voice sounds odd, sort of sobbing and pained. “Mom? I need help…I don’t want to do this?” “Do what?” We’re standing in the hallway, and as he tips his head back, showing me 8 or 9 lines running from ear to ear, he collapses onto the floor, curling up into the fetal position. “Michael!” my voice tears from my throat. I struggle to maintain my own sanity and bite back the panic that rears its head. I don’t recall dialing 911, sobbing into the phone that we needed help,as I examine the cuts he had inflicted. “Michael?” I note his black shirt is wet with blood. His sobs tear through me, cutting me. He is sobbing, speaking incoherently. Begging me to let him die and to save him at the same time. “Hang on, Michael. Help is coming, baby…Just hang on.” I staunch the flow of his blood with hem of my blouse. Oh, Jesus…****…hell… damn… How deep are they? Oh, Christ, where are the EMTS? How the hell do you apply pressure to a person’s throat? The 911 operator is asking me what he cut himself with. “Crap I don’t know! Please hurry!” Michael tries to sit up, but I beg him to lie still. Oh, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, WHERE ARE YOU!? Suddenly the EMTS are there. Michael stands, despite the fact we are all saying to lie back down. “Go away, “ he croaks, “I’ll go later. My mom will take me.” “Can’t do that, Bud,” the older of the two speaks. “Gotta take you in…” His voice is soothing like warm honey. “Why you call them, Mom? Huh?” “Because you need help, sweetie. Please, let them help you…” Even though the flow of blood has stopped my heart is still jack-hammering. Michael declares that he can walk to the ambulance, and as we get near the door he sees an approaching officer. He whirls attempting to get back into the house, but I am blocking him. “It’s ok, Michael. He isn’t coming for you!” I see the terror in his eyes. I hear the EMTS telling the cop it’s ok to back off. “See, Michael…He’s going away. See? “ The EMTS lead Michael away from me, into the ambulance. Endless questions from the two officers. My eyes glued to Michael as they put him in theback of the ambulance. God, how I wanted to growl at the officers to please shut up, and let me go with my boy. I promised him I would be there. I know he is scared. I’m scared. Does he think I betrayed him?
Does he understand that my hands are tied? There is no longer any choice? Oh, Michael… Michael, feel me there, please. KNOW I am with you. No, I don’t know what he used or where the knife or what ever is… No, I don’t know where he did it even. No, no, no… almost a conditioned response now. I hear myself asking for the quickest way to thehospital. What? No, thank you, I can drive myself… I am at the emergency room. They won’t let me see him. Panic is nibbling at my last remaining logic. I woodenly ask for a phone and place two calls. The first is to work. I hear my voice crack as I explain why I’m not there. I gulp air…steady, girl. The second is harder to make. I call Ed at work, I state it’s an emergency to the secretary on the other end. She says, he can’t be bothered. “Listen,” I hear my voice take on that don’t-mess-with-me tone, “this is an emergency. Get him and get him NOW.” Seconds drag like hours…Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, I need you now. Please, God. Please…I dare not think of beyond now. I hear Ed pick up, and I state that I’m at the ER with Michael, that he had attempted to cut his throat. He informs me that he has to get someone to cover, might be awhile until he can get there. I listen to his voice. The words are cold, but I hear the tremble and know panic is thinly masked. “Is he ok?” I give the only answer I can. “I don’t know, but, you better hurry.” I pace back and forth, mumbling the rosary over and over. Waiting, fearing the answer. Needing one at the same time. Nuns brush past me, from the back they look like black ghosts void of features. I watch them pass beyond the doors where I’m not allowed to go. A hand is placed on my shoulder and I jump. It’s the EMT, the older one. “Just thought I’d let you know, he rode in fine. Settled right down.” I stare up into a face that is softened by compassion, yet hardened by having seen too many sad things. “Is he…?” I swallow past a lump in my throat that threatens to break my carefully constructed dam against the threatening emotional out burst. “He’ll be fine,” the hand squeezes my shoulder, gently, “He’s with the doctor now.” Then he’s gone. I glance at my watch, two hours have past since I called. “Ed, where the **** are you?” I wonder. More pacing. More praying. Time passes barely brushing me. Ed finally arrives and doesn’t comprehend that I don’t have any new news. That all we can do is wait. We don’t wait together. He sits as far away from me as he can. I see strain written plainly on his features, and know he holds me accountable for this. I tell him that I’m stepping outside and to call me if they have news. He nods at me. I stop at the desk and tell the receptionist just to be on the safe side. Poor Ed. He never could handle life’s roughness well. This was a sucker punch none of us saw coming… You saw. A little voice whispers in my head. If only you hadn’t denied it for so long. Maybe this whole thing could have been avoided. But NOOOOOOOOO. Silly bitch. You are So ****ing smart. All you had to do is be strong right? Just keep the boy talking and everything would be ok right? The little voice has a cruel laugh. Your pride got in your way, girl. Maybe if you had clued Ed in the beginning? Or if you hadn’t bent so easily to what Michael wanted. Maybe if you had talked to friends or family or… It trails off. The self-tirade having been spent. Outside I light a cigarette with shaking hands. I inhale and rub my knuckle across my lower lip. A nervous gesture. I feel myself beginning to wall myself off. I am dangerously close to emotional overload and know it. Logically, I know persecuting myself will do no good. To blame Ed would be idiotic. In my eyes, Ed was wrong about many things, but he loved Michael. There was no doubt of that. I can almost hear my emotional armor clicking into place. Mentally preparing myself for the worse, for the onslaught of blame I would need to shoulder. Thy will be done. God? Give me strength please? To accept and be able to handle what ever comes of this. I stub out the cigarette already smoldering filter. Nasty habit, I think, as again I pass knuckle over lower lip, already starting to be raw from the friction. I take a deep breath and go back in. I approach the desk and the receptionist shakes her head. Still no word. I wander over by Ed. He stares at me with Michael’s eyes. “No word yet?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. At least we know he’s alive.” “At least he’s getting help now,” his voice is monotone. I know he’s fighting for control too. Time creeps, finally we’re called. A stocky young man named Greg informs us he will be Michael’s counselor and that he’s with the Association for Individual Development. Michael is to be admitted to the second wing of the hospital. Ed stares at me on that, we both know second wing is for mental cases. “So they’re keeping him?” he asks.
“ For at least 72 hours,” Greg states. “ Seems he and the Doctor had a difference of opinion, and the Doctor is committing him.” “Difference?” I echo. Oh ****, Michael, what did you do? “ I wasn’t there , ma’am. I can only tell you that they are getting him ready for transport.” “Can we see him?” Ed’s voice is husky sounding, as if he will cry any second. We are led back through doors then beyond a curtain. Michael sits half dressed on the bed. “They took my ****in’ pants.” He states. “So I see. Watch your language.” I keep my voice level and try to gauge the situation. Marks are still on his arms from where he had been strapped down. A vein is bruised , and his eyes look weird. Obviously he’s been injected with a sedative. “ Mom, take me home. Get my pants and take me home. Please?” “Can’t do that, Michael.” Ed is looking lost, and out of place. He hugs Michael furiously, a big bear hug. Saying that he loves him, and that he has to get back to work. Michael doesn’t respond, he just continues pleading with me to take him home. That he’ll be good. I am trying to explain that this HAS to be, as Ed beats a hasty retreat. How I wish I could run too, but I can’t. “Mom, we could just walk out…they locked me in, but you can get me out. Please, Mom.” I close my ears. Think ka kaha, a Maori term meaning be strong. “ I can’t, Michael.” Two male interns enter, I’m informed of papers to be signed for the transfer. I ask about Michael’s pants and they say that after the transfer they will be given back, but I can have the contents of his pockets. Michael nods, saying that there should be $40 there. “Mom, sneak me out,” he says again, as if these two burly men don’t exist. “She can’t, bud, " one speaks. I go get the contents of his pockets, while they explain to me how to get where he is going. I listen, struggling to comprehend. “How bad are his cuts?” I ask suddenly, as the vision of no bandages finally clicked in. “He didn’t need stitches?” “No, ma’am. Neck and face wounds are terrible bleeders, but he had good first aid. Really little more than deep scratches. “ Relief punches me in the stomach… thank God. I try not looking into the eyes of the hospital staff. I see pity. I am not one to be pitied. I will see my son through this. Somehow, some way. I force myself to stand straight and hold my head up. “When does he go?” I suppose the worst part was after his transfer. After we had signed more papers, and they took him from me yet again, and had me ride the elevator up alone to the second floor and be buzzed in. After we had talked with a nurse, and he had been weighed in, and offered food. Every thing about Michael was screaming defeat. The way he kept his head down while his eyes darted nervously about. The way he pulled from my touch. The way his legs wouldn’t hold still while we sat answering questions. Did he drink? Do drugs? How often did he cut? Quietly, I asked if he could please, have his pants back. I locked eyes with the head nurse, silently begging her to let him have some dignity. She said momentarily they should be back. Back? Back from where? She explained how they were being examined to be sure nothing that he could hurt himself with was secreted in the seams or cuffs, as well as laces removed from shoes, etcetera. I nod. It is a sad, knowing nod. A defeated nod. At least now, he would get the help he needed. The help I had so desperately searched for. Michael snatched up his pants and pulled them on quickly, as if afraid they would disappear. The nurse and he walk me towards the door, as she tells me of visitation hours, what I can and can’t bring. Michael in an urgent whisper tries again, “Mom, take me with you. Don’t leave me here. “ “Michael…this needs to be.” “Leave me here, Mom, and I will hate you forever.” his voice has risen, spitting the words like venom. Heads turn towards us, and I see interns heading our way incase the nurse would need assistance in subduing him. Inwardly, I whisper again ‘ka kaha; be strong’. I look Michael in the eyes, and with a strength I did not feel said, “Then I will have to love you enough to allow that.” I turned as the nurse half pushed me through the door as she exited with me. I heard Michael yelling, “I HATE YOU! DON’T LEAVE ME!” as sobs coated the words. I sucked air in through clenched teeth. Don’t break yet, I commanded myself. Not here, not now. She keyed in the code for the elevator. “It’s just his emotions,” she started. I looked into tearful eyes, and knew this was a woman who had witnessed this before. Who did not pity, but feltcompassion and sympathy for us. “I know,” my voice is husky. “Take care of my boy for me.” She nodded as the doors slid close and I start the descent. My world is crumbling around me, and I want nothing more than to scream obscenities into the heavens, and ask God what the **** is going on? Was I such a bad, horrible creature that I was being punished this way? Torturing my child to punish me? Was I that crappy of a parent? Again and again the tirade of self-reproach slammed into me, as I woodenly walked to my car and drove home. Ed and I talked later, when he dropped off some food for me to take to Michael. “He won’t like theirs,’ he stated awkwardly. I had told him the visitation hours, but knew he wouldn’t go. I think I sort of understood it. Where as I wore my love like armor, and it protected me enough to enable me to cope, his love wouldn’t allow him to be there. He simply couldn’t handle the situation, and rather than subjugate himself, it was easier for him this way. Michael called several times, begging me to bring him home. Each time my heart broke, and I wanted so badly to say yes, but I couldn’t. I told him each time, it would be at least three days. Visitations were hard. Michael was so drugged it was like talking to a zombie. How ironic, I had come to accept Michael the ghost, a mere shadow of Michael my son. Now, I had the zombie of Michael’s ghost. He said he guessed it was ok there, but they had all these rules. He asked me to bring Leslie. He didn’t want anyone else knowing where he was, but he wanted Leslie. “Did you ask about that? Doesn’t she need to be on a list?” “Yeah…as long as she comes with you, it’s ok. They said so…” I doubted the wisdom, but said I’d see. Funny, we were only given an hour to visit, but that hour seemed terminally too short and too long at the same time. Michael always seemed to be a caged animal… a bird whose wings had suddenly been clipped and didn’t understand why he could not fly. Every time I went my heart broke again, I knew he’d say ‘take me home’, and I’d have to say ‘no’, and when I said ‘I love you’, there’d be no reply. It would have been so easy, to follow Ed’s example of just not going. But as his love wouldn’t permit him to, mine wouldn’t permit me to stay away. Michael was diagnosed as bi-polar, with suicidal tendencies. A chemical dysfunction of the brain. Evidently this made his highs and lows very extreme. No one truly knew what caused this, just as the reason behind cutting was masked in a shroud of mystery. Sometimes, even the cutter didn’t understand the why, only that it somehow made them feel better for awhile. Gave them a sense of control. Evidently,it is believed that self-injurers are grasping for a way to cope with painful emotions that they can’t articulate. By hurting themselves, they lower the intensity of their loneliness, rage, or disappointment. It’s believed the endorphins that the body releases when injured, also help relieve the chemical imbalance most self-injurers suffer from. The chemical change, this ‘fix’, lasts about two hours. Most cut themselves because they want to live. To them it’s just a coping method. Leslie did go with me his second night there. It was as if the dawning of the sun had entered the room, and Michael drank it in like orange juice. Nothing else existed for that time. For Michael all there was, was Leslie, even I didn’t exist. We sat at the end of the hall, while they talked, I pretended to be engrossed in a magazine that kept sliding apart because the staples had been removed. ( Another preventive caution, as cutter’s will use anything to cause bleeding.) I tried not to listen to their hushed conversation. When the time came to leave I watched as he hugged Leslie with an almost urgent intensity, then permitted me to hug him as I would a 2 by 4. For me he had no response. I was one ofTHEM now. Against him. A jailer. Inwardly, I sighed. Love you enough to allow this, I’d think.I danced around a large pit of despair myself. I don’t recall sleeping nor eating during that time. Self-doubt, and what-if played a vicious game of catch with my ego. I was on automatic at work. I did what I had to, and nothing more. I looked haggard and worn. My mouth forgot how to turn upwards, though I neither frowned nor cried. All emotions for me were suspended, for the time. I was simply existing, looking for answers when I didn’t really have the questions either. When Michael called to come get him, I think I broke several traffic laws. My boy was coming home! YES!!!!!!!! I knew he wasn’t ‘cured’, but I still felt a sense of relief that they were releasing him. He might not be out of the woods yet, but surely, he was where daylight could be seen? Michael’s weight had plummeted while in the hospital. He had lost about 10 pounds in the three days. Evidently the medication he was on also suppressed his appetite. He weighed less than 120 pounds now. His bones were becoming pronounced, even in his face. He reminded me of those pictures of concentration camp prisoners. They sent us off with a two weeks supply of medications, one being Zoloft, and the other a sedative. The Zoloft was suppose to help correct the chemical imbalance. I don’t think Michael relaxed until I headed the car for home. His eyes darted nervously about, as if afraid this was a hallucination, and hewould end up back in the ward. Once home, he just had to be out and about. He called Leslie, then went over to Dave’s. I stared at him as he headed out the door. He paused at the door, “I love you ,Mom.” “I love you more,” I replied, as I felt tears rolling down my cheeks. As I watched his retreating back, I was glad he didn’t see my tears. Two weeks later, I asked Michael if he had called in the refills for his medications, he told me not to worry about it, his dad was taking care of it. In that two week span I think he saw his counselor twice. Hetold me, he’d been told to call if he had a need to talk. While I thought this odd, I believed him. After all he was an out-patient. Thanksgiving came and went. I watched Michael pale and wan pining for his Leslie. I watched him grow thinner. His pants sagged and slid off him easily. He went from a 30 inch waist to a 24. I doubt that he weighed 105 pounds. December 21st, 2001, the place I worked closed it’s doors for the last time. “ Merry freakin’ Christmas,” I thought bitterly. Michael’s medical bill was over $4000 dollars, and I was already about a month behind on the utilities. With us both out of work, I had no idea where groceries were to come from even. I deposited my last check, and bought some groceries, especially pizza that Michael loved. Then I went to Walmart’s and got Michael’s Christmas presents. Two pairs of jeans that looked like they would fit, a new Metalica t-shirt, a nice pull-over shirt, a case of Mountain Dew, and a black spiral notebook. Michael had taken to putting his thoughts down on paper, something I had encouraged him to do, andsomething I found out later they had them do in the hospital. It wouldn’t be the Playstation2 that he wanted, but at least it was something. Michael started wearing the new clothes as soon as he opened them. He laughed over the fact they were wrapped in newspapers. All the while telling me that I shouldn’t have…His laugh was hallow though, it was missing something. He even attempted to tease me that I bought him a notebook as I was tired of him using up all my paper. His stocking was filled with food stuffs; a salami sausage, fancy crackers, chocolate bars. Anything I thought would coax his flagging appetite. No one should have to choose between feeding their child and a bill…but that’s where I stood that Christmas. The state had decreed that I wouldn’t even get an unemployment check until two weeks later, and our wonderful public-aid department crisply informed me that I still did not qualify for help… Michael said it was a sad present but gave me a packet of cigarettes. Then he turned on the radio, and said, “dance with me, Mom.” Around and around we spun, my son and I, singing off key to Jingle-bell Rock. New Years came and went. Michael no longer tried to call Leslie. He seemed resigned to the fact that it was over. It’s hard to explain but it was as if the shadow of Michael that turned ghost, turned zombie, turned hologram. It was as if nothing really touched him any more. Even in his zombie state, I had caught glimpses of Michael, but this hologram lacked any spark. He began to complain of flu-like symptoms, and slept more and more. While I slept even less on the living room sofa. I watched him anxiously as I had for months now. Something gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Michael would suddenly say to me, “You know I love you, Mom”, and I argued with myself that he was just making up for saying he’d hate me forever, and I shouldn’t look farther than that. It was a wonderfully warm, sunny Sunday, January 6th. I peeked in on Michael before heading to the drugstore for more Theraflu. He lay on his back, arms folded across his chest, snoring. I decided against waking him to see if there was anything special he wanted. I wasn’t gone long. Standing in line to pay it struck me like a thunder bolt. Suddenly I KNEW, something was terribly wrong with Michael. I paid hurriedly and ran to my car. “Michael!” My heart screamed as I pulled into the drive and sprinted across the yard. I took the stairs two at a time, my mind racing… I knew even before I opened his door… Rigor mortis had already claimed him. His arms were thrown up and across as if warding something off. His head laid twisted to one side with the mouth stretched open in a silent scream. His eyes wide…Even his nail beds were blue. I bit back the urge to start screaming and tried for a pulse. I climbed upon his inert body and tried to push air into him, tried to turn his head so that I could do CPR… oh, God, NO! Please, God, NO! When did I pick up the phone and dial 911? Voice on the other end telling me I have to try CPR, did I need instructions? I’m trying to explain… Oh, God, Oh, God… Michael!!! I am straddling him…trying to go up and over to breathe into his mouth. Even his nostrils wouldn’t pinch.He reminded me of a marble statue. All gray and cold. Some part of my mind was screaming…you can’t ****ing be dead! Wake UP! There’s no blood. You look like a ****ing seizure victim… You are not dead. I’m having a nightmare that’s all… WAKE UP,VAL! Strong hands pulling me away. A million people milling about. Uniforms. PROFESSIONALS. They’ll fix my boy. Won’t they? Sorry, ma’am…. The coroner’s inquest stated that he had ingested a toxic substance… windshield washer fluid.
Sitting on the bank of the river urn cradled twixt chest and thigh. Knees pulled up high, hugging myself. Reality of metal pressing into flesh. Tighter, tighter, and tighter. Wrapping it into myself. This is reality.
No tempest can match my fury, no banshee the scream of my heart. I am thunder and lightening, The eye of the storm. I am waves crashing on a rocky shore.
I am warrior. Battle worn and weary. Why could I not slay your demon? Did I not attack again and again and again? I waged war best I could...didn't I? I just couldn't find the demon's weakness as he devoured you. Instead he found mine. Easily as smashing spun glass he has torn me asunder. A thousand splinters I.
I watch your ashes dance upon the water. Grayness dipping, swirling, twirling away. Is it the babble of the river or your laugh? Gentle breeze or your kiss upon my cheek?
Perhaps you won the battle. Finally free. I gaze skyward, lone hawk drifting . Dipping, swirling, twirling away. He dances also.
Plop, plop, plop. I hear what I have denied myself til now. Nature's healing balm. Plop, plop, plop. My tears collecting on your urn.
in loving memory of my son
10/07/1981-01/06/2002
Authors note: If you recognize anyone you know in this, please get them help. They may hate you for it, but you need to love them enough to allow that.
Name's have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.
That was heart wrenching. Was it a relief to put it 'out there'? I certainly hope you feel better for it.
I know it is painful; all the events and regrets that lead up to the death of a child. We always feel as if we could have done more; that is natural. A mother always wants to do the best for their child, but sometimes, it is not only up to us. Take comfort in the thought that we did the best we could, under the circumstances.
Dear Fergie, for myself, writing this was therapy. I wrote it about a week after my son's death, in an effort to...make sense of it I suppose. I wrote it in one sitting. About a year later I did post it over at another site, where a lot of kid's were talking about how they harm themselves. I wanted them to at least hear the other side of what they were doing. So many of them wrote me. One girl requested permission to use it at their suicide prevention center. Others...it was like whispered confessions - I do that too, and a promise to seek help. If just one did, then maybe ...maybe writing it served a purpose.
I decided to post it here, now, because I thought it was time.
Dear Val, I thought it may have been a therapeutic exercise, on your part. I did the same thing when I wrote "Knocking On Heaven's Door" for YGS. Some people may have thought it callous, to write about things like that so soon after a death, but I had to get my grief-stricken mind straight.
Your narrative is a double edged sword. Yours at least serves another purpose; a lesson to those poor souls who are in need of guidance.
Well done Val, I applaud you. You are truly an inspiration to others......a guiding light in the darkness.
