To do what you ask? Well does sending the thing you love the most in the world and would lay down your life for count? I think so, what about you?
Trust me when I say there is so much shame in even thinking, researching, looking on the web or speaking to anyone about this. What kind of parent am I that I can’t handle my own child. I was convinced the world would judge me, especially those closest to me.
Everyone else in my family seemed to raise healthy well adjusted kids, it had to be me. How sad is it to fail at supposedly one of the most natural things in life, being a mother.
I was instructed he needed nothing other than any prescribed medications. He would be taken out of bed and they would go. No shower, no brushed teeth, no breakfast; only taking enough time to get clothes on him, get him out of the house into the car, and then onto JFK.
My last act to prove to myself that I wasn’t a totally shitty mother was to make sure that there was a neatly folded pile of clothes on his desk so he didn’t have to figure out what to put on when Ricky Ray came for him.
Okay, lets be serious, Ricky Ray, WTF, how about a Robert or Keith, a “normal” name not some person with two first names; was Ricky Ray going to man handle him, drag him into the car, abuse him, I didn’t know. I had totally lost it at that point, I was bat-shit crazy, and I was condemning the poor man because of his name, which was so not me. (For the record, Ricky Ray was awesome and perfect in so many ways, and I will get into the discussion of Transport services in another post.)
So, I put out a t-shirt, sweatshirt, socks, and sneakers, and of course a clean pair of underware, because you know clean underwear is very important, especially in the freakin woods, where he wasn’t going to shower for weeks.
My son stole my last opportunity to hold out the olive branch to him. As later I found the clothes were still neatly piled up, never touched. He chose his own clothes. I shouldn’t have cared beyond him putting clothes on, but I took it so personally; like somehow him not wearing the clothes I left out was his last attempt to say “Fuck You Mom” as he walked out of our house and lives.
Why was he torturing me like this? Couldn’t he even allow me a shred of decency by putting on the clothes? Nope, not this kid. I was thinking this is yet another reason why you are going away, you only care about yourself. As I stood there looking at the empty bedroom, knowing my son was in a car on the way to the airport with strangers, my blood pressure rose fast, and the tears fell even faster. WTF did I just do, and I just thought…
Please God, let him just get there safely, let this work, because if it doesn’t,I don’t know what else to do. I swear I will give it everything I have to make it better. I need him to be okay, I need me to be okay, I need our family to be okay…………..
I then retreated to my bed and watched Harry and Meghan get married, and I thought, don’t have kids.