now-adult son is not happy with the eagle eyes and rules that come with living under his parents’ roof.
Autumn arrives in Bethesda, a Maryland suburb of Washington, DC, on unsettled winds, matching the mood of our family. Joey storms around the last of the unpacked boxes crowding the hallways of our new home, blaming everyone but himself for his current situation—something Joe, Rick, and I each actually believe some of the time. Doors slam, voices rise, tears flow. I remember the doctor’s warning about the pitfalls of walking on eggshells. But if Joey is sick, shouldn’t I be serving him tea and toast and fluffing his pillows rather than burdening him with work and responsibility and high expectations? I do battle with eggshells daily.
The spiky Mohawk has disappeared, replaced by a pierced nose and peephole earlobes with a view to the side of his neck. You look scary.
We’re covering Joey’s expenses as long as he’s working full-time and until he returns to college—cell phone, health insurance—but his car stays in storage. (We’re paying for that, too.)
Forced to take the bus, his running response is a snarly “Fuck you.” You sound scary. Joey has quit his therapist and his medication. He comes home from his job as a waiter smelling like pot, if he comes home at all, and an empty whiskey bottle is visible under the tan dust ruffle on his bed. I see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil because I don’t want to chase you away.
I drink coffee from my “Proud SDU Mom” mug every morning, waving it around as a sign that I believe Joey can and will move forward. A sign that I don’t see you as a victim. Even though I sort of do.
Our household is anything but harmonious. Seeking clues and truth, I check Joey’s email and social media accounts regularly. (The password he gave me while applying to colleges comes in handy.) Joey doesn’t know that I track his every online move. He doesn’t know that I’m jarred by the dissonance of his silent words many times daily.
I decided, well was pressured strongly, to take a year off so am back in DC with my parents until I figure out what I’m gonna do. I got arrested for marijuana and the cop thought I had crystal meth, I’ll probably lose my license for six months and have to pay some fines, but its not that big of a deal. I had to get my stomach pumped for drinking too much absinthe. I kinda say fuck you mom and dad. I’ve gotten to the point where I am over trying to get their approval on everything, which I am happy about now. It’s a lot less stressful. My parents are being shady. I have to pay for my own health insurance and car insurance and all that stuff and damn it’s expensive. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
Somewhat bug-eyed by the turn of his brother’s events, Rick tiptoes a straight line through the commotion of our life—no detours so far for him. Silent and strong. Or willfully invisible. I don’t know how my fifteen-year-old boy is processing the struggles of his lifelong companion and role model. Does he ever worry about the sureness of his footing on his own march ahead? Does he ever wonder if there will come a time when everybody will stop yelling? I’m sorry I’m not the mom I should be for you right now. I can barely think of anything beyond Joey. But your time will come, Rick. I promise. You’ll get your mom back.
I’m writing this letter to plead guilty to the charges from my August arrest. I’m not a bad person, only made some horrible decisions which I’m lucky didn’t end in the death of either my best friend, another motorist, or myself. I’ve just turned eighteen years old and have lived with my family the whole time. I have a great family life, no alcohol or drug use, and my parents never fight. Since the incident I haven’t smoked marijuana or used any other illegal substances and have found the whole experience rather eye opening to the consequences of my actions and the need to think things through. [Letter to the court from Joey’s computer files.]
After four months of not a lot of fun for anybody, Joey is moving out. He says he’s ready to make his own life. I think what he means by that is he’s ready to party without restraint. But he’s an adult now. His choices, and his desire to make good choices, must come from within. My worrying and nagging sure don’t work. I’m afraid for whatever comes next. And sad. But mostly I’m relieved—and I feel guilty for that.
Me and my parents are doing ok. We’re close but I’m kinda being kicked out. Well more lightly pushed out. They can’t deal with watching me hurting myself anymore with drinking and drugs. Yeah I’ve tried a lot of new stuff here. Coke, ecstasy, mushrooms but I’ve only done them all once and won’t do them again. I know what I’m doing. Kind of. Probably more than you think but less than I think. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
For months, I’ve sat on an uncomfortable bunch of hunches. Now, before Joey leaves, it’s time to speak the unthinkable. Ambling into his room, I find Joey tossing blankets and pillows into a box. His smile fades as I launch into what he is in no mood to hear: There are addicts in our family’s attic, and I don’t want Joey to join them.
“You’ve heard this before, but this time you need to really listen. Addiction runs in our family, on both sides. Smoking pot and drinking are gambles you cannot take. You have too many relatives in various stages of recovery or active addiction to take this lightly. All of them were about your age when they started doing what you seem to think of as something everyone tries, and ‘just having fun.’ And they probably thought the same thing. They had no idea how un-fun things would become. They didn’t know they were stepping onto a slippery slope, but you, Joey, do.” I pick up a corner of a wrinkled black bedsheet, shake it out, and begin to fold. A slippery slope. I’ve seen the power of addiction. And I fear it.
Twenty-five. That’s how old I was when I first gave addiction any thought. I had to. A visiting friend from my college days had the DTs (delirium tremens).
I only remember snippets of what happened after Kelly arrived in Florida. (Faint memories, thankfully, are all that remain once a nightmare retreats to the dark corner it came from.) When Joe and I picked Kelly up at the airport, we were ready for fun—newly employed newlyweds excited to show off our new life.
I don’t remember exactly when I realized Kelly was crazy, but it wasn’t long after we’d shown her around our tiny apartment. Maybe it was when she started squashing the speckles in the granite tabletop with her finger, mumbling about bugs. Or maybe it was when she stood in front of the birdcage, swearing back at the parrot that wasn’t swearing at her. Or maybe it was when she ran out the door and through the apartment complex at the brightest point of the summer day, with spooked-horse eyes and not a lot of clothes on. No, I don’t remember the moment when I knew she was crazy, but I do remember calling her mom.
“Jan, something is really wrong with Kelly.”
I’d never seen addiction before. I didn’t know anything about it. From my perspective, my friend had lost her mind. Kelly was the rattling top of a boiling pot ready to explode, and I wanted to escort her back to Colorado and hand her off to her mom before she did.
The first line of parental defense when dealing with a child’s nightmare is to put a friendly face on the monster and shove it into the closet. That’s what Kelly’s mom had been doing for years. But once she heard what was going on down in Florida, she faced the monster. And she named it.
Kelly, my smart and serious college friend, was an addict.
She wasn’t crazy. She was having DTs.
The vision of Kelly’s mom flapping around her frenzied daughter in the tiny kitchen of their family home still haunts me. Somehow Kelly escaped. Someone called the police. And somewhere down the road she was picked up and taken to a hospital. Searching their house, Kelly’s mom and I found an astonishing number of empty liquor bottles poked into handbags and sweater boxes in Kelly’s bedroom closet and inside suitcases stored under her bed. Silently passing one another on the stairs, up and down, in and out, we took the empty bottles to the garbage cans behind their garage. As quickly as seemed acceptable, I left the nightmare of my friend’s addiction in her mom’s hands and returned home to Joe.
I