The Latest On #4

After I took #4 to the hospital and gave him a choice, he left and I didn’t hear from him again until Wednesday.  He texted me and said “I hope you are doing okay.”

I asked him where he was and he said he was walking toward my town. I told him to stop by the house (what was I thinking?) and we’d chat, if he wanted.

He said he would and I waited and waited and waited.  Finally, three hours later, I texted him and asked where he was.  He said “it takes five hours to walk there.”  I told him to tell me where he was and I would come get him.

I didn’t hear from him again.  Three more hours went by and I thought I heard the screen door on my porch open.  He was there and looked like he was walking away.  He was soused.  There was some car in the driveway, with a rather large man in it.

I asked him who it was and he said “my friend.”  I asked him if he was one of those friends who bought him booze.  #4 didn’t answer and I knew the question annoyed him.  He sat down and I asked him if he didn’t think it was time to go to detox.  He said “probably.”

I told him he could stay on the porch and the next morning, we’d go to the behavioral health clinic in town.  He said “okay,” and then walked out the door and got in the car with that man.

This morning, I got up and he was on my porch.  He was soaking wet and surprisingly, sober.  He apologized for “being late but he had gotten here as soon as he could.”  He was still thinking about the other day when he was walking to my house.

I told him he had shown up…drunk.  He didn’t remember anything.  I told him he had been beaten up and whoever did it, took everything he had.

Then, I told him that I thought it was really nice of the police station to allow him to sleep there after he had been beaten up.  That’s what he told me.  This morning, he told me he had been arrested and that’s why he was there.  Wow.  I’m glad I didn’t go up there like I had planned and thank them.

He said he had been in the hospital last night and had walked to my house in the rain.  Again, I asked him if he didn’t think it was time to go to detox.

His stomach had been hurting and like always, he drinks to ease the pain. Again, he said “probably.”  He asked me what day and time it was.  He said he had an appointment with “Steve.”  The psychiatrist at the behavioral health center is named Steve.  I asked him if he wanted me to go with him but he said no.

I asked him where he had been the last few days.  He didn’t know.

I found out that Steve is a man at some cafe in town.  He goes up there and talks to him.  I had to control my anger when I said “so you can’t keep an appointment with somebody who could possibly help you but you can keep an appointment with some man you met at a cafe?”  I asked him if this Steve gave him money for booze.   He said no.

I asked him if he would come back so I could get him some help.  He said he would “definitely be back.”

I waited two and a half hours before I went looking for him.  I went to the cafe and talked to a very nice woman named Ann.  Steve is her husband. They run a cafe, where you can get free coffee and snacks.  They ask for donations but never turn anybody away.  A young girl was sitting on the ground outside.  She was homeless but asked me if I was okay.

Ann was familiar with #4.  She said “he just looks so lost.”  Then, she told me that what he talks about is how much he hates me…for destroying the family.  She asked me a little about the “situation” and yes…I destroyed the family and our marriage because I wouldn’t let a piece of pig-shit love his tramp and treat me like his whore.  I didn’t say that to her of course, but the bottom line is that I did destroy the family when I left Loser. Nothing is Losers’ fault.

Everybody who has talked to #4 has said the same thing.  “He’s trying to drink himself to death to punish his dad.”  I know that and have talked to #4 about it.  It’s difficult but I told him that Loser wouldn’t care.  I reminded him that Loser called his sister and told her to tell me to throw him out on the street…in 15° weather.  At best, Loser would look at the WTC, wipe his brow and say “whew.”  Ann believes the same thing.

After our chat, I headed home and there was a strange car parked on the street beside my house.  I pulled up behind it, wondering who it was.  The screen door opened and what looked to me like a punk kid drug dealer walked down the steps and came walking toward me.  I was just about to throw my car in reverse, when he identified himself as an undercover police officer.

He had picked up #4 outside a grocery store in the next town.  He said #4 wanted him to come tell me what happened.  He was arrested…again for open container and public drunk.

This young mans’ name was officer Griffin.  He said they almost brought him home but discovered that he kept doing the same thing.  He suggested that I get him involuntarily committed.

The police officers here are the nicest people I have ever encountered.  They have brought #4 home three times to keep from taking him to jail.  They have never expressed concern that #4 is a nuisance.  They express concern that he might step in front of a car or fall down and seriously injure himself.

I called the Mental Health Clinic and they told me to come talk to them, although it didn’t sound promising.  It’s in another town about a half-hour away.  I was the only one there for a while and then somebody opened the gates.

My phone won’t ring for weeks at a time but when I’m out somewhere, it rings.  Ann, from the cafe called to see if I had found #4.  I went outside so I wouldn’t disturb anybody and here came the men….smoking and coughing up a lung.  One of them came over and asked if I was single.  Another one asked if I’d like to go have a drink “after.”  Are you fucking kidding me? Sure….I obviously look like a party girl.

I was finally called in and John, the counselor told me there was nothing he could do for me…especially since #4 was in jail.  He told me that if I went to get him or if he came here, to call them back and they would try to help but #4 had to present a danger to himself or somebody else.  I know that.  I used to run EMS.  I also know that I could lie and use the system but I’m not going to do that (although I am so desperate, it had occurred to me.)

I guess I will see what happens when he gets out.  Officer Griffin said he could possibly get out this afternoon, if he was sober.  If not, it will be tomorrow morning.

I wish I could cry.  I wish I could scream.  I wish I could eat.  I wish I could sleep.  Mostly, I wish I could spit in Losers’ face.

Ha.  I moved to an idyllic little town, where your neighbors speak when they walk by or throw out an arm when they drive by and I am now known as the mama of the town drunk.

A Town Called Whisper – Chapter Four

I came to know the people of Whisper through Reverend Smythe.  He described a picturesque town, full of people you would expect to see portrayed in a Norman Rockwell painting.  Pansy Faye, Leroy, Ron, Elwyn and Billy Ray came back to life and for a moment and I found myself wishing I could turn back time.

Days slowly turned into weeks and the rescue equipment sounds became Whispers’ death rattle.  When the earth movers’ bucket scooped up a pile of rubble, there was a high-pitched squeal, as if the town was screaming while it was being eviscerated.

A worker uncovered the crushed, striped pole that hung outside Leroy’s barber shop and tossed it into the back of a truck, already heavy laden with debris.  A large shard of glass with the letter L painted in red, could only be from Lucy’s cafe.

As those remains were being discarded, there were no smells of aftershave or freshly baked cornbread.  There was only the overpowering smell of death.

Reverend Smythe, clutching his Bible, was looking haggard and worn.  It was clear that nobody in the town had survived.  He was trying to put on a brave face and as any “God person” would do, hold on to his unwavering faith.

I had never really been touched by death.  My parents were still alive and so were both sets of my grandparents.  Aunts, uncles and cousins were still “kicking” as well.

I had heard about death and I had read about it.  I had witnessed mourning and the outpouring of grief but one thing I never really bought into, was somebody trying to explain an untimely death with the bullshit rhetoric of “God must have needed another angel.”

My question was “just how many more angels did He need?”  I wanted to know what happened to the ones He already had.

“God has a plan for each of us,” Reverend Smythe said.  I was familiar with that phrase and had dismissed it as casually as if I had heard “to each his own.”

I asked Reverend Smythe, “was Gods’ plan to obliterate an entire town? Was His plan to take all those lives for no other reason than He could?”

I wanted to know why.  Why this town?  Why these people?  Why that plane?  Why those passengers?

Reverend Smythe told me that I was not to question God or His motives, nor was I to question who He chose to call home and when.

He said “we are sent here to leave a legacy.  We may have a short visit or a long stay but each of us leaves a mark and the people of this town will leave an everlasting one.  There is good in the world, son and I have to believe that these people were here to share that goodness, however brief. That is their legacy.”

I wasn’t sure I believed in what I considered to be senseless deaths under the guise of “legacies.”  I was much more likely to believe in Karmic justice. I believed in “the sins of the father.”  I believed in “an eye for an eye.”  I believed in “what goes around, comes around.”

I also knew that innocent people were sometimes collateral damage when the universe went on a killing spree.

I knew about the people of Whisper but I knew nothing about the passengers on the plane.  I obtained a list of their names and decided to delve into their lives.

I picked five random names.  I wanted to weave a tapestry of these people and try to find a reason for the unraveling of the threads that made up their lives.  I wanted to find some cosmic reason for their deaths.

What I would ultimately discover would be gut-wrenching, heart-breaking and would leave me torn between feeling justice had been served and questioning the very existence of a merciful God.


To be continued_______________


The Blue Sky Tag

A big thank you to socialworkerangela – I AM MY OWN ISLAND for the nomination.

The Rules:

1.  Ask 11 questions.

2.  Tag 11 people.

3.  Answer the 11 questions given to you.


The 11 questions asked of me:

1.  Ocean or Mountains.
Hands down.  Mountains.  I grew up in the mountains of North Carolina and I have never lost my love for them.  The ocean has always seemed too cold and lonesome.

2.  Cat or dog.

3.  Why did you start your blog?
To tell the story of my life.

4.  Favorite movie.
I have several but I guess if I had to pick, it would be Gone With The Wind.

5.  Favorite quote.
“Sometimes the person you’d take a bullet for, is the one holding the gun.”

6.  Beatles or Elvis.
I didn’t really care that much about either one of them.  Maybe Elvis.

7.  What Harry Potter character would you like to be?
This is completely lost on me.  I have never read the books nor seen the movies.

8.  If you could travel anywhere, where would you go?
Realistically, Las Vegas, to see my RBS.  Unrealistically, probably Ireland.

9.  Favorite color and why.
I have two.  Pink and seafoam green.  I’m not sure why.  I just like the combination.

10.  Your most prized possession.

11.  One lesson you’ve learned in life.
Never trust a man.


My 11 questions:

1.  Murder mystery or love story?

2.  Favorite color car and why.

3.  Favorite childhood memory.

4.  Last time you did a first.

5.  Best and worst traits you inherited.

6.  Have you ever ridden in an ambulance?

7.  What is your biggest regret?

8.  What is your greatest joy?

9.  If you could meet any famous person, who would it be?

10.  What song gives you chills?

11.  Silver or gold?


My nominees:

1.  learningtolivelikewater

2.   survivednarc

3.  creativerational

4.  ifonlymommy

5.  Tikeetha T.

6.  Ogden Fahey

7.  Embeecee

8.  davebarclay1954

9.  Brian Lageose

10.  samlobos

11.  gettingrealwithPTSD

A Town Called Whisper – Chapter Three

On June 14, 1965 at 11:53 a.m. the people on the outskirts of Whisper felt the ground tremble and heard what they said sounded like a sonic boom.

The people in the town of Whisper, most likely felt and heard nothing.

I got a call from my editor saying “head to Whisper…some kind of catastrophic event…details unknown.”  I got in my car and I think I drove the 138 miles in 138 minutes flat.  I’m not sure I have ever driven that fast but I wanted to get the “scoop.”  Every reporter wants to make a name for himself and I was unapologetically, no exception.

I remember seeing a sign that said “Welcome To The Town Of Whisper.” What I saw after would be burned into my memory like an unfortunate tattoo is burned onto your body when you’re drunk and becomes an event that you wish you could erase later.

In what used to be the town, debris and body parts were strewn as far as I could see.  In the distance, thick smoke was bellowing like an angry volcano that had awakened and was hell-bent on revenge for having been disturbed.

Something was wrong.  Something was terribly wrong.

As I walked toward the destruction, it was as if I had stepped into the middle of a war zone.  I’m not sure I can find the words to accurately depict what I was seeing.  The famous “oh, the humanity” phrase popped into my mind, but I’m not even sure that saying could describe the gravity of the carnage that lay before me.

Sheriff Monson was the high sheriff from the next county and he allowed me into the area with the warning “be careful where you step, don’t touch anything and don’t speak to anybody who isn’t law enforcement.”  I asked him if it would be okay to interview a few people about what happened.

He looked at me and said “son, I’m not sure there’s anybody left TO interview.”

I asked him if he knew what happened.  He said “as best as we can tell, it was some kind of explosion.”

There was rubble everywhere and I saw pieces of metal, bricks, and cars upside down in what I imagine used to be the street.

I will admit.  I had no idea where to even begin.  The most dramatic thing I had ever reported on was an angry man who got drunk and threw several kittens down a dry well.  When he sobered up, he felt guilty but couldn’t figure any way to get them out, so he started dropping food down to them. They grew up and had more kittens.  When animal control found them, there was a colony of more than 45 cats, living on top of each other in the bottom of that well.

Night fell and amidst the glow of the full moon, the scene took on an eerie feel.  Shadows looked like souls rising up and drifting away and the quiet was almost deafening.

I had already decided that I was going to catch a few winks in my car so I could be there the first thing in the morning.  As I was walking away, I stopped and turned.  I heard birds singing.  It was night-time…a plane had crashed…a town had been annihilated…and birds were singing.

A quote from Rose Kennedy came to mind.  She said “birds sing after a storm.  Why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?”

Who was going to delight in the next mornings’ sunlight?  The first responders?  Law enforcement?  Me?  Certainly not the people on the plane or the townsfolk.  The sun might be shining the next day but we were going to be in the midst of hell on earth, looking at bits and pieces of what used to be lives.

I was exhausted and fell into a fitful sleep.  I was awakened the next morning by the sound of heavy equipment.  There were earth movers, cranes, firetrucks, ambulances and a plethora of law enforcement vehicles. Several news crews arrived along with reporters from various other papers.

I took a swig of stale water from a bottle that had been in my car for two or three days and headed toward the scene.  Sheriff Monson was already there and shared some information he had gotten during the night.

He said he heard from dispatch, that a Boeing 747 had crashed into the town.

I remember thinking, “if it was an airplane crash, where is the plane?”

On impact, it had broken apart into what looked like a thousand puzzle pieces and no identifying marks could be discerned.  Only the size of the debris field could confirm that it was indeed a massive plane.

I don’t know why but I asked him where the plane was headed.  “What a ridiculous question,” I thought.  Did it really matter where they were going? He adjusted his belt, put his hand on my shoulder and as he walked away, said “they were going to Las Vegas.”|

Las Vegas.  Sin City.  The place where “what happens there, stays there.” The city where you can walk away a millionaire or lose your entire life’s savings with one throw of the dice.  None of the people on that plane were going to do either of those things.  They had already gambled…and lost.

There were 223 souls on board the flight, including the pilot, first officer, flight engineer and three stewardesses.  All were lost.  The souls lost on the ground were not yet known.

Sheriff Monson and I noticed a caravan of official looking vehicles arriving. He looked confused as he said “who the hell are these guys?”

They were from the NTSB.  This was going to be the first major airline crash they investigated.  They took over and we were left with more or less, slim pickens.  I walked around, in an almost state of shock as I watched body bag after body bag being loaded into unmarked vans.

I learned that only one person on that plane was still fully intact.  One.  It was a stewardess and she was found in a tree, miles from the crash site, still strapped to her jump-seat.

The crash site spanned more than an eight-mile radius.  The National Guard was called in when it was discovered that people from other towns had descended on the area.  They were pilfering suitcases and taking jewelry off hands and arms they found in the woods.

Reverend Smythe had been out of town but rushed back to Whisper when he heard what happened.  He was there to offer as much comfort as he possibly could but seeing death on such a large scale was something he was ill prepared for.

A few of the workers broke down even though they were used to seeing death.  They had seen it many times but these deaths…these deaths were horrendous.  They were picking up legs, arms and even heads.  They were finding tiny limbs that belonged to children.  Some of the bodies were literally fused to parts of the plane.

This kind of massacre could bring anybody to their knees.  More than once, I turned my head and wiped tears from my face.  I have never considered myself to be overly religious but I wanted to raise my arms and look to the Heavens and scream “why?  If you’re such a loving God, why?  What purpose could this possibly serve?”

I watched as Reverend Smythe prayed over every body part recovered.  Who, if anybody had survived in town was still unknown.  The wreckage had demolished the buildings and the hope of finding anybody alive was fading. Reverend Smythe was never one to give up faith that the Heavenly Father would protect his flock and he was going to need his faith now more than ever.

When a Seacrest green Chevy trunk was uncovered, Reverend Smythe crumbled in agony.  Billy Rays’ body was found in the mangled wreckage. That young man was never going to have children and watch them grow up.

That young man was never going to see his black hair turn grey.



To be continued___________________

He’s Gone

I had to take my son to the hospital yesterday.  He thought he was having a heart attack.  I knew it was the DTs.  His blood pressure was high and his heart rate was up but he wasn’t in SVT.  He was shaking uncontrollably and sweating profusely.

The doctor came in and told him it was time for him to go to detox.  Of course, #4 agreed.  You tend to agree to anything when you think you’re dying.  He promised the doctor and me that he would go.

He didn’t tell me that he was supposed to call the detox place this morning at 8.  I finally got him to get up at noon.  That’s when he told me.  I kept asking him to call and he kept procrastinating.

He finally called and they had a bed that would be available at 11:00 tonight.  He asked them if he could smoke while here was there….are you fucking serious?  They told him no but they would give him a patch.

He kept hemming and hawing and I could hear the lady tell him that she didn’t think he wanted to go but for him to talk to me and then call her back.

I reminded him that he told me he would go but he said he had an appointment tomorrow morning with “those people” who would let him see a counselor.  I reminded him that the first thing “those people” said to him was “you need to go to detox.”

I gave him a choice.  Go to detox or pack his duds and leave.  He came in and started washing the dishes and then told me he wanted to shower and wash his clothes.  I told him he didn’t need a clean body or clean clothes to be homeless.

It almost crushed me when I saw the look on his face.  I could still see that little boy from so many years ago when mean mama told him he couldn’t jump off the roof into the swimming pool.

He packed as many clothes as would fit into a backpack that he got somewhere…I don’t know where.  Maybe he traded some of my jewelry for it.  He asked me for some money.  I told him he had already stolen all the money I had but I still had a bottle of Vodka that I took off of him when he came home so drunk the other night.

He asked me why I didn’t pour it out and I told him that he was being so volatile and belligerent, I was afraid that if I poured it out in front of him, he might have really hurt me.

He said he wanted it.  I gave it to him and I will say, I was amazed when he opened it and poured it out.

I asked him if he realized what he was doing.  “You are giving up a place to stay, food to eat and a warm bed to sleep in, all because you refuse to do something for yourself.  You want me to do everything for you but you won’t do anything for me…like go to detox so you can maybe have one more shot at sobriety.”  He just said “yeah.”

He said he would probably call Loser, although he never answered when he did.  Yep.  I’m sure Loser will come through for him…like always.

I gave him twenty dollars and he walked down the street.

Will I be able to do anything for the rest of the day?  Probably not.  Will I be able to sleep tonight?  Probably not.  If something happens to him, will I feel like it’s my fault for putting him out?  Goddamn right I will.

A Town Called Whisper – Chapter Two

Leroy the barber was what you might call a real hoot.  He was a diminutive man, with a shock of silver hair and jet black eyebrows that looked like huge, wooly caterpillars.  His favorite saying was “I ain’t never seen the beat in my life.”

The walls in his shop were covered with pictures of Hollywood movie stars, including Elizabeth Taylor, Betty Grable and Susan Hayward, but his favorite was Marilyn Monroe standing over that subway grate.  When she died, he mourned her death and placed a wreath on his front door.

All the men came to his shop to get their “har did,” sit around telling tall tales and jaw-jacking, as they called it.

When they walked in, they would say “how’s mama?”  Leroy would smile and say “I reckon she’s fair to midlin.”

Everybody knew that Leroy carried his mama around in the trunk of his car. When she died, he couldn’t bring himself to plant her in the cold, dark ground so he had her cremated.

He never could find just the right urn to hold her ashes so he put them in his trunk and that’s where she had resided for the last nine or so years. Leroy loved to joke around and sometimes he would muse that now and then he reckoned mama was gettin’ a little antsy because he could hear a faint voice saying “let me out…let me out.”

Leroy said he had been a barber “since the beginning of time.”  He had seen wild hair, tame hair, lots of hair and no hair.  He had seen black hair turn grey and thick hair turn thin.

There had only been one mishap in his shop and it involved Billy Ray.  It was prom time and Billy Ray was taking his best girl.  He had come in for “just a tiny little trim.”  The attachment fell off of the clippers just as Leroy was running them across the top of Billy Rays’ head and he skinned him. What initially looked much like a reverse Mohawk, became Billy Rays’ new bald head but he was good-natured and said “aw, it’s just hair and I reckonspect it’ll grow back.”

On that memorable day, as Billy Ray was walking out, Reverend Smythe was walking in.  He chuckled when he looked at Billy Ray and said “good grief, son.  What the hell happened to your hair?”

Reverend Smythe was a hell-fire and brimstone Baptist preacher who taught the fear of God and wanted everybody to be ready for their ever-lastin’ callin’.  He didn’t mind using a bit of profanity now and then, if it got his point across and he would sometimes surprise the congregation with an off-color comment, such as “masturbation makes Jesus weep.”

One thing he wouldn’t stand for was anybody taking the Lords’ name in vain.  When he would hear somebody say “oh, my Lord,” he would say “you ought not be calling on the good Lord unless you’re really needin’ him.”

Reverend Smythe was an avid reader of anything written by Earl Stanley Gardner and he particularly enjoyed the Perry Mason stories.  He could read a paperback novel in one day.  He was even known to read Harlequin Romance Novels on the sly.  He got a twinkle in his eyes when he said “there’s nothing better than a good murder mystery or a great romance.”

Reverend Smythe was married to the church but at one time, he had a sweetheart.  They were a handsome pair.  He was a tall, fetching man and she was considered to be the catch of the town.  She was a free spirit and had her own idea about a “higher power.”  She even suggested to him that God might be a woman.

Being a fundamentalist, Reverend Smythe couldn’t justify her views, nor could she accept his and they parted ways.  He became bitter and found forgiveness difficult but he sojourned on and through his faith, he eventually found peace.

She left Whisper and they lost touch but she was never far from his mind. He kept a worn and tattered picture of her tucked away in his Bible, next to the circled scripture “and when you stand praying, if you hold anything against anyone, forgive them, so that your Father in Heaven may forgive you your sins.”

He believed in an omnipresent God who heard and answered all prayers. He preached that good would always outweigh evil and honor and integrity were the mark of a true Christian.  He ended every sermon, reciting The Golden Rule and followed it with the Lords’ Prayer.  Outside the church, every parishioner got a handshake, a smile and a “God bless you.”

He had unwavering faith but soon that faith would be put to the ultimate test.



To be continued___________________




Here’s A Gun….Shoot Me

My beloved RBS….you might not want to read this.

#4 got up this morning and got dressed.  He walked out to the side porch and I asked him where he was going.  He said “nowhere yet.”  I went out to say something to him and he was gone.

For some reason, I decided to look around in my bathroom.  First, I noticed that a dollar bill I had folded up was missing.  The last time Shoe (my grandson) and I went shopping, I found that dollar.  It was just a dollar but it had fond memories for me.

I had three dollars on the cabinet over the commode and they were gone.  I panicked and started looking for a pouch that I kept a few pieces of jewelry in.  It was missing.  Some of my rings, bracelets, earrings and necklaces were in there.  They were real gold and…all I had left from everything he had already stolen.

Loser had given me a really nice necklace (as a guilt gift when he found the WTC.)  #4 stole it.  It took me a long time to find another one to replace it but I did.  That was in the pouch.  I guess I was never meant to have that necklace.

I asked him if he took the money.  At first he denied it.  Then he admitted it.  I also had a Waterford candy dish that was full of change and he took that.  Then I asked him when he took my jewelry.  He denied it and started walking around looking in laundry baskets, through his dirty clothes pile and behind the sofa.  It was ridiculous.  He said he remembered “seeing it, ” but “he didn’t think he took it.”

We got in the car and headed up to the pawn shop.  They didn’t have it and as we were driving away, #4 said “there’s somewhere else to look.”  We ended up at a drug dealers’ house.  (I have a little experience with that.  When #4 sold our computer for drugs a few years ago, Loser screamed for me to “get his fucking computer back and he didn’t care how I did it.”  I met the drug dealer in the middle of the woods with a fist full of cash and nobody knowing where I was or what I was doing.  Worked out for Loser.  He got his “fucking computer” back and I didn’t get killed.)

The drug dealer said he didn’t have my jewelry so I headed back uptown.  There is a mental health place there and I told #4 that’s where we were going.  He got real surly and said “can we go by the house and get some water?”  I said no.  He got so belligerent I ended up raising my voice and telling him we were going.  We got there and he didn’t want to go in…he wanted to smoke a cigarette first.  I told him no.  He didn’t care what I said.  He lit up.  I went in without him to see if anybody there could help us.

There was a woman who helped with “emergencies” and she was willing to talk to us…but #4 had already vanished.  A few minutes later, I saw him beside my car.  He reluctantly came in and sat down.  He was rude and obnoxious.  He looked at this lady and said “are you a drunk?”  She was gracious and said “no, I’m a recovering addict.”  #4 gave his best Loser imitation when he did the “pffft” thing.  He started this grandiose thing that has become part of his repertoire….what a decent guy he is, what a talented soccer player he is, how smart he is, how well-read he is.  The more he talked, the more I expected him to again imitate Loser by holding his hands out and say “I’m God.”

She couldn’t get more than four or five words out because he constantly interrupted her.  She said she thought he needed to go to detox.  He stood up and angrily said “NO.”  Then he started talking about all these “so-called doctors with their PHDs and how they think they know everything and they’re all just in it for the money.”  It was embarrassing….almost as embarrassing as it used to be, listening to Loser hold court to all the “underlings” of the world.

He can’t be seen until Monday which is fine because he lost his job but I know he can’t stay sober until then.  He was drunk when I took him and everybody there knew it.  When we got home, he seemed to be getting drunker.  I went to “his” room and found an almost empty bottle of vodka rolled up in his sweater.  I wonder which piece of my jewelry bought that?

I’m so sick of hearing this “I’m sorry mom” shit that I’m ready to scream.

I told him that I was going to call those people and have him taken to detox.  He asked if I would let him get his things together.  I told him he didn’t need things to go to detox.  I picked up the phone and he glared at me and said “who are you fucking calling?”

He’s gone.  I have no idea where he went….maybe back to the drug dealers’ house or to the only tavern that hasn’t banned him.  I wonder what he has stolen to pay for the drugs or drink.

I am heartsick over my jewelry…but I should have known he couldn’t be trusted.  I mean, am I insane?  Yes, apparently I am.   Hell, I trusted his daddy and that didn’t work out too well either.  I guess I’m just a fool when it comes to the (****) men.

My head is killing me and I feel like I’m going to stroke out any minute.

I don’t know if I’m going to go look for him or not.  Yesterday, he texted me “helloy.”  I knew he was drunk.  He called me and asked me to come get him before he got arrested.  I asked him where he was and he said “down the street.”  That could have been anywhere.  The next thing I knew, I heard a car door shut and went to the door.  It was a police car and they had #4 in handcuffs.

So the whole neighborhood got to witness the police bring my son home in handcuffs.  The policemen and women here are some of the nicest officers I have ever encountered.  They’re gracious and kind…and they’re all getting to know me as the mama of the drunk they have to keep picking up.   They brought him home rather than take him to jail.  One of them looked at #4 and said “your mama doesn’t deserve this.”

Oh, well.  I’m going to try to let this be the last post about him.