Almost 12 hours later, we stumbled out the automatic doors into the bright sun light. Him because of the drugs, me because of the lack of sleep, and just about everything else combined with the bright light – caused me to stumble. I think for a few seconds before blindly leading him to where I think we parked. I honestly don’t remember but I figure if we walk long enough we will find something similar to the vehicle we drove in just 12 hours ago.
He whimpers before launching into a tired cry. For once, I want to join in with him, not caring who will see or hear. Im tired. And confused. And really just hurt. The voices of those nonsupporting bystanders scream loudly in my mind as I try, helplessly to buckle him in. “He is tearing you all apart.” “What about the others, don’t they deserve part of you too?” “Why don’t you just let someone more capable handle him.” Where are they now, those voices, those people. Why arent they there to offer something. Anything.
Before we leave I light up. Inhale. Deep. Exhale. Slowly. The first smoke in hours, and much needed. He is asleep, now, much like he was hours before. The exhaustion, combined with whatever they gave him finally colliding into a happy silence that fills the cab of the car.
And then. The anger.
Right on schedule.
I don’t have time to process anything, I just have to go with it, and eventually when I have run out of road to run from – it slams in behind me. And today, it’s the anger. The anger for not being enough. Not being capable enough. Smart enough. Enough. The anger for being left to deal with him. With this. With them. To make these choices that arent MINE to make. And I want to scream, and I would, if it wouldn’t wake him up. But waking him up is not something I want right now, and so the anger sits silently inside, burning a hole.
The night was long, the morning longer. I try to block it out, but it still comes, uninvited to ruin the blissful moment of silence I have. And there I sit. Early this morning he woke up sick. But it didn’t end there, because for the next few hours I tried desperately to calm him down, to no avail. It wasn’t until I realized there was no end in sight did I do the only thing I knew how to do – admit to defeat and take him to someone who could help him.
Like a child with a broken toy I handed him over to be “Fixed” wishing for some magic cure to this curse life seems to be. They attempted to control the fits of panic he was fighting, unsuccessful as I had been for the past few hours. His breathing was out of control as was his heart rate and everything else. His eyes darted around the room, glossy as if he had been drugged. Frantically he held onto anything he could, squeezing with his whole body, screaming. Restraining him made it worse, and just as quickly as it started, it ended. A high dose of something I could never pronounce, and silence.
Short shallow breaths, a sweaty mess of hair, and swollen eyes.
Never in a million years would I have thought it would come to this. Sure, we have had our fair share of fits. But the things I have read, about attempting to restrain your child while tragic, never rang true to me. Until today.
The questions without answers. The future with no answers. A boy with no answers. All in my hands. And this is what I come up with. This is the best I can do. I have no answers, I have no hope.
I admit to defeat. To being tossed under the bus with no will to get out again.