A Conversation in a Garage

My stomach is a lead ball and my anxiety is especially through the roof today. I am picking up my son from prison, I am feeling inadequate as usual. I had failed miserably, I know it and when he looks at me, he knows it. My faith in God has been wavering, I see no hope and have not received any help. My anger grows by the day, I have only prayed dark prayers of death. "Please God kill us both." Jayden going to prison was the shit on top. Everyday since he has been incarcerated, I have pushed away the visions of him being raped and beaten. I suspect as an addict, this has already occurred. I pretend to be excited to see him but the truth is, I know this situation is about to get worse. I have been spending my time begging and ultimately threatening his probation officer to force him into a long-stay facility. My emails were met with non-committal jargon and excuses based on the pandemic. My son is now a leper, an untouchable, "no help will be provided, Lisa, sorry we do not give a shit, there are people dying out there." I find it's easy not to help isn't it? Provide an excuse, stand behind your occupation and sit on your incompetent fat asses. I have done this before, I am guilty.

I sense my son's death in the near future. Desperate is what I am. I've learned that people smell desperation like poo and they want no part of it. They want no part of me or my son anymore. Maybe if there's a God, the Christian God, he wants me to learn through suffering. I have watched my son deteriorate for years and it has not made me more of a believer. I will leave that there. People look at me with pity but behind this is another sentiment, disgust. Doesn't matter anyway, I hate them, they are my mirrors. I hate myself. I hate God. I hate my life. The amusing part of this analogy, is that the mirrors will condemn me for my hate and further withdraw their support. They will unanimously agree, "She did not have enough faith to save her son." I think to myself, something must be wrong with us, rejected by family, "friends", and the people who are paid to help. I digress.

I am driving to the prison, I stop and park. I see him. That's not my son. He's 25, he is walking down the sidewalk, he looks at me and smiles, but there's a vacancy. He's checked out. I smile back, pretending too. I look at his body and it doesn't look correct. His neck is wide and he almost seems bloated and inflamed. He has marks on his face that have healed over. He looks different then the meth-head he usually resembles, thin sunk-in features, now he's oddly swollen. I realize in that moment, that this look is just as unsettling. The worst part of him being with me now in the car is that we are not comfortable around each other. We haven't been in a few years and this makes me sadder than anything. Jayden was my star, the boy I loved more than my own life. The boy who was everything I was not. I destroyed him and drugs had their way too. I had one shot at motherhood and but I knew when he was born, that at some point everything would be taken away. I don't believe I was meant to be anyone's mom. Jayden was too good for me.

As I drive us home, we chat about nothing in particular, I try to be cheerful, Jayden tries to be interested. We are lost. I wish I could drive us both off a cliff. In reality, I am a coward. I talk to him about the pandemic and how we both are basically trapped at home until further notice. I insert a small plea for him to contact his probation officer to get him into a safe place, like a half-way house. I try to make it sound like a gathering of friends who have like-minded interests. He stares forward with no response. I have nothing left, no hope, no inspiring words, nothing but a scream inside, "Please don't die, I love you." We arrive at my house, it doesn't feel like home. It's a prison too, poor son. I guess you never get out. I pull into the garage. He is still staring forward, he starts to speak.

"Mom, God visited me one night in prison." I feel my chest tighten in fear. I told Him that I feared being sent to hell cause I wasn't living right. God told me that I was gonna die soon but that I would be with Him. I wish I could tell you at this moment that I felt some peace, but that would be a lie. He knows he's going to die. I am going to lose my only son. I try to not burst into tears and I don't, I listen. The thoughts in my head are, "prepare yourself Lisa, this is not rock bottom. I knew if he died, he would take me down with him. He was killing both of us. He starts to tear up, glossy vacant eyes. He has given up, my second worst fear. I tell him everything will be okay, he can overcome this, etc etc. No one believes anything anymore, after forty-five minutes, we exit the car. He lives four more months.