He came home last night...

Our son...

It’s always a relief when he comes home. It just is. A relief.

Even if he accuses you of drugging the soup or whipping up realms of magical powers to thwart his days/plans or throwing his things away.

You put my books out on the sidewalk for people to take and that’s when it started. What time of day? Two days ago? The timing is exactly right. You have no idea of your powers.

Even if he tries to cast demons out of the dogs losing their minds at the chaos, placing his hands on their heads - get out spirits, now, I commend you in the name of Jesus - like some kind of old-time preacher.

Even if he insists on his worldview as solid and sound, he still describes dodging zappers, and he rescues books and papers you’ve saved for him but he thinks it’s all about to be tossed - this is mine. This is mine. This is mine. You promised. You promised. You started without me. You weren’t supposed to start without me.

It does no good to argue, but sometimes we argue anyway.

No, we did not drug the soup.

Why would we drug the soup?

We had to start packing.

I’m leaving in three days.

We haven’t thrown anything of yours away.

You refuse to take any responsibility for your part in anything in the past. You have your perception, and we have our own perception of how things happened. They are different points of view, and I’m so sorry.

I love you, Mama. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. What did you put in the soup? I know you drugged the soup. I know it. I can taste it.

He also thinks we started the Maui fires because we put his late uncle’s book, Complete Men’s Health, on the curb next to one called Baby Insane and the Buddah about street gangs in San Diego and written by one of my former editors, Bob Sichen - a great editor who taught me to read my work aloud, and it is something I tell my students. “Read your work aloud. You’ll catch the mistakes.”

I didn’t know Kiffen put Bob’s book out there next to Jimmy’s Men’s Health. Uncle Jimmy loved Hawaii more than any place in the world, and he lived on the beach there for a time in Maui and fished. He had a place there in 70’s and 80’s. He would escape his job as a cameraman for shows like “All in the Family",” “The Jeffersons,” and “Married With Children” and so many others to get to Hawaii to breathe.

And so the combustible combination of Jimmy’s book and Bob’s book kindled the inferno on Maui. Now both books are rescued and maybe we will take the books to the Sidewalk Project as they are building their library for clients.

https://www.thesidewalkproject.org/

Eventually, our son sleeps. He falls asleep and he almost looks peaceful. The dogs approach and sniff, no longer afraid. If someone had told me 17 years ago this would be our journey, I would not have believed them. How could this be our path? That was 17 years ago when he was 17. I’ve been in a time warp with this packing, magically thinking - is it really that bad? Isn’t there a way to turn back time and…

Mental illness.

If you try to casually mention that it’s in the family, he denies it and gives a litany of why it’s not the truth. His face is old. He’s lost all the weight from jail, so he is gaunt again, hip bones jutting out, feet filthy. He spends days battling demons. I put my hand on his head. It’s cool. I watch his chest rise and fall. I want him to sleep, to heal, to wake up clear-eyed and not paranoid.

He yells at me, “Just bury me in a crypt with everything. Throw it all in.”

I stop listening. I walk away.

If I were all-powerful, I would wake him and make him shower. I would have clean clothes at the ready for him. I did wash all his clothes last week, but they are a mess again, he tells me. Then I would load him in the car and take him to a mental health crisis center and get him help. His eyes would widen with curiosity and joy and humor again - he would see people want him to get better. I tell him there are so many people rooting for him! I say - you are so loved.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t hear me.

We have played this song and dance tune over and over for years. I found a journal entry from 2007 when it was all starting, and it could have been written in 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012…He still blames us for 2013 when we made him leave.

You kicked me out.

You kicked me out.

Just as I was getting my life together.

But for now, he’s home and sleeping. Kiffen is in the kitchen cooking an omelet and some bacon. The house smells safe.

I said, “We want you to come to Alabama.”

He said, “You never invite me. You abandoned me.”

“We want you to be in a place where you can board a plane and - ”

“You want to put me in a place?”

“No, a place in your life where you get in on a plane….”

“No, you said you want to put me in a place…”

“I didn’t mean. I’m sorry. Look, it’s hard for me to leave for California.”

“You left years ago. You’ve been gone.”

That’s also what mental illness does. It shreds humor and empathy. Mental illness is the emotional shredder that Kiffen was talking about. Mental illness shellacs out all light and love.

To get on that plane on Wednesday, I am going to have to do my own magical thinking. I’ll be back in a few days. I am not really moving. I’m just attending a faculty meeting in Alabama. Greeting students. Doing the next right thing. Maybe he will get well and join us for a visit.

But for now, we’re just going to eat breakfast together when he wakes up, and I will tell him that today is “National Creamsicle Day” on August 14th, since a friend just sent me that news.

https://nationaltoday.com/national-creamsicle-day/