A conversation in my head with my son

Son, I spend most of my day thinking of you and worrying about you. I can see right through your positive attitude with me, on the phone. When you tell me how good you feel, my motherly instinct can hear that you are trying to convince yourself.

My heart breaks for you, because I cannot see how you can feel any joy in your life. I wish that I could fix it for you, but I don't have that kind of power. The only temporary fix (and I can't afford it) is for me to buy your happiness-- for me to pay for a nice apartment, give you an allowance and to buy you a golf membership. That would cheer you right up. But, I can assure you, that your addiction doesn't care about those things.

What frustrates me is how irresponsible and undependable you have become. It upsets you if I was to point it out to you. You don't want to hear, let alone admit it.

Last night, I got an email from your roommate... remember that apartment that cost $700.00 of my mother's hard earned money (your dwindling trust fund). Yes, it's that place that you spent three whole nights at. That breaks my heart, son. What a waste of money and effort-- when I think about the time I've spent driving up there to pack and move you three times.

I can't tell, anymore, how much of your behavior is from the drugs or from .... what? I can't even come up with a word for it. I don't want to call you "lazy", but I don't see you making any kind of sincere effort to find a job. The few jobs you've gotten, you've lost. You've been fired, or "let go". I see you giving up, and lounging around at your dad's house.

I feel worn out, beaten down and wounded by your addiction. I feel emotionally drained, from all the worry about your future. I can hardly bear to talk about your situation with my brothers, my friends and even my husband. I feel so "talked out" about what I've been through.

I love you, son. You know that. But I feel worn out. I feel as though I have run out of options and that have to make a decision and stick to it.

There are some simple things I wish that you would take to heart. Here's one of them-- be honest. Don't make promises that you can't keep. Return phone calls. You have not contacted your roommate and tomorrow is your last day in that apartment. He contacted me, and he sounded desperate to hear from you.

Have the courtesy to be on time. Your father called me, last night. You were 2 hours later than you promised, in showing up at his house. I could hear the frustration in your dad's voice. What can I say?

When you don't return someone's phone calls and you don't show up on time for people-- you are telling them that you do not respect their time. That is not how I raised you to be.

Yesterday, you completely shut me down when I asked if your friend would help you move out of your apartment. I could tell that you just didn't want to "deal with it".

Son, you need to "deal" with life. Drugs aren't the answer. Life isn't easy, and God has never promised us that it would be. What God has promised us is that he will be right there, with you. He will give you strength, and wisdom, if you ask for it. But, you also need to talk to him and surrender your will to his perfect will.

No matter how smart we think we are, God knows best.

God humbled me the day that your father walked out on me, in 1996. My life, as I knew it, was stopped. What I thought was my financial security was whisked away from me. That is when I finally got on my knees and pleaded for God to help me get through this.

I wonder-- has God allowed your own choices to bring you to rock bottom? Where are you seeking your wisdom and guidance? As Dr. Phil says "how's it working out for you"?

Your life is in shambles, my precious boy. I can't give you anymore band-aids. You are smart, charming and you have good manners. You can get a job...maybe not the high paying job you have convinced yourself that you deserve. But, you need to stop relying on your parents to support you. We both work, and it's not right that you expect for us to hand you money for being on a long-term vacation.

I love you, son. I am praying that you will make good choices. I am not abandoning you. I just cannot enable the lifestyle you have gotten used to.

Love,

Mom