When To Let Go

19, August 2013

THE MOM:

We’ve reached a tricky stage: when and how much does one start trusting one’s recovering addict child again? When does he start calling the shots and when do I back off?

Alex has made great strides, there is no denying this. He has matured in many ways. Not all, but many. He is more aware of others and their problems, not just his own. He has learned how to control his emotions better. He is happier. He is nicer. He has embarked on a project regarding his future (getting his GED and hopefully afterwards gaining admittance to Berkeley or another college of music to get a degree in Film Compostion). Friends tell me how good he looks. His grandparents adore him. He has won the admiration of his case worker at CRI, and their trust, so much in fact that he is allowed to collect one week’s worth of his meds at once, which is improvement indeed from last September, when it entailed him going to the chemist to collect it every day and being watched by them while he took it.

One result of this is that Alex is no longer forced to be on hand every day or every other day in order to collect his Subutex (which is still being reduced). He does not have to be here, in this village, in other words. I have noticed, however, that he is starting to “announce” plans or intentions, to go places or do things—rather like a done deal. For example, there is no “Say, had this idea I might go into London on Thursday if that’s okay with you guys, stay over with Arch, maybe take this bird out to dinner, maybe go to the Notting Hill Carnival? What do you think?”

Now it’s: “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Well I’m 26 for fuck’s sake, I can do what I want!” [FLOUNCE OFF TO LOO LOOKING PISSED OFF]

So we discussed all this. Just now, in depth, after a row, or what could have turned into a row, if I’d let it. I’d somehow managed to walk away after saying “Fine, ok, sure, you certainly are old enough to make your own decisions, it would simply be polite is all, to let people you’re living with know your plans rather than find out when you suddenly appear downstairs with your knapsack slung over your shoulder and say “Can I get a lift to the train station?”

Alex admits wanting to be able to call the shots. I told him I would love him to, when he’s ready. And he’s not yet ready, in my opinion, close, yes, but not really, not until he gets stuck in, either at college, or working, earning a living and making ends meet.

I know he needs to assert himself now and again, and needs to see friends (the right ones) and have the opportunity to enjoy female company. And while I would not personally have chosen the Notting Hill Carnival as a venue for a recovering heroin addict, I can’t tell him not to go. It’s his life, his body. His money. He’s got birthday dollars saved from his grandmother, and is working tomorrow night, so he can pay for the nights in town by himself, it won’t cost us anything for once. Not counting replacing the wallet and iPhone and laptop that gets stolen and whatever the lawyer charges to get him out of jail, or the facial reconstruction after the mugging while cutting through the council estate trying to peek into gangland kitchen windows.

SO. He will go into London. And put himself to the test.

And I won’t sleep for two nights but am used to this.

Going to get a glass of wine, now. The irony would be that he recovers successfully from heroin addiction but I end up an alcoholic. Wonder if he’d pay for my re-hab. Or even notice I was gone, if the cricket were on.