At 1:23 this morning my husband woke me up because he was rubbing my knee cap. I thought this was a little strange and remember mumbling, "What the heck?" Well, after the odor took hold in my nostrils I figured it out; a skunk had sprayed very close to the house, and he was checking to see if the lump in the bed (my knee) was the dog. It wasn't, so I got up to check to see where the dog was. Luckily, she was asleep on the chair, and I was able to close the doggy door so she wouldn't get sprayed.

In the process, I noticed a piece of notebook paper hanging from the door frame between the dining room and kitchen. This is how our son leaves us notes -- he makes sure they all but hit us in the face so we don't miss them.

Well, the note said: "Mom/Dad - I'm at Shell. Call me the second you read this note."

I called, and my son wouldn't tell me what he wanted to talk about. He said that he expected us to call him when we were both up -- as in tonight when we get home from work -- and that "we need to sit down and talk." I pressed him for answers since it was now 1:30 in the morning, and I knew I'd have trouble getting back to sleep with the crazy thoughts that would now fly through my mind. . . No luck. I asked him if what he wanted to talk about was "bad," and he replied, "Well it's not like I'm going to go to jail or anything." Well gee, I felt so relieved after hearing that one - NOT. He then said, "Uncle said I can't tell you until you're both together." Well gee, you're getting advice from your estranged uncle who stole $5k from a priest to pay for his drug habit. Of course I feel infinitely better now!

It's now 1:30 in the afternoon. 12 hours have gone by. I barely slept last night. Thoughts that are running through my head: He fell off the wagon and has started drinking again (which would violate his probation). He's somehow in trouble with the law again (which would violate his probation). He's going to move out west to live with Uncle (Um, ya, read the above. 'Nuff said).

Just when I thought things were straightening out for him. . . I'm waiting for the sky to fall in again. . . I'm seeing a few tell-tale signs that he's spiraling downward. . . I don't know how much more of this I can take. It's the up/down/up/down see-saw of it all, and I feel so out of control. Well heck, that's probably because I actually have no control of the situation.

I'm tired, and I'm scared, and I'm frustrated, and I do not want to have to deal with this crap anymore. But he's my son. What kind of mother even *thinks* about washing her hands of her disabled child? Me, that's who. And my self-loathing because of it just adds to the burden I'm carrying.

Thanks for listening. I hope, Hope, HOPE that I'm borrowing trouble here. I've just learned to trust my mother's instinct, which makes me feel like I'm right. . . trouble's a-brewing. We're back on the merry-go-round.

I'll keep you posted, friends. Thanks for being here.

Hugs,
HayMom