a deep, squeezing ache, and it cries. I feel it when the doctor says my son is depressed and has been for a long time.
I didn’t see it.
Squeeze.
Depression—if I’d given it any thought, which I hadn’t—would have looked like a curled-up ball unable to get dressed in the morning. Joey didn’t look like that. Joey woke up happy (most mornings), laughed and hugged, and had friends. He loved animals and scuba diving and cooking. Sure, he’d been moody and had an eating disorder, but I thought that was teen angst. Yes, there was the arrest for possession of pot and speeding, but I thought that was just Joey acting stupid. Nothing is what I thought. It’s all been signs of his depression—a depression that has now tried to kill Joey twice.
Seated across from us, on the other side of his large wooden desk, the doctor tugs on his beard, telling me that teenage depression looks different from adult depression.
“It looks like Joey,” he says.
Decisions must be made about what happens next, but Joey needs to be the one to make them if whatever happens next has any chance of success. After some discussion, when Joey says he’s decided to quit college and return to Maryland, I expel a long breath I don’t even know I’ve been holding. The college dream (turned nightmare) is on hold for now. I’m filled with relief. And sadness. And dread.
Swiveling in my chair, I take a long look at Joey sitting stiffly beside me. I see more than the clenched jaw and tormented eyes. I see the pain I missed, the mistakes I can make up for, and the tough road ahead. Reaching out, I put my hand on Joey’s arm and tell him I’m sorry.
“I didn’t know, Joey. So I did all the wrong things.”
And then I turn back to the doctor.
“Tell me how to do things right.”
“A life spent walking on eggshells is not living. You shouldn’t change how you live or interact with Joey,” he says. “Making concessions out of guilt or fear will only foster a sense of victimhood in Joey, but by maintaining normal expectations you’ll promote strength and healing and be helping him to move forward.”
Turning his attention now to Joey, the doctor continues.
“Joey, your family can support you on a path to health and happiness, but you need to do the work. Take the prescription I’ve given you, see a therapist, and live a healthy lifestyle. Alcohol is a depressant. You say your suicide attempt was a drunken mistake you wished you could take back once you were sober, but never forget: You can’t take back dead.”
Joey wants to move his things out of the dorm on his own, which is fine with me; I don’t think I could face being a part of the good-byes, which were, just two weeks ago, hellos.
Loading the car for the short drive to the airport, Joey hands me a “Proud SDU Mom” mug. On the surface I’m all smiley, but inside something squeezes with sadness. Neither Proud nor SDU currently apply. But Mom does. Heartsick Mom, yes. But Mom no matter what.
We’ve packed up so much more than sweatshirts and sheets into Joey’s suitcases and boxes; they’re also full of unused plans and dreams. And it hurts. So does watching Joey try to keep his head held high as we hustle to our gate. But there’s no turning back.
Joey is carrying a one-way ticket to Plan B.
Delta Airlines #3487, San Diego to Washington, DC, departing 2:23 p.m.
Joey is heading home.
“Joey, take this time to heal and grow.”
It’s an entirely different perspective, being the gardener or being the rose. Where I see signs of withering and the need for a bit of nourishment, Joey sees a torrential drowning and spits out my interference. Where I work to promote his inner beauty and potential, he would rather be—and smoke—a weed. And so, our first weeks of getting settled in have been a bit prickly.
Blatantly watchful, I look for lingering signs of depression, changes in appetite, and pot smoking, and Joey resents it. Although comfortable with the perks, my independence-seeking, now-adult son is not happy with the eagle eyes and rules that come with living under his parents’ roof.
Autumn arrives in Bethesda, a Maryland suburb of Washington, DC, on unsettled winds, matching the mood of our family. Joey storms around the last of the unpacked boxes crowding the hallways of our new home, blaming everyone but himself for his current situation—something Joe, Rick, and I each actually believe some of the time. Doors slam, voices rise, tears flow. I remember the doctor’s warning about the pitfalls of walking on eggshells. But if Joey is sick, shouldn’t I be serving him tea and toast and fluffing his pillows rather than burdening him with work and responsibility and high expectations? I do battle with eggshells daily.
The spiky Mohawk has disappeared, replaced by a pierced nose and peephole earlobes with a view to the side of his neck. You look scary.
We’re covering Joey’s expenses as long as he’s working full-time and until he returns to college—cell phone, health insurance—but his car stays in storage. (We’re paying for that, too.)
Forced to take the bus, his running response is a snarly “Fuck you.” You sound scary. Joey has quit his therapist and his medication. He comes home from his job as a waiter smelling like pot, if he comes home at all, and an empty whiskey bottle is visible under the tan dust ruffle on his bed. I see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil because I don’t want to chase you away.
I drink coffee from my “Proud SDU Mom” mug every morning, waving it around as a sign that I believe Joey can and will move forward. A sign that I don’t see you as a victim. Even though I sort of do.
Our household is anything but harmonious. Seeking clues and truth, I check Joey’s email and social media accounts regularly. (The password he gave me while applying to colleges comes in handy.) Joey doesn’t know that I track his every online move. He doesn’t know that I’m jarred by the dissonance of his silent words many times daily.
I decided, well was pressured strongly, to take a year off so am back in DC with my parents until I figure out what I’m gonna do. I got arrested for marijuana and the cop thought I had crystal meth, I’ll probably lose my license for six months and have to pay some fines, but its not that big of a deal. I had to get my stomach pumped for drinking too much absinthe. I kinda say fuck you mom and dad. I’ve gotten to the point where I am over trying to get their approval on everything, which I am happy about now. It’s a lot less stressful. My parents are being shady. I have to pay for my own health insurance and car insurance and all that stuff and damn it’s expensive. [Email from Joey to a friend.]
Somewhat bug-eyed by the turn of his brother’s events, Rick tiptoes a straight line through the commotion of our life—no detours so far for him. Silent and strong. Or willfully invisible. I don’t know how my fifteen-year-old boy is processing the struggles of his lifelong companion and role model. Does he ever worry about the sureness of his footing on his own march ahead? Does he ever wonder if there will come a time when everybody
