November 5, 2015
On my way north toward Connecticut yesterday afternoon, I got the call. The one I'd been waiting for.
My son had finally been released from prison after two and a half years and had arrived at the halfway house to begin his six month sentence.
I expected the irony. Predicted it, actually.
At the very time I was driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike to attend presenter training for a youth violence prevention program, one that I never would have even known about had my own son not suffered from a serious mental health crisis years ago, I missed the chance to go see him in person without prison glass between us for the first time in nearly three years.
I saw it coming. As clear as if it were a vision in a crystal ball, I knew it would happen this way.
He called and my Bluetooth sent his voice swimming into every corner of my little sedan. He said, "I'm here, Mom. Can you bring me my stuff now? There are some rules though. Can you write this all down?"
I pulled over, hit my hazard lights, and grabbed a pen. On the back of the printed out Google Maps directions to Sandy Hook, Connecticut, I jotted down the details he listed off to me:
"I can have razors, but no liquid soap. It has to be bars.
I can only have a travel size toothpaste. Nothing bigger.
I need a towel and two wash clothes, and they have to be white.
I can't have more than nine pairs of anything, no more than nine pairs of socks, or t-shirts, or pants. No more than nine, Mom."
And the list went on.
I scribbled it all down in my purple pen, the one I use to grade English papers. My handwriting was haphazard, frenzied; I made giant circles and squiggly lines pointing to notes about what my husband needed to remove from the pre-packed duffel I'd left in our hallway and what he needed to add to it.
My little blue sedan sat along the New Jersey Turnpike for what felt like hours and only seconds all at once. It was as if somehow time had stood on its end. Tilted slightly, almost falling over, but not quite.
If you scroll back to my very first blog entry here, you'll find it's dated December 2012, and you will see something.
You will see that my first blog entry was inspired by the tragic events that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School. Two years after my son walked out my door in 2010, the tragedy of Sandy Hook finally WOKE ME UP and MADE ME SEE what lies I'd been telling myself. What shame I'd allowed myself to live with. What stigma I'd hidden behind for so long.
At that moment yesterday afternoon on the shoulder of the road, two worlds finally collided.
My son's entire world --the one of self-hatred, of self-medication, of self-destruction had finally collapsed, completely deflated.
And my entire world--the one of a mother's fear, the one of a mother's blame, the one of a mother's regret had finally imploded, too.
And yesterday, in the middle of New Jersey somewhere, our two worlds, my son's and mine, began, at that very moment, to breathe life again, renewed with the power of hope, the strength of acceptance, and the force of love.
Do I regret my choice to travel to Sandy Hook, Connecticut to attend a two-day training session so that I can make school-wide presentations, teaching students how to "Say Something" and prevent school violence, identify kids in crisis, secure safer, healthier school communities?
No, I don't.
Do I wish that instead of my husband, I had been the one to deliver the duffel bag and give that first real hug to my son last night? Of course I do.
But if given the choice again, I would do the very same thing.
Two worlds, our worlds collided yesterday, even if we didn't touch each other at all.
