To be the father or not to be
Of course I don't like the idea of pumping my boy full with drugs. But when it's helping him, why not? He's helpless and we are either. We needed a solution and when this is one, we should consider it and give it a try. I don't understand why my wife is so stern against this. She wants to help him too and now she's reluctant to give it a try? I don't understand her.
"Let us first just talk to him and see how he'll react." I say.
"Sandy, we both know how he'll react. There's nothing to talk about. I agree to the therapist, but I don't agree to drugs. That's my last word." She's stubborn as her father is. How can I explain her that this might be the last measure to help him? He's not talking to anyone, so how to help him then? I'm pretty much sure a therapist won't get him to talk either. I stop talking about this topic. I hope for the boy's understanding. He's sixteen. How should he understand?
We arrive at home. When we enter the house we hear the boys are playing some videogame.
"Hey boys!" I greet them. Ryan looks up and leaves. I feel my wife's angry glances in my back. She hates me for the way I behave towards Ryan. But the boy leaves me no other chance. He's…so damn provocative in the moment.
"What was that?" My own son asks. Ryan hasn't talked to him. If he doesn't even talk to my own son, we have enough reason to consider those drugs, because his state is getting worse from day to day.
"There's just some disagreement." My wife says and goes out to the pool house. I follow her.
"Ryan, can we talk to you please?" She says. I have trouble to understand where she gets the energy from for staying calm and patient with him.
"Everything is being said." He answers. I sigh. I already feel that this was leading to nowhere once again. I'm defeated. This boy is the first case I can't solve and I hate to admit it. I feel how anger develops in my guts. I have to stay calm, at least long enough until he gives me a reason for giving my anger space. My wife sits down on the bed next to him.
"Ryan, this was only the attempt to find a solution for your problem. Nobody wanted to offend you." She says. For him everything is some kind of offence.
"The only problem I have is that everybody keeps telling me I have one." He answers. No, he's everything else than cooperative.
"Ryan, fact is that you don't feel too well lately and we only want to help you changing this. I don't believe you like your state much." I step in, trying to hide the anger already seething in me.
"I didn't say that either." He answers bold.
"What about a deal. You go and see another therapist. You cooperate and then we can forget this day." My wife says. I don't know what this is about. Mrs. Turner had told us clear what was wrong with the boy. Nobody else could tell us something else.
"And what if the other therapist says the same?" The boy asks. It smells like rebellion again.
"Then we have to admit that Mrs. Turner was unfortunately right and try to treat your maybe-depression. But I promise you it'll be nothing decided over your head. And if there is something you don't want, we'll find an alternative. Does that sound acceptable to you?" The boy doesn't answer immediately. I lose my patience. I shouldn't, but I'm only a human being either. I don't know that I'll make it worse.
"Do you know what Ryan, if you don't let us help, then we should proceed as Mrs. Turner as said."
"What I…haven't said anything yet!"
"And that's already enough. Tomorrow you'll see a therapist and then we'll see when to start with the antidepressants. I'm fed up with this charade." I say, not thinking about the effect.
"No!" He screams. "I won't allow you to drug me, only because I don't work as you want me to."
"This has nothing to do with that!" I scream back, not paying attention to my wife.
"Fuck you." The boy says, wanting to leave. I don't like this language. Unfortunately I don't notice what's making him use it. I just don't like it.
"Watch your language!" I approve him, grabbing his arm. I just don't know what I am doing.
"Let off of me." He snarls. I don't see the panic in his eyes. I don't feel how his body tenses up. I don't realize that this must send a lot of bad memories back into his head. I just don't know that I'm making everything worse.
"You're not going anywhere." I tighten the grip around his arm. I don't figure what it means, when his body tenses up even more, making his body trembling.
"Sandy, let him go." I hear my wife say.
"He's never going to learn what responsibility means, if he always runs away."
"You're losing your composure." She says calmly and only then I see his eyes being prepared for everything. I let off of him and he runs. I don't stop him. I have failed again. I only can fail in this case. I can't solve it.
"Sandy, what's wrong with you. You never freak out. Why now?" She asks me.
"I…dunno…I'm helpless and…I can't watch him like that anymore." I admit and it hurts. There nothing more painful than being unable to help your kids.
"But if you freak out you're not helping him either. You were the one, telling me to be patient and now? We're on the right way now. We only need to be patient and wait for him to make the first step from now on."
"And when will this step be? I…don't think he realizes what's wrong with him." I say.
"He knows. He's only not used to get help." That was true. But what now?
It was already night, when we get a phone call. My heart beats faster. The boy hadn't been home yet. We have been looking for him without success. We didn't even find him at the beach.
"Hello?" I answer the phone. Angst crawls up my spine.
"Mr. Cohen?" I hear a male voice speaking and my angst increases.
"Yes."
"Good, Frank Atwood's speaking. I only wanted to tell you that Ryan is staying with me."
"Is…is he alright?"
"Yes, he's safe. But he said some things that made me wonder, whether you could stop by, thus we can talk." He said firmly.
"Uh…yes. My wife and I are on our way."
We drive in silence. I don't know what to think about this. He's mad at us and then runs to his father? The first step of losing him. My bad conscience starts to interact in my brain. If I only had remained patient as my wife had. He wouldn't have run to his father. On the other hand it had been obvious from the very beginning that our boy would try to go back to his own family and I can't take it amiss. He's not our son and we – at least I – failed to build up a real relationship to him. I lost my coolness I use to have in such situations. A sad feeling spreads through my body. I don't want to lose him. He's in somehow my boy. But I – we – want his wellbeing and this will mean letting him go one day and this evening is the first step into this letting-go-direction. I stop the car in front of a huge, but rotten building. When we reach Mr. Atwood's door I look at my wife.
"We'll have to let him go, if he wants to." She says, but I hear the pain in her voice. She loves the boy, as I do. For her it would be losing her child – a second time. I ring the bell. The door opens.
"Hi…uhm…wait…I come out to you." He says hardly audible. "The boy's sleeping. I don't wanna wake him." He says and then comes out to us.
"I guess it's about…the thing with his depression." My wife starts. Mr. Atwood nods.
"I'm really grateful for how much you care about my son. And I think it was a good decision to talk to a therapist…after all he went through. And I'm sure this woman…Mrs. Turner is good at her job. So, if she thinks it might be a depression that needs to be treated, I'm the last person prohibiting it. But I would appreciate it, if you – or we – can try and find another solution first. If the sessions with the therapist can help, we – you and I – should try. But I won't allow anyone to drug my son, only because he's momentary in no position to adjust his achievements to your expectations. Don't get me wrong. I trust you, when you say you want to help him and I trust you, you won't do him any harm. But we should try other solutions first. I dunno meditation or autogenic training something like that." I never have listened to Mr. Atwood speaking so many words in a row. He stands in for his son. He cares. I'm sure, when he's settled one day, he'll take him away from us. It's only a matter of time. He starts to slip into his role as father figure and…he's good. I couldn't be better. I would have said the same, when it had been about Seth. Damn, if I hadn't been on the edge with my nerves today I probably had told this woman to fu…. I shouldn't even think in these words.
"I can understand you and my husband and I share your opinion. Only, when we heard Mrs. Turner's diagnosis we've been shocked. And honestly on first watch it seemed to us as a good solution. Ryan isn't really much of a talker. He hardly accepts help from others. He's rejecting everyone and everything and we just thought this way we could spare him some fights and disputes. But after further thinking, we came to the same solution as you did." My wife says clearing the mess I have produced.
"Oh, okay. That's good. I think it's important that we pull together on the same string, for Ryan's wellbeing. Although you might know him better than I do. I think he needs a strong hand that guides him onto the right way." I'm impressed by so much understanding. This man really knows his son only after a few days.
"But it's hard to make him see his situation and – as my wife already said – to make him accepting help. He's rejecting us and …"
"Me too." He interrupts me. What? But why did the boy run to him? He seems to trust him, doesn't he?
"I think he trusts you more than us, when he comes to you when he has problems."
"No, no. I found him straying a long the beach. He was really upset and didn't even want to talk about it to me, nor come to me. I…just used a little trick. I just switch the topic for a while, so he can calm down again and when he ended up here in my apartment I started from new. It always had worked with him. You need to be patient with him and I guess now after these ten years even more. I'm, afraid to say that, but he's very fragile." I start to be in doubt about my skills as father – as father for our boy. The thought it might be the best for him, if we let him go to his real father gets bigger and bigger and I can't deny it, but it hurts. It really hurts to know that we're losing him.
"That's true. So, I know a very good therapist. She's very understanding and I can imagine she can help us with this. I called her already and I have an appointment for tomorrow. Uhm…do you want to go?" My wife asks. Why had she made this appointment without talking to me first?
"Uh…thanks…but I …it's better if you can go, if it doesn't make any problems."
"No, this shouldn't be a problem." My wife answers. What was that? He backed down from his father role? He cared for his son that was for sure. But he's afraid of something, I can see it in his eyes and otherwise his drawback doesn't make any sense to me.
"Well, then everything's fine here. Ryan needs to be in school at eight, can you see he arrives there in time. The Dean is…" My wife starts. She wasn't thinking to leave the boy here, did she? She was enhancing the process of losing him due to this. Doesn't she realize what she's doing right now?
"I thought you take him with you again? Not that I don't want him here, but …I have no real bed yet…and…and I wouldn't allow him to stay over night somewhere else than home, due the week either." He stammers. This is strange, is it? Or did he just care? He doesn't refer to Ryan as is son, in somehow. Did he notice how much the boy means to us and just doesn't want to hurt us? Or is there some kind of tactics? Doesn't he want to take the role of a father figure? He leaves the responsibility with us. Thus he'll never get Ryan back. I start to question whether he even wants his son back.
"Oh…okay, then we take him with us." My wife answers. Mr. Atwood opens the door and she goes in. I remain in the door frame. I don't want my boy to freak when he sees me, because this time – again – it's my fault. The relationship – if we can consider it as one – is strained.
"Hey, sweetie." My wife says when she leans over him. "Let's get you home." Mr. Atwood stays in the background, not even bothering that a stranger behaves like a mother towards his son.
"Tiered." I hear the boy mumble.
"I can imagine and I really feel bad to wake you."
"First time since months." He mumbles and then turns around again.
"I know honey, you can sleep on soon."
"Be glad I'm gone." He says.
"Is…he drunk?" My wife asks Mr. Atwood.
"I…I swear…I …I found him in this state." He stammers. Right from where we started from, only worse.
"No, honey. We're not. Just come back with us."
"Just a fucking, bloody pain in your ass. Be glad I left." With every single word I feel how pieces break out of my heart. And then I watch his father. He only stays there. He's helpless. He has no clue how to handle this situation. He had underestimated the damaged been done to his son. That's why he leaves the responsibility with us, right?
"Stop talking like that." My wife admonished him.
"Leave me alone." He slurs.
"No!" My wife snaps back.
"Just accept that I'm not the nice little toy that functions like your nice little community wants me to. And I'm not going to let them drug me only to do so." Drunk, but able to pronounce so many words. But hell, what have we to do else, until he realizes that this is wrong! He's no toy. He's our boy.
"Ryan…listen, it's really better if you go with them. I have no real bed here and…your home is with them." Mr. Atwood steps in. Ryan gets up.
"You kick me out? You're just the same dumb ass as the rest." Ryan says. He can be so brutal only with his words. Unfortunately these words are the mirror to his soul. This is how he feels. And exactly this is his problem.
"Ryan, I'm not kicking you out."
"Fuck you." He mumbles and stumbles into my direction. I manage to catch him in time, before he falls.
"C'mon kid, let's get you back to your own bed." I say.