Another Nightmare - P Attempts Suicide - Again

This afternoon, before sitting down to finish a post about Cuz and his passing, I picked up the phone to call a friend.  There was a message waiting.  The call came at 3:46 this morning, when I was hard asleep.  I didn’t hear the phone.  When I listened to the message, I heard Parrish’s voice over a line with almost deafening static. 

All I could make out was, “I’ve taken every pill I can get my hands on.”

I called his room.  No answer.  I called his father.  No answer.  I called the hospital.  Not there.  I called the police.  There was a raging thunderstorm parked over us, and I knew they could reach him before I could, assuming that he was at home.  I answered all their questions and was assured that police were dispatched to perform a “wellbeing” check.

I called Melissa, and she was able to reach Lawrence on his work phone and send him to P’s efficiency.  He arrived, a man ill-prepared for theses kinds of things, as paramedics were working in the room.  They would not let him in and would not tell him anything about Parrish.  So there he stood, trying to stay out of the rain and out of the way, helpless. 

At 4:50, the police dispatcher called me and said P was en route to the emergency room, that his breathing was depressed and paramedics were opening his airway.  She said his father was following the ambulance to the ER.

I cried.  No, I cried like a crazy person.  Then I brushed my teeth and pulled up my hair and jumped into some clothes and dried my eyes.  Honey and I were out the door in 10 minutes.  The rain had slowed down, but the causeway was dangerously foggy.  It felt as though it went on forever.  About three blocks from the hospital, it occurred to me that P might be dead.  Why I did’t think of that before is a mystery for all time.  No, it’s not.  It has a name and her name is denial.  I arrived at the ER at 5:30.

My first glimpse of Parrish was from the door of the ER room where he lay, respirator set at 18 breaths per minute and surrounded by, count them, six medical personnel.  His ashen face was flaccid.  His eyes were almost closed, so I asked someone to close them.  They looked at me like I had just grown another head, and I don’t blame them.  Mothers can’t be nurses of their children.  He had a gastric pump in place and, of course, the endotracheal tube. 

I started babbling that he didn’t want to be kept alive on a ventilator.  I played the “I’m his guardian” card.

Then I saw Lawrence at the end of the hall and went to him.

“He’s not going to make it this time,” I sobbed into his shoulder.

“Now, don’t talk like that.”

“13 hours elapsed from the time he called me until I tried to call him back!  It was another 30 minutes before he was intubated.  He’s finally succeeded.”

There were more assurances from Lawrence, which is odd because he’s always the “glass half empty” person.  I, the “glass half full” person, was falling apart all over the poor man. 

For the first time since P’s diagnosis of Bipolar Disorder about 18 years ago, I had the luxury of falling apart.  Until now, every time I was with him in hospital for a suicide attempt or alcohol toxicity or uncontrolled mania, I was completely alone.  Now I have his father for support.

A police officer called me aside and began questioning me about the event.  All I could tell him was that yesterday, P and I ate at Longhorn and went to Winn-Dixie.  He was fine.  We laughed and talked, genuinely enjoyed being together.  The officer asked about his medicines, so I told him what I could.

Back in the room with P, we found only one nurse.  She was hanging IV fluids and checking lines.  

“Are you keeping him alive with that ventilator?”

“We have started him on Versed to make sure he’s in a medically induced coma so he can rest.  His brain function is uncertain, but we will know more if he starts to try to breathe on his own.”

It was about two hours later that P took a breath on his own.  I told Lawrence it was a good sign, and we sat their like two fools staring at the vent settings to see if he would do it again.  He thrashed in bed.  We were encouraged.

Melissa arrived shortly thereafter, and I was glad for Lawrence.  I was also glad for the Starbucks she brought me.

Two hours later, when he was transferred to ICU, he had not moved a muscle.  I’m choosing to believe that’s because of the Versed.  He’s having some cardiac arrythmias, probably caused by the almost-full bottle of Elavil, an antidepressant, that he swallowed.  His urine test for drugs also showed benzodiazepines (for which he had no prescription), so I can only assume he bought them on the street.  The level in his blood was high.  He also had a small amount of alcohol on board as well as cocaine.  He knows what will kill him, and once more, he tried to die.

After P was safely installed in ICU and we had an opportunity to talk to the nurse, and with her assurances that she would call with any change, we all went home.  I will return in the early AM.

There is nothing to do but pray.  However and to whomever you pray, just pray.

© 2014 cj Schlottman

Parrish Faces a Challenge

12/30/13

I’m cold.  The thermometer reads 58º but I feel colder than that.  A few minutes ago, I preheated my mattress pad and climbed into bed to get warm and begin to write.  Honey promptly jumped up here with me and is snuggled at my feet.  The TV is dark and quiet, the only sound in the house coming from the copper fountain in the foyer.  It’s babble is soothing to me.  

My legs have been hurting for days.  The wind and rain that I love so much make me stiff and sore, and now it’s winter outside.  There’s a nasty cold bug going around the island, but I don’t feel as though I’m getting sick.  I’m just cold and still a little depressed.

There are those who believe that things happen for a reason, that we are thrust into situations and events by some grand design.  I don’t believe that.  I think life gives us what it does and we make of if what we can.  I can’t see a giant hand moving us around like pieces on a chess board, repositioning us so as to bring some sort of synchronicity to our lives.

I’m thinking about the idea that things happen for a reason because of an event that occurred last night.  Parrish told me about it when I picked him up today to go grocery shopping.

Parrish was returning to Concorde Suites after a late afternoon walk, and when he approached the Baymont Inn, which is across the street, he witnessed a man in the front parking lot screaming at a woman in a car.  The language was vulgar and abusive.  The man shouted the name “Diane” a number of times.

As the woman drove away, Parrish could see the man clearly.  He recognized The Famous Writer from my  description of him.  

“Are you The Famous Writer?”

Parrish offered his hand, which The Famous Writer refused.

“Who wants to know?”

“I’m Parrish Gray, Claudia Schlottman’s son.  You spent a few weeks at her house.”

“So, you’re the ruffian jailbird.”

“I suppose you could say that.  I understand that things got unpleasant while you were at Mama’s house.”

“Your mother is a shallow cunt!”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.  She’s a cunt and you’re a ruffian and a jailbird.”

“And you are a fucking ass-hole.  That’s my mother you’re talking about!”

Parrish described The Famous Writer as disheveled with his gray hair in disarray.  He was wearing jeans and a pajama top that was only partially buttoned, and he was carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio.  His round red eyeglasses had slipped down to the tip of his nose, and he kept pushing them up. 

“Mama, he looked like a maniac!  He looked just like a crazy person.”

“That’s because he’s a madman, P.  Please don’t take anything he said to heart.  He’s a mean old man, a hopeless alcoholic, and there is no dealing with him.”

“He asked me if I were going to hit him.  The old me, drunk and unmedicated, would have decked him and ended up on jail for assault.  I might have killed him.”

“Punishing yourself because The Famous Writer is unacceptable is punishing the wrong person.  We have no control over him or his speech, and as much satisfaction as I would get out of knowing he will somehow suffer for his bad acts, that is out of our hands.”

“Mama!  He said you don’t know anything about music and that you listen to shit and call it music.”

“I don’t care what he said.”

“But it’s just so wrong!”

“I don’t care and neither should you.”

I tried to reassure him, to make him see that what The Famous Writer says should be ignored, dismissed as the rantings of an unbalanced soul.  

“But he called my mother a cunt - to my face!”

“I understand that, son, but it’s not important what he says or what he calls me or anyone else for that matter.  He’s angry and bitter and has been drunk for weeks, maybe months.”

“I really wanted to hit him.”

“But you didn’t!  There’s a victory here for you.  Don’t you see?  You walked away.  I don’t think I have ever been more proud of you than I am right now.”

I am particularly impressed that P didn’t call me last night and rant about his experience.  The drunk and unmedicated Parrish would have been taken a swing The Famous Writer, and there is no telling how seriously he could  have injured the diminutive man.  It is like a gift to me that he didn’t call me five or six times to tell the story.  He knew I was in a funk yesterday and needed some down time and some rest, so he saved the story for today. 

Instead of burdening me with the events of his evening, he opened his journal and wrote about them.  Yes, cj, there is a Santa Claus.  I have been trying for years to convince my son to write down his feelings. 

This is no small victory.  That Parrish could refrain from beating the shit out of The Famous Writer is nothing short of a miracle.  That he would write about it rather than call me to tell on The Famous Writer is a side of him I don’t know.  I am encouraged, very encouraged.  And, to add to my feelings of being blessed, he called about an hour ago and told me he had an emergency ride to AA.

There is hope.  There is always hope.

Those who believe in the idea of things happening for a reason would say that P running into The Famous Writer was some sort of test, that he was led there in order to be able to prove to himself and to me that he is growing and healing, that he can problem-solve without violence.  

I’m just glad he handled it the way he did.  I am so very glad.


© 2013 cjschlottman

Merry Christmas

It’s four in the morning and I have been wasting time scrolling through Facebook.  For over a week I have been wasting time on Facebook, on solitaire.  I will tell myself I am too tired to write but then spend hours burning my eyes out of their sockets staring at my computer screen engaging in moronic pursuits.  Why is that?  Why is solving a cryptogram more important to me than writing down my thoughts?

And there are many thoughts for me to write down.

Parrish appears to be emerging from the funk that engulfed him when he got out of jail and realized that there was no reward waiting for him.  At first depressed and withdrawn and on the edge of hostility, he is now accepting of the fact that he must make a life for himself that does not include living with me.

Last Wednesday, after an aborted attempt to see a psychiatrist or at least a nurse practitioner, at Gateway, I took him to the ER.  He was out of lithium, the only drug he’s been on since being released from detention.  Because a nurse called in sick, or so the story went, the personnel at Gateway were unable to see P for his scheduled appointment, and when he explained that he was completely out of meds and was on the verge of crisis, they referred him to the ER.

When we arrived at the hospital, Parrish was visibly manic and I watched the mania escalate in a matter of half an hour.  He was frightened, afraid he wouldn’t get the medicine he needs, even more frightened that he would drink if he didn’t.  He wanted to see the doctor alone, and I didn’t protest.  Learning the accept what might or might not happen has been a hard lesson for me, but I have finally reached a place in my personal development where I can tamper my desire to make things right for Parrish. 

Years of trying to manage him were an exercise in futility, yet I continued to make the same mistakes time and time again , year after year.  Trying to run his life did nothing to make it better and ultimately ended in disappointment for me.  I was even so foolish as to try to break up his relationship with a woman I knew to be toxic for him.  My feelings stayed hurt for years because P could not handle his illness and his life and I could not do them for him.

In June, when he tried to kill himself, something happened inside me.  I cannot name it, but there was a profound change in my own desire to live.  After four years of paralyzing grief and depression, I experienced a new desire to live, but I wanted more.  I wanted to thrive.  Was that because Parrish came so close to death?  

I could have let him die.  He begged me to let him die, and it is only now that I begin to write down my feelings, write down the events of those weeks when he was hospitalized.  The other day I looked back through my journal entries for this year, and there are none from the day he was hospitalized on June 19, until I was here on Saint Simons on July 20, to find a place to live.

I need to back up, revisit those weeks and write it all down now.  Why did it take all these months?  I suppose it was some sort of psychological defense mechanism.  I talked to Ann Carol and Sondralyn about it.  I talked to my friends about it, but I did not write it down.  At least, if I did, I don’t remember it and cannot not find any evidence of it in my journal.  I didn’t write a blog post about him and the events in our lives between April and September, and as soon as he got arrested, I stopped writing about it again.

I didn't stop writing; I stopped writing about him.  In future posts, I will tell that story.

At the hospital, a physician gave P a dose an anti-anxiety medicine, prescribed Celexa and Elavil and Valium and gave him a week’s worth of each, and in three days he was more stable and began letting go of his resentment and started to be grateful for the things that are right in his life.  On that day, I reminded him that he experienced a miracle on the day his daddy and I joined forces in support of him.  In the previous weeks, he seemed resentful of the fact that we were on the same side after all these years.  I believe in my heart that, without proper medication, his illness was fueling his life, his feelings, his inability to understand how fortunate he is.  I don’t blame him.  I can’t blame him for being sick.  He can no more help being sick than and diabetic can. 

The difference now is that, by some miracle, I have internalized the idea that I cannot fix him.  Hell, I’ve been saying that for years, but for whatever reason, I now believe it.  I have unhooked my happiness from his.  I want more than anything for him to be sober and properly medicated and reasonably happy, but if he is not, I will live my life as fully as I can in spite of his troubles.

The ER staff made Parrish an emergency appointment at Gateway for the next day, and that appointment led to another on Monday, the day before yesterday.  Because we got him moved into an extended stay hotel on Sunday, he was able to walk to that appointment.  Beginning in late January, he will see a private psychiatrist who will monitor his illness much more efficiently than a public health facility can.

I have not abandoned him and neither has his father.  He checks on P regularly.  I have told Parrish for years that as long as he is actively working on managing his illness and is sober, I will do everything that is reasonable to support him in living the best life he can live.

During the first two weeks after his release from jail, I took him to the Social Security office to apply for his disability benefits to be reinstated.  We applied for a new Social Security card and went to Driver’s Services to obtain a picture ID for him.  Both are now in his wallet, along with his Medicaid card.  In the past, I kept all of those things in my wallet, afraid he would lose them, and with good reason.  He may lose them this time, but they are his to lose, not mine.  I cannot run his life for him.  His disability benefits will now come to me, and for a time, anyway, I will handle his money.  I expect that to change.  I expect Parrish to stay sober and prove to himself and to his father and me that he is responsible enough to manage his own money.  That will come with time.

For now, I need to get some sleep.  I am cooking Christmas dinner for my son.  I’ll go pick him up at his little efficiency and bring him over here and we will cook together and enjoy a Christmas meal for the first time in more years that I care to count.

For today, life is good. 


© 2013 cj Schlottman 

Make it Work - or Not

I suppose, now that Parrish has been out of jail for a week, that I must begin again chronicling his story.  After a three month hiatus from writing down his story and how it affects me, there is again much to say.

The phone rang at about ten in the morning last Monday, 

and it was P calling to say he is out of jail.  I expected him to be released three days later, on Thursday, and was unprepared to deal with him.  I had a been suffering severe back spasms for three days and was in terrible pain and having difficulty getting around.

He said he was at the bus station, so I told him to sit tight and give me time to collect myself before coming to get him.  The phone went dead.  I checked caller ID and realized that he was not calling from the bus station at all.  He was calling from the jail.  His first lie came only minutes after his release.  I redialed in an effort to reach him again, but the woman who answered said he was already gone.

I tried to dissuade Marnie from going with me to deal with Parrish.  She had been to Athens with Stanley all weekend and was tired and stressed.  She insisted on going, saying she didn’t want me to go alone, given how bad I was feeling.  So, an hour or so later, we got in the car and drove to Brunswick.

Parrish was outside the old Greyhound station on Gloucester Street.  He seemed agitated and refused to make eye contact with either of us.  He was chewing a massive wad of gum and the smell of cinnamon permeated the car.  I immediately wondered if he had already been drinking, just hours out of jail.  

I decided when he was arrested in September that, upon his release, P was not to come to my house for any reason.  I was resolute in my decision and had made it clear to P while he was still in jail that coming to my house was not an option.

“Do you want something to eat, Parrish?”

“Yes.  I haven’t had a decent meal in three months.  Then can we go to your house so I can take a shower?” 

“No, I will take you to a hotel until we can secure and apartment for you.  You can clean up there.” 

I drove to Waffle House, where we ate breakfast.  Having taken the time before we left the house to research affordable hotels in Brunswick, I them drove to Microtel and checked P in for a week. 

We went to Wal-Mart where, fueled by mania, he commandeered the shopping cart and began wheeling around frantically, dropping items into it and criss-crossing the store.  He had found a tin of snuff in his bag while we were in the car and had some of it tucked inside his lip, so he found a cup to spit in and carried it around with him.  Had he been drinking?  It seemed so to me.  Still in severe pain, I hobbled around after him, wanting only a warm heating pad and my bed.

We left the store with provisions and a phone for him, and from there we went to McGarvey’s Efficiencies for a rental application.  Learning that he could not file the application without a photo ID, we took it with us, and I instructed P that he should fill it out the best he could and that we would get his ID from the Department of Drivers Services later in the week.

A couple of months ago, I bought a book called Buddhist Boot Camp.  It’s a daily reader of short pieces, teachings of The Buddha, and I have been working to assimilate these lessons of inner peace and acceptance and tolerance and empathy into my life.  On that day, remembering to breathe and center myself in my own peace, I was able to make the situation tolerable for myself.  I was unswayed by Parrish’s reaction to my resolve.  He was unbelieving that he could not play on my sympathies and manipulate my actions as he has in the past.  I had three months to do the work I needed to do to prepare for that day, and though I was sharp with him on a couple of occasions, I didn’t lose my temper.  I didn't know until then just how willing I am to protect myself from the stresses foisted upon me by others, even my son. In the middle of the chaos that is Parrish, I held fast to my decision to care for myself first. 

On the way back to the hotel, I told him to make a list of the things he needed to do.  I asked him to call his psychiatrist and make an appointment, to call Social Security and make an appointment to go in and apply for a new card and check on eligibility for Medicare.

“I need to call and get a new debit card for my SSI.”

“Yes, you should do that today as well, but your first concern is to get in to see your doctor.”

“Okay, I will.”

“And you need to call AA, find a meeting and ask that someone pick you up and take you to it.  It’s the quickest way you can start to help yourself.”

“I don’t really feel like going to a meeting.”

“It’s your life.  Work on it or don’t.  Your happiness depends on you taking care of yourself, and if you don’t, you will be back in jail before you can turn around.”

No response.  

By the time we returned to Microtel, Parrish was in full blown mania, rushing around in a confused state, declaring that he didn’t have the phone I purchased for him.  I sat quietly in the car while he located it.  Marnie helped him get his things inside while waited, wondering whether he would be able to handle life without me running interference for him and repeating to myself that he would have to.

Later in the day, he phoned my house no less than six or seven times.  With him there is always a situation, some sort of crisis or decision to be made.  Each time he called, I asked if he had made the calls necessary to get himself launched into his new life.  The only thing he had done was call to get a new debit card.  Money is what matters to him at a time when he is at a critical crossroads in his life.  I cannot change that.  

I finally stopped answering the phone.

© 2103 cj Schlottman

    

The Ambien Made Me Do It

Friday, September 11

On Wednesday I got a call from Parrish in jail.  He said he just got back from Georgia Regional Hospital and he said the doctor there told him he had an allergic reaction to Ambien and that’s why he was so crazy on Friday.  He said he has no memory of any of the events of Friday, doesn’t even remember coming home from the hospital.  He’s good at having selective memories, especially when he has been up to something.  But you ask him some obscure trivia question and he’ll answer without hesitating - and be right.

Apparently the people at the jail here in Brunswick could not deal with his crazy and shipped him off to the state hospital in Savannah.

Or it’s entirely possible that he made up the whole thing to try to get me to bail him out.  The call was free for one minute and I only had one chance to tell him I would pay his bond.  I meant it.

Yesterday I got a postcard from him postmarked on Tuesday and written in pencil.  Here is what he said:  

“Mama, Please activate my (SSI) card when you receive it and put some money in my (jail) account.  Leave the card in my property here @ the jail.  Write me and give me the pin #.  Make it ****.  I didn’t steal the bike.  Something else happened.”

Thursday morning, before he completely lost his ability to cerebrate, Parrish called Social Security and ordered a new debit card.  That’s how he gets his benefits.  He’s disabled by his craziness but he’s not too crazy to keep that money coming in.

When the card arrives I will keep it until he gets out of jail so he will have some money to get a room somewhere.  He doesn’t need any money in jail.  He does not deserve the means by which to purchase junk food.  He doesn’t deserve anything from me right now.


© 2013 cjschlottman

Another Spin of the Carousel

Before I started writing on Friday, I dropped Parrish off at an 11:00 AA meeting.  I took him around 10:30 because he said he wanted to be there early and talk to some people and maybe think about someone for a sponsor.  If that sounds like a crock of horse shit, it’s because it is.

Around 11:30, he arrived back here all sweaty and out of breath, saying the meeting was cut short because there were only three people there.  No shit.  He looked me in the eye and delivered that load of crap.

I asked him how he got home and he said his daddy met him at the College Street house and brought him the bike from his house.  He said he rode the bike home.  My very well-developed bullshitometer went through the roof but I didn’t want to get into it with a drunk.  I just started writing and kept on.

I didn’t even start figuring out what I was going to do with him.  I knew he would hang himself if I just kept quiet and ignored him.  While I was writing, he occasionally came to sit by my desk and ask some inane question like this. 

“If I write something, will you edit it for me, check it for syntax and grammar?”

I mumbled that I would and kept on writing.  Marnie was wisely staying to herself and even went out to the bank to get out of here for a while.  P wanted to go with her but she refused to let him.  She has experience with his manipulative ways.  She’s taken him with her on errands too many times when he asked her to take him to the store for snuff.  When she does, he comes out of the store with beer.  It never fails.  When she wouldn’t take him with her, he went to bed for a while.

You may wonder how he has any money for beer or anything else.  The truth is that I was stupid enough to put $25.00 in his commissary account when he was in jail in Macon for being drunk while on probation.  (He blew 0.285 when he checked in with is probation officer).  He also worked in the jail laundry.  My guess is that he didn’t spend one cent so he would have some money when he got out.  I always seem to think of things too late but that’s who I am and I’m not apologizing for it.  I’m not the crazy alcoholic in this family.  I’m just crazy.

I guess it was about 4:00 or so when I finished writing and I went down stairs to check out the bike.  There was no bike parked in my parking place so I came back upstairs and asked P where it was. 

“It’s in the garage.”

“Where in the garage?”

I walked him down and pointed to the empty space in front of my car and he said he parked it in the wrong place.  He walked over to the parking places for 302 and pointed to a nice rust-colored bike.

“Why did you put it there?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It matters.  Move your bike out of their area and into mine.”

So he did and we came back upstairs.  Soon he was acting restless and he left to go ride the bike to somewhere, I don’t remember where.  I didn’t care where.  I was just glad he was leaving.

After he left, I called Lawrence, Parrish’s daddy.  He had a hernia operation a few weeks ago and is 72 years old and a scrawny little thing.  I couldn’t get my head wrapped around the image of him taking the wheel off a bike and putting it in the trunk of his car and bringing it over to Parrish.  Call me crazy. 

It didn’t happen.  Lawrence had not left his house in Brunswick all day.  We stayed on the phone for a while and commiserated about how hard it is to have P for a son.  Knowing the bike was stolen, we could only wait for him to return.

I had a drink.  Then I put on my tennis shoes and took Honey for a walk on the fitness trail.  While we were walking down the road to get there, I noticed a police car parked in up under the oaks not far from the river.  That’s not an unusual sight.  I see a car over there often and think it’s because it’s a good cool place for cops to wait for some action.

When Honey and I walked out of the gates to the fitness trail, another cop had joined the first one and his blue lights were on.  I didn’t have on real glasses but I could see from where I was that they had Parrish and the bike.  Yes, I had the privilege of once again witnessing my son being arrested. 

I marched over to where they were and said I was his mother and the bike was stolen and they should take him to jail.  I didn’t even look at P.  I couldn’t stand to look at him.

I walked Honey back home and returned in my car.  The second police car was gone and Parrish was in the back of the remaining car.  I still didn’t look at him.  I heard him call my name but I didn’t look.

The officer said the owner of the bike would probably press charges and I said I hoped he would.  I said I didn’t want Parrish back in my house and that I would consider it trespass if he came inside my door.  I said he wasn’t welcome.  The officer suggested that Parrish not be allowed to come onto the condo property at all.  I agreed and went home and locked my door.  I suppose the officer had some judge issue an order to keep P away.  I don’t know.

He’s still in jail, and in case you’re wondering, neither Lawrence nor I is going to bail him out.  I emailed his probation officer in Macon so he is aware of P’s criminal behavior.  I don’t know what he will do but I hope when P gets out of jail here, he will send someone down here to take him back to Macon and lock him up there.

As angry as I am about Parrish’s drinking and his subsequent unacceptable, even criminal, behavior, I am equally angry about the absence of any place in our society for people who are unable to function in on their own.  There is no place for these people to be kept under lock and key to protect them from themselves.  I don’t care what anyone says, there is a case for crazy people to be held in institutional settings without any hope of getting out.  Parrish will never be able to quit drinking unless he is locked up somewhere.  As it is, he will eventually get out of jail and continue to kill himself with alcohol.  He will fail to take his medicine and he will drink himself into alcohol poisoning until one day he stops breathing.  Before that happens, he will suffer and cause suffering.  I don’t believe he wants to be like he is.  I really don’t.  

Having said all that, I don’t want him around me while he finishes himself off.  No mother should have to watch that.

© 2013 cjschlottman

The Merry-Go-Round That Never Stops

Friday, September 5, 2013

I am sick and fucking tired of Parrish and his crazy.  On Wednesday I drove to Macon to get his sorry ass from the jailhouse and before he could get in the door good he took my cell phone and hid in the pantry and tried to call Marcy, his on-and-off girlfriend who lives in Florida.  The call didn’t go through, of course. My phone doesn’t work in the living room let alone the pantry.

All the way from Macon he told me how he is on Elavil now and how much better he feels and how he knows he can change his life and not drink.  I bought it.  He played me like a fiddle, and I let him.  I wanted to believe him more than I wanted to acknowledge my own gut.

When I questioned him about the call, he said he wanted his stuff back, that she had taken his watch and wallet and that she had written to him in jail and said she would throw his diploma in the trash if he didn’t send her some money for something.  I don’t quite understand what the money is for.  He said while he was in jail she wrote him an eight page letter outlining her demands.  When he said he didn’t write her back, I knew he was lying and called his ass on it.  I knew he was lying.   

That little fucker insisted that Marcy looked him up on some mugshot website and found out he was in jail and where to send him mail.  He looked at me with a straight face and insisted that she contacted him first.  Even if that were true, he should have enough sense to ignore the woman.  Hell, no.  He wants to lord it over her and act rich and get back what he thinks she took from him.  She didn’t take anything from him that he wasn’t perfectly willing to give - his self-respect, his money, his soul. 

I will not live in the same house with that woman, and she is just as surely here in Parrish as she could possibly be in person.  He can not let it go.  She has her hooks in him and he is not capable of disengaging himself from her.  Shit.  The sex must have been great.  

Yesterday afternoon, he wanted to go to The Village and walk around and see how things have changed since he was last here.  The weather was stormy and I didn’t want to go, so instead I drove him down there and let him out, agreeing to fetch him in an hour and a half.

About 45 minutes later he called me and asked me to come get him because the weather was worse.  When I picked him up at Parker’s on the corner of Ocean Boulevard and Mallory street, I didn’t immediately notice that he’d been drinking.  Why in the name of God I didn’t expect it is beyond me.  I can be such a fool.  Or maybe, I just don’t want to eat his garbage until it’s shoved down my throat.

He insisted I take him by the bike shop so he could check out the inventory.  Over the last few months we had several discussions about him and a bike.  He needs a bike to get around and go to AA, but I won’t spend the money on a fancy expensive one.  That’s the only kind he thinks is good enough for him.  He thinks he deserves the very best of everything in life.  He is in love with things and money and what it can buy.

After we got home I heard P on the phone telling someone he rode his bike across the causeway and back.  No shit.  He, who does not own a bike, was telling someone he had ridden across the causeway and back.  I wanted to throw up.

Instead, I challenged him.  That was when I knew he had been drinking.  When he drinks his personality changes and he becomes a consummate liar.  He hates himself so much, he has to build up himself with lies about how wonderful he is.  After I badgered him about it for a while, he admitted he was trying to make himself look good, but he swore he had not been drinking, said he was manic because he did’t get his Elavil last night.  Another thing I am sick of is him using his bipolar disorder as an excuse to do just about anything he wants.  

I told him he should worry about who and what he is at this moment in time.  I said that he is valuable and worthy and that if he can believe it, that’s all anyone will ever need to know about him. 

He can’t do it.  He cannot believe in himself.  I think he is one of those hopeless souls who cannot stop drinking even though it has ruined his life.  If a ruined life can get any worse, his is. 

There was an AA meeting at 7:30 and I dropped him off and went to Starbucks to try to write for an hour.  I really needed to figure out what I was going to do with him, but I wanted to write, so I tried.  My phone rang before I had written a single paragraph.  When I picked him up, Parrish said it was an NA meeting and they wouldn’t let him in.  I know better than that.  I read the schedule.  He just didn’t want to go, and even if it were a NA meeting, they would not deny him a place.  I’ve been to enough Al-Anon meetings to know that, and the thing is, he knows I know it and keeps on lying anyway. 

Once we were home he admitted to drinking a 24 ounce beer while he was in The Village.  Translate that as anywhere between one and 12 beers.  He’s like an iceberg that way.  You can take what he says about his alcohol consumption and multiply it by at least ten if you want to know how much he drank.  

The evening wore on and Parrish got worse.  I didn’t see everything he drank but then I didn’t follow him around step-for-step either.  I had no idea what he might or might not have in his room.  I have a lot of experience with him hiding alcohol.  He’s good.  He’s real good.

Marnie got home about 9:45.  She’s my roommate, a high school classmate of Parrish’s who has become my wonderful young friend who loves me like I need to be loved and I love her back.  She just got out of a bad relationship and needs to be out of Macon as bad as I do.  We are a good pair, Marnie and I.  

She walked into the snake’s nest of my “discussion” with Parrish, and she was calm and controlled in spite of the fact that she had just driven 200 miles, part of it in the driving rain, and deserved to expect a little peace and quiet when she got here.  After all, she pays me $500.00 a month.  That should buy her a little serenity.

We watched from the balcony as P wandered into my room and came out with a closed fist.  He made his way to the cabinet where I keep a limited supply of liquor and poured some scotch into the cream pitcher and then poured juice over it so he could delude himself into thinking we wouldn’t notice it was scotch.  Then he emptied his fist into his mouth and took a swallow from the pitcher and threw his head back and swallowed.  

I went to my room and started counting my Xanax.  I got a refill on Monday so I knew exactly how many pills were in the bottle.  He took about 35 of them.  Yes.  He slammed about 35 Xanies down with scotch disguised in juice.

I know what you’re thinking.  You are wondering what kind of dumbass wouldn’t lock up her pills knowing there is an addict in the house.  I have not excuse.  I was snowed under by all that horse shit he fed me when we were driving down from Macon about how he was going to turn his life around and eat right and not drink and all that.

He came out on the balcony with us and tried to talk.  His head was wobbly and his eyelids were so heavy he had to tilt his head back to see.  He tried to light a cigarette but kept missing the end of it with the flame.  I finally did it for him.

If it sounds like Marnie and I sat and watched P dig deeper and deeper into trouble, it’s true to a certain extent.  I knew I had to take him to the hospital but wouldn’t be able to get him in the car until he agreed to go.  I had to wait for all the pills and alcohol to take effect so he would think he was invisible.  A couple of times I mentioned that he needed to go to the ER but he locked his knees like a mule and said he would go to bed instead.  He never stayed there more than a few minutes at a time.

We watched him as he staggered in and out of his room and in and out of Marnie’s room.  He went back in his room and came out struggling with the top button of his oxford cloth shirt and the button on his khakis, standing with his knees splayed out to keep his pants up.  He looked as though he were dressing for a casual dinner.  He never did get the top button done and his pants kept falling down.  Next he changed into khaki shorts and a tee shirt and tennis shoes.

He wobbled around the flat like an errant and crippled pinball.  He opened the refrigerator door a few times and peered in thinking he would find some beer or wine, I guess.  He actually took down a bottle of homemade wine vinegar from the cabinet by the stove and was about to pour it into a glass.  I got it away from him before he could drink it.  All the while he was grazing on cold pizza, swallowing it in huge mouths full.  He opened and closed cabinets until he realized the scotch was gone and then he went back into my room.  I followed him in and he was rummaging in one of my hand bags, muttering that he needed his medicine.  His words were so slurred I could hardly understand him.  By that time, every pill and every ounce of alcohol I have was locked in my little safe and I was holding the key.

He said he was looking for his medicine and wanted me to help him run off all those teenagers who were trying to get in the front door.  I said we had to go to the hospital and he said he wanted to go to bed instead.  I was afraid he would vomit and aspirate and die if he went to sleep here.  He was pretty much invisible.

Marnie rode with me when I took him to the hospital.  Once they had him in a room in the ER and the doctor promised not to let him die, I came home and went to bed.  It was about two in the morning and the doctor promised to call me when I could come and get my son. 

He checked himself out of the hospital against medical advice and was back here by 8:00.  I sat here and wrote all this down while he was slinging crazy all over the house.


© 2013 cjschottman