Day 3

I've moved his phone into his room, so I wouldn't hear the buzzing. It's not ringing as often,however. We need to figure out the best way to tell the friends he has who aren't local. Most of his friends know, I think, as we called his closest friends' parents to let them know what was going on. One subdued boy came by to drop off some things our son had left at his house...and mentioned that he thought this was "pretty drastic". I guess that plays into the popular perception that it's "just weed." But, it's not just weed...it's the distance, the not caring, the pain, the disengagement, the depression...everything that the "just weed" was helping him hide from.

The assistant unit manager called us tonight to give us a summary of his day. He finished all of his writing last night, so he came off impact at 8am this am, and was integrated into the group. He was very sad and tearful most of the day, even resorting to cutting the back of his hand with a rock. The woman I spoke to said that she sat down and talked with him about it-- he said it was the only thing he could do with his feelings. She had him come up with a safety contract that identified some other things he could do, such as write to us, talk to staff, write in his journal, or ask to speak with a peer mentor.

She said that he was pretty tearful most of the day, but did seem better when he was assigned the job of preparing dinner with another resident. They made spaghetti with sauce from scratch, salad, and bread sticks. After dinner they are having a campfire with music, and there are a few residents with guitars he can borrow, which should help him.

The other thing she said was that he said he knew why he was there--he said that his parents though he was depressed and unhappy, and he had shut us out of his life, so we didn't know what was going on with him.

Day 2

The house is quiet. No ''Call of Duty'', no Slipknot, no boy-noises...just an unanswered cellphone that seems to be buzzing constantly...a reminder of the fact that my son did have a life with friends who, whatever they were involved in, care about him and wonder where he went. Most of the names I know, but there are a fair number of strange names, and phone numbers without a name assigned. Are these innocent numbers--or evidence of the dark life that led us to make this drastic choice?

I talk to a friend of a friend who says when her son was taken, she hid all the baby pictures, as looking at his smiling-toddler-face made her cry. She reassured me that they are "all back now"...but it took several years and multiple placements for things to work out for them. The thought that this may be the beginning of a several year process terrifies me.

My son's therapist calls from the facility, to reassure me that he's doing okay, ate breakfast, and is continuing with his writing assignments. I get a second call after dinner from another staff member, reassuring me that he's eating, and finishing up his writing. Its cool in Maine this evening, so he's made himself a fire, and is sitting by it finishing up his assignments. They expect him to be ready to join the community tomorrow. Is that good news? I guess we're on track with the "normal" progression of the program.

I've sent off two letters so far-- both full of inane details about things that are irrelevant to what he's going through...I know he hates me now...and I wonder if I've severed that mother-child bond finally and irrevocably.

I alternately cry, and feel numb.

Entering his room I find marijuana and a scale. Does this mean we acted too late? Or just in time?

Transport

They arrived promptly at 4 am. Two tall young men who were to escort my unwilling son into his new world--ripping him away from all he had wrapped around himself for comfort.

My husband and I had spent a restless few hours tossing and turning, not really sleeping, as we anticipated their arrival. At 3:52 we were standing in the cold in our driveway, each looking at our part of the speech that our son's therapist had helped us craft earlier in the morning--the words we'd use to explain to him why we were sending him off with strangers in the middle of the night.

The woman we had booked the transport with had assured us that she was sending her "A Team", who would be able to get our son to accompany them without resorting to physical force. The two men who appeared were tall, likeable, and young. We gave them envelopes with paperwork for the facility and the transport agency, and another smaller envelope containing letters we'd written to be given to our son while they were on the road. We explained the layout of our house, and brought them inside.

Our son was sleeping, but woke immediately when we walked in. I gently touched his head, and told him that I loved him, and because of our concerns for his health and safety,and his refusal to get help, we felt we had no choice but to send him to a program that would help him get well. My husband introduced the escorts, and we left the room.

We'd been advised to leave the house, but were concerned that our 18 year old daughter would wake up while this was going on, so we chose to sit in the dark living room downstairs while the escorts convinced our son to go with them. We sat apart, not touching, each lost in our own world of grief. I wept silently while listening to my son plead with them not to "rip me away from my life", "please let me talk to my parents", "why would they do this to me?", and "I'm getting myself together...things are going well...I'm exercising, I have a girlfriend...I've quit smoking...please don't do this."

I have never done anything harder in my life. The school guidance counselor, who has tried valiantly to help our son over the past two years had called what we were contemplating doing "barbaric"...and as I listened to him cry, I felt that she may have been right.

We listened to him progress through anger, denial, and negotiation...all the while the escorts stayed calm, but firm, got him up, down the stairs and out the front door. It seemed like an eternity, but probably only took about 10 minutes.

This was either the most courageous, or the most horrendous, thing I have ever done in my entire life.

Decision

Tolstoy opened Anna Karenina with the line "Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." This is our unhappy family's story.

I have a wonderful, kind, bright, talented son who has been depressed since sixth grade. He never felt that he fit in, and once middle school hit, began selecting friends with similar low self esteem, gravitating to dark music, violent video games, and assuming all the trappings of an alternative-drug-using-lifestyle. By the time he was a sophomore in high school, he had been suspended from school twice, was getting high on a daily basis, and was dealing marijuana to support his habit. His cigarette smoking had created a chronic cough, and he'd woken up twice this month coughing up blood. Two weeks ago, he told me that he wished he was dead, and although he was "safe" for now, would probably commit suicide to end the drama. He refused to return to his therapist, and the school suggested we have him evaluated as an inpatient at the local psychiatric hospital.

Obviously, something needed to be done. Our pediatrician suggested a residential treatment facility for troubled teens. I had heard horrible things about these programs--boot camps and wilderness programs that used extreme measures to convince kids to change their ways--with risk of psychological and physical harm. This program appeared to be different--more therapeutic, with an emphasis on reshaping character through experiences...essentially "re-parenting" the child in a way that we couldn't...providing structure, support, and natural consequences to allow the child to rebuild their self-esteem and establish goals for themselves.

After tears and soul searching, we decided we had no choice but to try. Although the thought of being physically separated from my child for 6-9 months is unbearable, I needed to accept that I could no longer help him. As a mother, the best thing I could do for him was to surrender control of my child to others...and pray that I was making the best decision.

Hopefully this story will have a happy ending.