It’s hard & it hurts.

Parenting of any sort is not for the weak. The last two weeks have broken my heart far more than imaginable. Why did I think having kids would be a fun idea? I definitely wasn’t ready for the future of parenting when I signed up and only envisioned cute, cuddly babies. Nearly 20 years later since this adventure began and I’ve realized I’m still not ready for beyond those early years.

First, Asier moved back home. I was adjusting. Sad, but adjusting. Then Zak resumed his crap. Quickly. Not coming home. Not doing his homework. Pretending that I do not exist,  nor do my rules. He’s exhausting. I thought we were making progress. I thought we had a plan. Who was I kidding? Of course not.

He hadn’t been home in days.  He’d appear when we went to work. Then leave before I was home. Over and over. Yes, he was still working full-time. But where was he from 9 pm to 9 am? The harder I tried to talk, to understand, to compromise – the harder he refused, said he hated me, insisted he was better off.

He’s 17. You’d think I’d have SOME control? No. Zero. Nobody cares. He’s almost 18. No truancy. No ungovernables. Nothing. I understand everyone is busy. I understand my child’s behavior is the least of the world’s concern. Yet, I also understand he’s MY CHILD. I tried everything – school meetings, taking vehicles, phones, police, counseling, meds. Nothing worked. Nothing.

So last week. After more fights. More arguments. All centered around Zak and his shitty behavior I finally told him he HAD to come home. Had to. It wasn’t up for debate. He refused. Stating he’d move out. With the heaviest heart I’ve ever had I agreed. If he couldn’t follow the rules. If he was going to make everyone’s life hell. He had to go. I came home the next day for lunch and he’d emptied out his entire room

How do you give up on your child? The baby you had dreams for, hopes, plans. It hurts. Gosh, it hurts. All the professionals I’ve told tell me I’ve tried more than most, I’ve done everything I could. This wasn’t my fault.

Yet, it feels like it. I spend hours every day questioning where I went wrong. Where I missed up. How I could have avoided this outcome. Feeling guilty. Blaming myself. There are so many things I should have done differently 10-17 years ago. So many things. It really probably is my fault. Maybe he never had a chance with all the poor choices I made in his early life.

Now I’m just left wondering – Is he safe? Fed? Healthy? Warm? Does he have clean clothes? Is he doing his school work? Enough blankets? Someone to talk to?

It hurts. It really, really hurts. I pray he proves me wrong. I pray he catches up in school to spite me, to prove he’s better off without me. I pray he’s okay. I wish more than anything he’d call, text, stop by.

With his genetic condition, behavior and choices I currently, wholeheartedly believe he will die before me. At this moment I have no doubts that some day I’ll bury my son. That beautiful, perfect, red-headed baby who I loved so much. And that. That hurts more than anything else.

I’ve never hoped and prayed to be wrong so hard in my life. I miss him, yet I know the goodbye has just begun.