In a Red Truck on a Summer Night

Shaken awake by fear and anxiety, my sleep is interrupted. I get out of bed and tiptoe down the hall to Ryan's bedroom. Slow, consistent breathing indicates he's asleep. His keys are easy to find. I take them and slip back down the hall. They are heavy in my shaking hands as I descend the stairs to the front door.

Outside, the claustrophobic humidity takes my breath away. I enter Ryan's truck quietly. Everything around me is still except my heart. It races like I have just finished a double-shot espresso.

This cul-de-sac, a selling point when we bought the house, fosters a feeling of community. Tonight, I regret we live in plain sight. Searching my son's car in the middle of the night would be hard to explain to a neighbor looking out the window on his sleepless night. Besides, what would I say if Ryan found me? I can't come up with a reason that doesn't betray boundaries.

Opening the glove compartment, I rummage through coins, empty cartons of cigarettes, and wadded up receipts. I flatten them out and try reading for clues. Nothing. I look under seats, sift through empty fast-food bags. I sort through t-shirts, gym shorts, and dirty jeans. This is the chaos that clings to addiction.

I am looking for evidence he is using again. Little metal clips like the ones that hold my tablecloth down in the wind, crumpled pieces of aluminum foil, parchment-type paper smaller than a Post-it note. When did such insignificant things gain power over me?

Sweat dampens my gown. A whispering inside me suggests, "This isn't normal behavior," but the cicadas' loud drone deafens it. As I notice my shaking hands, I feel like I am going to be sick. Now I am thankful for the plethora of empty fast-food bags. In this moment, the truth hits hard.

He's addicted to drugs.

I'm addicted to saving him.

I'm the definition of co-dependency, but this understanding arrives like someone peddling religion at the front door on a Saturday. I do not want to answer when I hear the knock.

How is this possible? I am an educated, community-minded, Bible-reading adult who should be smart enough to avoid this mistake.

I make myself evaluate:

Last time I went to book club? Months.

Last time I went to the gym? What gym?

Last time I cooked a meal I wanted to eat? Did I eat anything yesterday?

Cooking becomes a burden when one less person shows up at the table.

The devil on my shoulder reasons, "A mother can't go on while her child is lost. It's my job to help him find his way. Consequences today could affect his whole life. He's too young to understand this."

My thoughts take me back to a night at the fairgrounds before Ryan left for college. Agreeing that the largest corn maze in the state of Georgia had to be experienced, we entered it together and soon were lost in a sea of corn. Ryan and I decided to split up for better odds. Whoever found their way out first would come back and guide the other to freedom. Instead, we wandered alone, equally lost, yelling directions at each other until someone on a platform above the corn guided us both out.

We are back there in the corn maze. Apart and lost and separated by walls and wrong turns, while I yell out helpful advice:

You have to get up now so you're not late to work!

Here! Take this money for gas so you keep your job.

Make sure you take your medication!

You have to get to a meeting today!

His resentment toward me grows in response to my helpful reminders. I continue because they keep my fears from swallowing me.

The truth of my codependency hits me. It weighs me down more than the sweat that has drenched me. I need something to help me open the door and leave, but my failure as a mother keeps me sitting in that sweltering truck.

I admit out loud, "I've lost my way and I can't help my son find his."

This act of honest bravery gives me hope. I cannot control, coax, bribe, protect, or stop the pain my son will face. However, I am not powerless. I have been begging him to choose a life of health and wellness while I cling to my own unhealthy obsessions and fears. I can begin to silently model a life of health and healing.

I slip out of his truck and walk into my house and quietly replace Ryan's keys. Just before sunrise, I drift off to sleep.

The next week, I began my recovery with these things:

1. I purchased a new journal. It felt like a fresh start.
2. I went to the gym.
3. I started reading my book club's selection for the month.
4. I began looking for a support group.
5. I bought a new cookbook to return to abandoned practices.