So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours. Mostly I have become deeply aware of two things. I hate sleeping on the ground and kids are kids. Don’t hang out with them if you expect gratitude, or respect. Not that there aren’t moments of both those things in varying amounts, but in general, teenagers are very self-absorbed and it is exhausting.
Yesterday, we hiked a short distance to a water fall in the Dominguez-Escalante National Conservation Area. If unfamiliar with the canyon, it’s a spectacular place carved by the Gunnison River with slick red rock walls, arroyos, and flat top mountains. There are falcons and big horn sheep and Ute petroglyphs. I was blown away. Most of the kids-less. I was partners with a boy during a game to identify symbiotic relationships. He was a flower; I was a bee. He didn’t think we had a symbiotic relationship, because as a flower he thought there were plenty and no more were necessary, meaning pollination was a waste of time. The guide was great. She thanked him for his interesting perspective. I thought I was doing good to not roll my eyes and tell him that he should perhaps think the same thoughts concerning his personal reproduction. It’s thoughts like this that remind me that I am too old for this job. While most of the kids sat in the heat and pouted, the adults splashed around in the waterfall.
On the drive to Denver, the van stalled out in Parachute. I was left with the kids at a big Love’s with a McDonalds while a mechanic was consulted. I listened to the boys debate whether Mississippi had a shoreline for a very long time. I also texted a few friends asking if they would come kidnap me.
We finally landed at a church near downtown Denver. The church hosts a variety of twelve step programs. One was about to start in the church courtyard when we arrived, we either had to stay in the basement during the meeting or leave the building and chill in the park across the street and had two minutes to decide. We decided out, but had a cringy moment of the, “Hi, I am….” as we walked past.
I tried not to make eye contact with then people in the circle to protect their privacy, but the voices echoed in my head as we made our way to the park. I don’t talk about my son’s addictions much, but his struggle with substances is real. I recognize that meds don’t drown the voices and he turns to other things to help. He has made gains, and has had his falls. It is one of the most powerless parts of mothering I have experienced. Most days, I feel part of the web. I don’t have to be an addict myself to feel the pain of the problem. It doesn’t help that I am hyper aware that it is the tenth anniversary of the first signs of psychosis. I can’t quite shake the image of watching a paramedic sink a needle into his arm to stop his screams. I know we have come a long way since that day, so I don’t know why the memory is so fresh. I do wonder if it will ever feel differently.
When I was in the park with kids last night, watching the lights of the city begin to blink on, I realized that even though I am ready for the trip to be over, I do love Denver. The kids will probably yawn and pout when we have our Haitian dance lesson, but the memories will be there and hopefully they will be the kind to reach for when things are dark.
Just Another Damn Thing to be Strong About 
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