First.
An addendum to my previous blog. Omitted to mention that the biggest cheer of the night Went to the teachers. They sang and danced (Daughter included) and entered into the spirit of a superb evening. Right. Son is accepted on a rehab programme. Run by a local charity ina town about 20 miles away. It is run by a former alcoholic and violent criminal. He is now a Christian. The addicts live 3, possibly 4 in houses owned by his charity. They are expected to exercise every morning, Work all day in the charity’s workshop, They shop together on a tight budget. Alcohol is not permitted. They see a therapist and methodone is dispensed where necessary. They are allowed to attend local drug clinics. There are cameras in all the rooms. Son has a room in a run down suburban house. He will share it with all sorts of disreputable types. They are tattooed and scarred inside and out. They wear a uniform of ill fitting trackie bottoms. There is a communal kitchen and lounge with huge telly. The cooking and cleaning are shared between the inmates. Inmates seems a more appropriate word than residents. There is an undercurrent of repressed aggression And a crackle of strangeness. A smell of only superficially clean house. An air of abnormality. The day of his incarceration is a nightmare. He does all he can not to go. But. His bridges are burned. The flat keys have been handed in. His tenancy terminated. Wife No.2 has promised to consider reconciliation if he stays for 12 months. He is backed, well and truly, into a corner. But still. He doesn’t go easily. We feel his fear and despair But only he can do it. There is no going back. Finally he is in the car. The afternoon is turning misty and grey. The journey is tense and silent. He is in an unfamiliar room, There are sounds downstairs, Laughter and the sound of the television. We meet the inmates and the boss. The boss looks like he’s been carved from granite. He speaks in cliches. Black and white. Obey the rules. I look around the room, If it wasn’t so awful I’d laugh. It’s so surreal. I think of my middle class friends with their ordered lives. I look at this chaos. These human beings with their own tragedies. We will hear heart rending stories of their lives in the weeks to come. Right now. We prepare to leave. Cameras click and whirr in all the rooms. The day is darkening. The mood is sinking. Son has many guises. Right now he wears his keen penitent look. He listens to everything and everybody. He nods in agreement with the boss. Wife No 2 is allowed to visit at weekend. Today is Monday. He has an eternity to travel until then. We say our goodbyes. We leave. It begins...
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Daughter teaches at a school in a northern town.
A school in sweeping grounds Solid, northern. We’ve been invited to watch a performance by the pupils. Songs and dancing from the movies. It’s an academy, the pupils aged 11 to 16. If I look on the web site I see Daughter’s name. We are proud northerners. When Husband and I were young We had coal fires and sat outside in freezing lavatories At night we watched the silver moon and twinkling stars By day we watched spiders and quivering daddy long legs. We had thick fogs and no phones. We have northern grit. My daughter has it in spades. To be fair so does my son, He needs it to battle his terrible addiction. Anyway. We arrive at the school. It’s a northern night Black, rainy, freezing and windy. Daughter meets us, we run inside. Up steps, through corridors, kids’ art on the walls. The smell of school. She has her own office. We want to see. Her name by the door. Assistant Headteacher. Is this that little sturdy girl? Awkward and clever. This is her room, her computer, her notes, her books, her pots of pens, her life. I give her the white orchid, It’s arching stem and translucent flowers Glow amongst the structured chaos. This is her life of which we have no part. But tonight she lets us peep behind the curtain. We are parents and children, Proud and humble. We meet the Headteacher and some of Daughter’s colleagues. They are extraordinary ordinary people. They have orchestrated this performance and given hours of their time. A teacher’s job does not end when the bell goes at the end of the day. It carries on, into the evening, overlapping into the weekend. It seeps into family life. These kids who will perform tonight Have been helped and formed by these teachers. One of whom is my daughter. Education is vital. Education is vital. Teachers are overworked and stressed. But still they must send the next generations on their way Into the world. Many services need money. But this is where it starts. These youngsters are the hope for the future. People should not be able to depend on private wealth for a better education. There should be a level playing field. This generation should go out into the world Heads held high, knowing they’ve had the best education possible. These youngsters didn’t vote for Brexit. They are open and modern and will embrace the world. And so we go into the school hall. There is clattering and shuffling. Proud parents, grandparents and friends Wait to see their special child. The lights dim. And what a performance it is. They sing and dance their hearts out. It’s a concert of sweat, fear, life and exuberance. They smile till they can smile no more. They dance like it’s the end of the world. They are all mixed up and different. But they burn. They are lit from inside. It is inspirational and moving. Every single child deserves an accolade. Every single teacher deserves an accolade. It’s a perfect performance. Each child with their own hopes and fears, They are, at once, young and old. They are mundane and gloriously beautiful They are all teetering on the edge of their lives. They have been helped by brilliant teachers. Who must be supported And cheered till the end of time... its such a sad little room.
It’s a shared house, each room separate with one inhabitant. Each self contained in their lonely little world. A shared kitchen. Clean and spartan. White surfaces and cupboards. A fridge holds the remains of food, Little bundles of loneliness. His room is small and pristine. The house is newly done. He starts off well. We try to organise his many clothes into the small space. He has some money left. Wife No 2 has returned to the edges of his existence. We are still there. Of course. He is hanging onto his job by the skin of his teeth. Soon his stuff overflows everywhere. His druggy mind muddles everything. To avoid the other residents he eats in his room. Leftover food accumulates and smells. His dirty washing and clean are intermingled. He looks well. He looks ghastly. He goes to work. He stays at home sick. He tidies. He returns to chaos. He turns out to work shiny and gleamy. In the flat he is shambolic and messy. Emotion and reason collide. The drugs with their promise of wellbeing and confidence Need to be taken in huge quantities. We all have self destructive genes. He seems to have more than most. Of course drugs and work don’t mix. He invents all kinds of maladies to remain at home. Soon he is referred to Mental Health Services. They promise more than they deliver. I know funds are short But he is referred to all sorts of different people, He ties them all in knots. Lots of words are bandied about. The doctor gives him a sick note for a month. Bingo. A month off work, To take drugs, make grandiose plans, take drugs, Get in a bigger mess. The conversations with various mental health/addiction services Go round and round. The paradox is that because he doesn’t present like a drug addict They don’t really treat him as such. He is well turned out and charming. He has an appealing air of vulnerability. He gets away with murder and carries on taking vast quantities of illegal drugs. All the time lying through his teeth. Meanwhile we are paying drug dealers. Meeting ghastly people in dark alleys. It’s like some terrible B movie. He has spent the remaining money. The debts are starting again. There are days when we can’t contact him. The curtains of his room are closed tight on the world. Work send people to interview him. He convinces them of his problems, Makes promises. Breaks them. Doesn’t ring them. Fails to attend meetings with their doctors. His medical certificate expires. He doesn’t take his medication. Of course he loses his job. He sells kitchen goods from the house. The dealers break into his room. We have to go to the letting agents on bended knees. We pay for the damage, make promises on his behalf. He threatens suicide. We call the police. He is now on an “at risk” register. The police, incidentally, were wonderful. They assigned him a “helper” He helped with benefits and form filling and debt consolidation. He was also very good. For a while. The problem with these services is they are intense and efficient For a short period. The sickness goes on and on. They do their bit and move on. Of course. So you depend on them, then they proceed to the next case. Of course. His room is closing in. He is almost broken. So are we. His leg swells to twice its size. He develops a DVT. He nearly loses the limb. He is hospitalised. He returns home. He carries on. On one of his heroin fuelled jaunts He meets up with an addled junkie. He tells Son that he is trying to get clean. He is on a programme run by a charity. Very strict. He has been away for months Been allowed out for a week to see his sick mum. I am suspicious. But it plants the rehab idea in Son’s head. The NHS programmes are almost impossible to access. Private schemes expensive and exploitative. We scour the Internet. We find one. It is run by an evangelical church a few miles away. The addicts live in shared houses. I know, I know. They have to follow a strict regime. They are monitored 24 hours a day. They have to work in a factory. They are given food money and do supervised shopping. They have to attend the gym every morning And go to church on a Sunday They have access to councillors and methadone. There are criminals, murderers, alcoholics, misfits, burglars, homeless And soon, hopefully Our Son.... There is no big drama about her leaving,
No theatrics. Just a low-key sadness. In fact, an absence of theatre. The marriage disintegrates after we remove the kids. She can’t trust him, He steals from her, He lies, as ever. He goes missing for days on end. She can’t trust him. We can’t trust him. It’s hopeless. She walks away on a grey afternoon And returns to a small bedroom in her mother’s house. He appears at our home distressed and erratic. We are sorry and at the end of our tether. In his lucid moments he calls to see the boys. This is not strictly allowed But we watch carefully. He is on his best behaviour at these times, Still able to charm them both Before dashing off. He hangs onto his job Taking long periods of sick leave. He pleads depression, They are very understanding. However, it soon becomes clear that he will default on his mortgage. His gas and electricity bills are unpaid. The dealers take his fridge, microwave, washing machine, furniture. We take food. The house is a squalid mess. Still the bills pile up. We are at our wits end. We worry about him self harming Or more prosaically, setting the house on fire. On a more lucid day we talk to him. We agree to sort out bills and pay the mortgage On condition the house is sold and we are repaid. He has mounting debts to clear. Again he is insistent that he can get clean. Again he pauses, takes a breath Makes dramatic short term improvements, Lapses again. We’re all up and down. Still the debts mount. Still the debts mount. Eventually the For Sale sign goes up. Such a sad thing that sign. So final. We’ve been in LaLa land for too long. The house has to be cleaned from top to bottom. There is a fog of tragedy pervading the rooms. It’s empty of love and life. The kids’ rooms rip my heart out. Wardrobe doors gape, Toys and books are strewn. He drifts through it like a ghost. Hideous. Hideous. We long to abandon him and walk away But it’s impossible. He hangs onto a shred of himself. Still steals my books and loses them. Still does crosswords. Still reads the Guardian in his saner moments. He is now fixated on selling the house, Paying off his debts, Getting a small flat And returning to work. Another fresh start forms in his mind. The house sells quickly at a giveaway price. Armageddon was survived. The buyers put a gun to our heads, Screw us to the ground. We just want him out and away. He takes a room in a shared house. Settles all his debts. Has a little left. His job is still hanging by a thread. Wife no 2 is still on the edge of his life. We are still there. The boys still love him. He has another chance. What can possibly go wrong?? The whole drug situation is massively complicated.
People start and stop. Start and use intermittently. Start and use steadily whilst holding down jobs And maintaining family relationships. Some die by accidental or intentional overdoses. Some just live with it but creep gradually downhill. People with addictions are often overdiagnosed And over treated for depressive and anxiety disorders. These conditions do exist I know. But a drug addict will manipulate them extensively. They soon come under the mental health umbrella. Suicide attempts are recorded. Often this is a cry for help, It’s also an excuse to take more drugs Whilst riding the sympathy wave. Families are often at a loss as to what to do. They are held to ransom by threats of instability and worse. Anyone who has ever tried to monitor a drug addict Will know how stressful it can be. They have no thought for anyone but themselves And often disappear for days on end Causing endless worry. There is much said and written about Dopamine. This is a neurotransmitter which plays a major role in reward motivated behaviour. It can cause an addict to anticipate a reward if certain action is taken. If the reward is met the behaviour can, over time become a habit. At some stage this can become an addiction. I am no doctor. This is very simplistic I know. There are many complicating factors. Life itself and how one deals with it Is a major influence on behaviour. The government’s drug policies have never been coherent. In the 1970’s America adopted “zero tolerance.” We soon followed suit. The phrase is self explanatory. However, little evidence supports the claimed effectiveness of these policies. But they are maintained by the police to this day. Punishment for drugs offences are draconian. Jails are full of addicts Who have committed criminal acts to support their habits. Once they are inside drugs are easily accessible. And the cycle continues. Treatment for addicts on the NHS Is spasmodic and very unsatisfactory. Clinics and detox centres are poorly staffed and underfunded. Combine this with the chaotic lifestyles of your average drug addict And you have a nearly impossible situation. Into this mix step the drug suppliers and dealers. Market forces have combined to make the distribution of illegal drugs One of the most lucrative and efficient businesses in the country. The networks from the big guys at the top Right down to the lowliest distributors on the street Are run like a well oiled machine. Everything geared up to keep the addicts on the hook And the money pouring in. Short term loans are made available at high interest rates. Addicts are soon sucked into a spiralling cycle of debt, depression and more drugs. It’s a treadmill which is impossible to leave. The police prioritise drug users and their crimes over high level drug suppliers. And so the jails fill up. Chaotic lifestyles and sickness is rife in communities of drug addicts. They fill hospitals with their sicknesses And the damage done by injecting and poor hygiene. They are generally ill equipped to combat infections. Their living conditions are terrible. The housing policies of the moment make life difficult And drug addicts are driven onto the streets With all that that entails. Drug policies mean that all illegal drugs are unregulated. Consequently the quality is often suspect And not subject to any form of quality control. This in itself is a huge danger And another cause of sickness and death. Despite all this mess And a war which is being lost by governments And won by the illegal drugs industry The most dangerous drug of all Goes on unregulated and socially acceptable. Alcohol. We have left their Father’s house.
We arrive at our house. We order takeaway pizzas. Garlic bread. Chips. Coke. The ultimate comfort food. The adrenalin rush is subsiding a little. Husband and I are starting to realise The enormity of what has just happened. We switch on the lamps in the dining room, The room warms up. The outside becomes darker. The pizzas arrive. We sit round the table. We talk to the kids. Try to reassure them. It’s difficult. The eldest one is gobbing off, Raving about his father. The youngest one is silent. We clear away the debris. Realise they are at school tomorrow And their uniforms are at their Father’s house. We ask Wife No 2 to drop them off. She does. Tells us he’s sulking. HE’S SULKING. What’s that about? How dare he sulk? He should be here On his hands and knees Begging forgiveness from his children. She leaves. We all settle. We get the kids to bed with minimum fuss. We’re all tired. I put their uniforms on hangars Come downstairs. Husband and I look at each other. We’ll have to tell their mother. It needs to be done face to face. Under the shared custody agreement They should return to her the day after tomorrow. She needs to be informed of the situation. I text her to ask for a meeting tomorrow. She replies to say she will call the following evening. We worry that she might remove the kids completely. She would be well within her rights to do so. We worry about the effect that this will have on the boys. One thing is certain. They can’t stay in that house with their father. We have all looked and pretended not to see for too long. I phone Daughter. We go to bed. Morning. There’s a lick of snow on the ground. A blackbird hops about the garden. The wind is early spring raw. The boys get ready for school. They shower, Breakfast. We watch them covertly. They fight and laugh. Husband walks them to school. The day passes. Son is silent. Ex-wife arrives in the evening. Blonde hair in a pony tail. Jeans. Ugg boots. Red lips. She sits down. I make tea. We tell her what has happened. We have spoken to her in the past about our concerns and suspicions But she never took any action. It obviously suited her to have her half week of freedom. She trusted us to keep our eye on things. This time it’s much more serious. I expected her to sweep them up and go. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. Her reaction was strangely muted. We stressed the danger. She still seemed averse to the idea of having them back with her full time With all that that entailed. As the conversation swirled and bounced back and forth We realised she wanted shared custody to go on, But with us taking over Son’s duties. So her life remained unaffected. We were stunned. We had not expected this. We were glad we weren’t going to lose them. We were daunted at what it entailed. She then flashed her pretty smile. Changed the subject. Chatted for a while. Then she stood up. “I’ll just go and talk to the boys.” Stayed with them for about 10 minutes. Came downstairs. “They’re fine.” Instructed us to return them tomorrow, After they’ve had their tea. She leaves. We are gobsmacked. I call daughter. We had expected massive drama. We speculate about a woman Prepared to leave her kids within the vicinity of their drug addicted father. Time and money are obviously deciding factors. She does know they are safe with us. But it’s not really right for the boys. It’s another upheaval in their little lives. We all feel weirdly deflated but relieved. Grandson No 1 wants to know “what’s for tea?” I think he thinks he’s looking forward to a lifetime of takeaways and toffees Whilst under our jurisdiction. Husband and I feel that Son has once again escaped justice. He is holed up again after inflicting suffering on his boys and us. We have talked to them But they need reassurances from both parents. There are none forthcoming. Husband and I once more gird our loins. We prepare for 4 days a week childcare. ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had. And add some extra just for you.’ . |
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