Jail Time 1

This is the first of yet another series about my son, Parrish, and his schizoaffective disorder, alcohol and Ativan dependency.  It is also about me and how my son's illness affects me.   

The first time I called the police was on Friday night, November 9.

At 7:00 PM, my dogs and I were lounging on my bed, they sleeping and I working a crossword puzzle.  There was a a knock on the door.  I took the decision to ignore it, thinking that would be the safest thing to do.  

The pounding became louder and more urgent. I left my bed and went to turn on the porch light and the spotlights on the corners of my house.  Then I peeked through one of the long windows that flank the door, clutching my phone which I had already set to call 911.  

Parrish.

My heart dropped into my gut and it began to roil.  My hands shook with anxiety.  I was still trying to overcome the damage from the last time my son showed up at my door.  That story is chronicled in my last three posts.

Reluctantly, I opened the door.  Why did I do that?  Parrish wore a sheepish expression and asked if I were going to let him in the house.  The last time he was here, before I put him on the bus back to Ft. Lauderdale, I told him he could never come to my house, never.  

Clearly, he did not make it to Fort Lauderdale.  

I let him in, saying, "You do understand that you are not welcome and that you cannot stay here?"  

"I had no place to go.  I've been at my fathers's for a few days, and he sent me to you."  

I knew about his stay in Brunswick, because he had harassed me per telephone from there.  In these calls, he donned his victim mantle and began his passive aggressive routine.

"Mother, I am your only child.  You are all I have. You don't know how much I love you.  I need your help and support." 

Translation:  "It is your duty to care for me.  You should let me live with you because life is so hard for me.  If you really love me.......Blah, blah, blah."

He finally reported that his father was going to put him back on the bus for Florida.  Instead, as you know, he ended up here. I will never know the truth, and I don't care.

Back to November 11.

I tried to call his father, but the son of a bitch, always a coward, left his phone off the hook.

I began researching the next bus to Fort Lauderdale, but there was not a bus until Saturday noon.  I made plans to put Parrish on it. 

Over the next hour, it became evident that Parrish was impaired. He is accustomed to drinking more than 24 beers a day.  When his speech became garbled and he began to stagger, I called the local EMTs, who came, bringing along two police officers.

It was an exercise in futility.  Parrish was not bad enough to go to hospital, and I was reluctant to press charges of trespass. I always, I thought I had the situation under control.  As the men departed, one of the police officers came to me, advising me to call again if I needed to.

Throughout this emotionally charged situation, I became more anxious.  A sense of foreboding slid down over my body and tightened like a vice, bringing with it waves of nausea and confusion.  I wondered how this came to be.  Once again I found myself entwined in Parrish's life.  I should never have opened the door.  Shaking and distracted, I stayed awake and watched him.  At midnight I went to bed, exhausted, emotionally bruised, and my joints aflame with pain.  I slept fitfully and got up at 5:00 AM. 

Parrish was awake and incoherent, staggering and falling into the glass top coffee table, breaking Poppy's glass thermometer, cutting his face.  

It was Saturday morning and I called the police.

© 2012 cjschlottman