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(STBSS) Stranger than Fiction

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posted on Jul, 8 2005 @ 10:49 AM
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Stranger than Fiction


Journal entry, date deleted

Something wasn’t right when I brought my son home from school today. I know he’s tired from his first week of Kindergarten, but there was more to it than that. I’ve had a growing concern about him that is connected to my suspicions about my estranged wife’s activities (which I have related to my lawyer and our court appointed mediator, and which prompted her drug test) and it all came to a head this afternoon when we got home.

I pick him up from school around 2:45pm, as his mom is now back at work. The first couple of days this week, you could tell he was really tired from the heat and increased activity. It has been blazing hot, and he’s in school from 8am to almost 3pm. I get him home right away and give him some cold water or Gatorade, and he comes around pretty quick. He asks for ice cream, and I give him some of that, too. I can’t help spoiling him a little, he’s been through a lot for a young guy. I try to get him to split one with me, but he says, “I want my own.” He seems to want to be alone in his room for a little while, too, so I just leave him be.

Today, though, he made a face at his favorite flavor of Gatorade after just one sip. He seemed agitated when I asked him what was wrong, and asked me to ‘go check around the house’ for him. When I asked him why he said, “Oh, I want you to make sure there aren’t any flies.” I started off to humor him when I saw him go quickly into his room out of the corner of my eye. I turned to follow him and came around the corner just in time to see him reach under the pillow on his top bunk and put something in his mouth. I said, “What are you doing?” and startled him badly. His body gave an involuntary jerk, and he turned to face me with a look of horror and surprise on his face that I had never seen before. I suddenly realized that my five-year-old son very possibly had the same terrible problem that I now suspected my estranged wife of having (and passing to him in the womb): a heroin addiction. I looked at him very carefully and said, “Son, are you sure you’re ok? I mean, if there is anything you want to talk about, you know I’m your father and you can trust me to do what’s best for you.”

He assured me everything was fine and there was nothing to talk about, but I wasn’t convinced. I watched him carefully for the next 15 or 20 minutes, and noticed his demeanor change from stressed and tired to something else. His face became overly relaxed and he slumped a little on the couch. When I looked in his eyes, I could tell his pupils were somewhat dilated. I became very worried and began asking him questions about what he had taken from under his pillow. He wouldn’t give me a straight answer, or look me in the eyes. I finally asked him if his mother had put it there for him, and he completely freaked out. I asked him if there was more of whatever it was hidden in the room (where I just happened to be staying while we were going through the divorce), and he went into a frenzy, saying, “Is Mommy gonna go to jail?!” over and over again. I assured him I didn’t want his mom to go to jail, just to get treatment (for him too, but I didn’t say it). I told him the most important thing was to trust me and tell me the truth so I could help. He thought it over for a second, and I could see he wasn’t going to be honest with me. I started to get stern and told him he had to tell me or I would call my attorney and ask him what I should do. He again went into a frenzy, and I started to pray out loud. He said, “Daddy, if you don’t stop that praying, aliens are going to destroy the Earth!” and I almost had to laugh.

So, I called my attorney, and of course, he wasn’t available. I ended up speaking to his secretary, and when I explained the situation she said, “Been there, done that.” Apparently she’d been through a similar situation, right down to having the stuff hidden in her room, as well. I asked her how she had handled it, and she said she had ended up calling the cops and having her (now long ex-) husband arrested and put in jail. She re-assured me that things would be ok, and that her situation had turned out well; her son had gone on to join the Navy and fly helicopters. I wish I could remember her name right now. I’ll get it the next time I call.

I told my son I had been advised by my attorney’s office to call the police, and he went into another frenzy about his mommy going to jail. I assured him that was not what I wanted and told him to stay on the couch while I went out into the garage to make my call. As I was speaking to dispatch, he came out into the garage and heard me tell the dispatcher that I wanted to have his room searched for drugs, specifically heroin. He again was frantic about his mom going to jail. The dispatcher was not helpful to say the least. She was loud and accusatory, asking me what made me think there were drugs hidden in my five-year-old’s room, as if I could explain it all to her in one neat sentence. When I reiterated that I wanted the room searched and told her she was being a complete Devil’s advocate, she finally agreed to send an officer over. By now it was getting close to 5pm, and I was aware that my estranged wife would be home soon from work. The last thing I wanted was to be there with her in the middle of all this.

I ended up calling her just before 5 o’clock and telling her what I suspected and what was happening. She pretended not to understand and kept asking “What’s going on?” over and over again. I told her just to come home now. At this point, I became overwhelmed by the situation and left the house with my son to go to the home of mutual friends of ours (who just happen to live on Poppy Lane). I called dispatch back and told them they had taken too long to respond and it was too late to do the search. I had now gone from the ‘subject’ to the ‘suspect’, and they wanted me to stay put so they could question me. I wasn’t about to do that after my conversation with the dispatcher and my new misgivings about the local police, and whose side they were on. I made sure my now frantic estranged wife knew where I was going and how to get there because Friday after work was her custody period, left my son in the relative safety of our mutual friend’s home (they had been our neighbors for two years, and I still sort of trusted one of them), and went looking for a safe place to spend the night. I now completely understood what Robert Bly meant in his book “Iron John” when he said “The key to the Wild Man’s cage can be found beneath his mother’s pillow.” And I knew this was only the beginning.




 
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