This Is Real

Wrote this last night....

What I say tonight, as we walk from the bar to get a pint of ice cream before home, hits a nerve.

He has a joke about how his favorite thing to throw-up is ice cream, because "if you do it fast enough it's still cold, you can enjoy it twice".

So we walk to get ice cream and I ask, "is it to stay"?

I should know better, but all bets are off now. Treatment is on the horizon and him telling me earlier in the day his "plan" for the rest of the month: no purging.

He is insulted, of course. "the best thing is not to bring it up". No pun intended.

Hmmm. You have been bringing it up for days, but now I can't. Something shifted. Something triggered and the monster was right there. I just rolled with it.

This means purge. I cannot stop it. I should not try, I will not try.

I wrack my brains for the right way to say what I mean to say before I come upstairs and go to bed, write this, whatever. I leave the monster on the couch, after a hug and a kiss goodnight. 

I come up with this before I go:

I know you are trying really hard. I know you are not perfect and I know you can't control it. I hope you will continue to try while you are here, but if shit happens, it happens. I won't be mad. If you could just fix it on your own we wouldn't be having this conversation and you wouldn't be going to treatment. 

I never know what sinks in. I get a glance, a thank you maybe? His head is already waiting for me to go away so he can go to the toilet. Have his horrifying private moment.

Eating disorders are the weirdest and most foreign thing to me. I will NEVER truly understand. I can read all I want, talk all I can. I can watch him and his rituals to try and make sense of it. I love food. I just don't get it. But for him, I try. He might get better someday.

This Is Where You Belong

Scumbags mom still working on exactly where he'll be in treatment but in the meantime he has a plane ticket for the first week of July. We have moved him back in with us until then. I'll sleep better at night knowing he's safe and knowing  our "family life" that we have created here in the past is a haven for him.

So far he's extremely excited about going to treatment. Now that he's decided he's really into it and wants to go. He'll use these next three weeks to have fun and party with all his friends, keep doing comedy without the stress since he knows he'll be taking a break. He's been talking about the bulimia and going to rehab on stage every night. It's go time and he's mentally ready.

I told him the other night he would "grab his recovery by the balls" which seemed like an appropriate description of how he lives his life. He does things in the extreme so if he's going to work on this eating disorder, he's going to jump right in. He's tired of being sick, real tired.

I also told him I wanted to spend as much quality time with him as I could before he leaves. He said, "I just moved in with you. By the time I'm leaving you'll be ready for me to go. I know how not to overstay a welcome".

He's correct. Three weeks is probably just right. For those three weeks I'm going to be real selfish and hog his company because when he goes I'm going to miss him terribly. Especially not knowing when or if he'll return.

Really the goal of the next three weeks is just biding time till he can get into a place. Keep him as healthy as he can be for now. He is already trying to eat, he is already trying to make headway into being better which we've seen before with small smatterings of success. Basically keep him alive until he can get into treatment. For right now him being here with us is exactly where he belongs. It feels right.

Breathing A Giant Sigh of Relief

My darling Scumbag finally hit rock bottom last night. The contest took everything right out of him, he did not advance, and he melted down in front of us all, sobbing, in so much pain. At least Jeckyll and I were there. He kept repeating, "I have to get out of here, I have to go home to my mom, I'm dying. Comedy is killing me, Portland is killing me. I need to go to rehab. I need to go to rehab. I'm dying".

So he posted the following this morning on facebook. He got 50+ comments from friends and other comedians. He probably got an equal amount of private emails, texts, messages showing support.

This is the pain of his eating disorder in his own words. His mother is already setting up inpatient rehab for him in Arizona. It's at least 45 days, maybe 60 if he needs it. He should be able to check in in three weeks or less. We think he's really going to do it, he told her to purchase the airline ticket. I'm crying as I type this because I'm going to miss him so much, and who knows if he'll ever come back? I'm also crying because I've been waiting for this for over a year, and I'm tired of lying in bed at night wondering what I would say at his funeral. If he's in rehab, he's safe, and I won't worry so much.

• Hey. For anyone wondering why I'm taking a hiatus from comedy you should read this. I love you.
  
  Comedy is killing me.
  
  I remember the first joke I ever wrote. It was a one-liner and I hate it. I still find myself telling it on stage whenever a crowd doesn't care much for my material, out of spite. Because I know it will make them laugh. Yeah dick-head crowds, I STILL WANT YOU TO LAUGH EVEN WHEN YOU HATE ME! ( do you still put an exclamation after an all caps sentence that clearly illustrates rage or is that redundant?) But how I make you laugh will be on my terms instead of yours at that point. You could've shared a real moment with me as I was up there spilling my heart, but fuck you, you're stupid, so here's a one-liner. You get to go home happy, and I get to go home to lose an on-going battle with bulimia.
  
  Initiate crying.
  
  Like my first joke, I also remember the first time I forced myself to vomit. I was 13. I've had a goddamn eating disorder for almost a decade. Well, several eating disorders, really, but hey, who's counting! I'm dying just the same.
  
  That story starts and ends the same as all others like it. A gay kid in Phoenix, Az who's "closet" was punk music, heroin, and a whole lot of running away (crime). Who knew living in a modern thunderdome could lead to self loathing? Turns out public displays of bigotry aren't so conducive for inciting pride in people. Well, not for the faggots and niggers on the receiving end of that bigotry anyway. The bigots feel great! And we get death and neurosis. What fun!
  
  So, I quit the "junk", moved to Portland, Or, and became a comedian. Who wants the movie rights?
  
  I love Portland. I love being a comedian here. We have a comedy festival, a nationally respected club that doesn't respect it's local talent, and lots of beer, beards, tall-bikes, and all that other hack Portlandia shit you heard about. The show is accurate. Although I think a sketch about a yoga instructor who only teaches dogs would be funny. Next position: Downward-facing human. Ha! Where's my millions?
  
  Anyway. Comedy let me break out of my shell. Especially doing comedy in Portland. The crowds here are the opposite of the knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers in Phoenix. And I quickly became what you might call a "wunderkind".
  
  Shit just worked out. I've been doing stand-up for two years now and I've done a lot. I'm not going to drop credits right now, but trust me, I'm fucking funny and I've gotten amazing opportunities because of it.
  
  But as more opportunities started rolling in, so did more trips to the bathroom. More nights spent alone at home binging and purging and even more mornings waking up with a bleeding nose and a ravenous hunger for laughs.
  
  Comedy and mental illness make for glorious bedfellows.
  
  More laughs means more shows means more stress means spiraling out of control means throwing up means I'm in control but I'm not because I'm worthless and I suck means writing more jokes and finding more strangers to love me.
  
  Ugh. I got crazy brained there for a second. Sorry.
  
  Eating disorders are one of the worst symptoms of an active mind. Thinking is stupid. My brain never shuts up. But with jokes, I don't know, they pull me out from within myself for a smattering of lovely moments strung together by microphones and booze, every single night of my life, and I love it.
  
  But comedy is killing me.
  
  And I am too.
  
  So, I'm taking a hiatus. Moving back home and getting my head right.
  
  I wanted this post to be longer as to give more insight into my crazy, but turns out that's draining, so this is all you get. Later days friends. I'll see you soon.

One Year Later

Well roughly one year ago I wrote this post about Scumbag moving out.

Here I am today with a bunch of his laundry in our bathroom, himself sleeping on our couch for the third or fourth time this month, and a creeping suspicion this is the way it's going to go for a bit. He likes to live here part-time, living out of paper bags, carrying around his toothbrush and deodorant in his satchel. He'll go back to his apartment with the guys when it's convenient, he'll sleep here when it's convenient.

Right now it's another holding pattern. His mother replacing his insurance cards after a robbery. She said she'll mail them to my house. Once he has those again he can start calling on therapists, if he so chooses to do that.

He's had some weird melt-downs lately over the comedy contest. He actually made it through the first round but was so overwhelmed he couldn't deal with it after the winners were announced. He stalked off into the night on those skinny legs, marching past all his friends who wanted to congratulate him. How can you be a sore winner?

"Overwhelmed", that was the specific word he's used to describe how he's doing right now. I think that word speaks volumes, it's a word that people use when they are reaching a breaking point. The contest continues this Saturday so I predict a day of him skulking around this house, anxious, fighting all compulsions, until the time comes to perform. I think the reason he's been here so much is that "overwhelmed" feeling is maybe a little better when he's safe inside these walls. Our home seems to be a safe haven for him at times.

So here we are one year later with the hope that he'll finally try to get help. Maybe one more year of fighting this eating disorder alone was what he needed to reach a place of "overwhelmed". Maybe he's really ready this time, but it's still wait and see.

Until then I'm resigned to having a part time house guest. When I gave him the key I knew what I was getting into and I'm sure Jeckyll did too.

How could I have ever thought I'd be rid of him?

Mothering

I think Scumbag and I have hit the peak of our mother/son relationship. He's been sick all weekend so I've sent him a few messages here and there just to see how he was feeling. Yesterday was this.

me: are you still sick sickie?
him: yeah
me: you need anything? I'm free after work tonight.
him: no. I'm just gonna stay home. thanks though.
me: ok. Just checking on you. love you.
him: love ya toooo.

He didn't stay home last night. Sent me a text later asking if I wanted to meet him to play pool. I was busy with another friend, so I couldn't. He must be feeling better. Although disappointingly he cancelled his weekly comedy show that he gets paid to do and went instead to an open-mike. Not smart, but who ever said he was smart? Not me. Clever yes, smart no.

I get a new tattoo started today. I'm muddling through a weird work week. More comedy competition tomorrow night. My birthday is coming up soon. The weather is great right now. Life seems good.

I'm pretty happy.

Finally Out

Well our little Scumbag has finally seen the light and is moved out of Crazy Girl's basement. He has done it more or less in stealth, moving things while she is at work. He hasn't slept there in probably 4 nights, but I don't think she realizes yet he's gone. He still might have to get a handful of things, but the bulk of his belongings are way across town with two guy friends. He'll be sleeping in the living room. I think he's terrified of what her reaction will be so he's making sure everything is out before he breaks the news to her. It's real weird.

Right now he's on my couch. Yes, that's right. This is starting again. The place he moved to is not really on a bus line, very inconvenient, and he still doesn't have a working car. So Jeckyll and I gave him house key privileges again in case of emergency.

I am good at predicting the future. One roommate is a bit of a drunk, and so I wanted Scumbag to have the option of not having to get in the car with him to go home. Last night the roommate simply bailed on him, just left so he was stranded trying to get to a birthday party. I only gave him the key three days ago and already he needed to sleep over, didn't have an easy way to get home.

All this is leading up to the possibility that he may move back in with us. He has recently indicated he wants to get therapy and start working towards getting help for his eating disorder. This was unprompted. He broke down on the phone with his mother and told her he "just couldn't do it anymore". He told her he wanted help. This was the day before he started moving out of the basement.

Then one day later he's telling me the same thing he told his mom, he wants to start getting better. He wants to go to the meetings. He wants to find a therapist that specializes in eating disorders. That was the day I gave him the house key back.

Then a day after that I told him that it was really good to hear he wanted to get help. He said his mom is looking into the insurance. I told him, "well, if you actually go through with it and start seeing someone and really working on it, you can move back in with me and Jeckyll until your mom gets up here. Let's give it a month or so and see what you do. It can't be the same as before where you kept saying you'd do it tomorrow. You have to be actively working on it with a therapist. My bottom line never changed".

The look of relief on his face was endearing.

I told him, "you need to get on it". He said, "I'll get on it right away". He wants to move back in with us. I'm actually surprised he wants to, but I suppose if you're going to do  something as terrifying as tackle your biggest problem you need a safety net.

In truth I think it's a 50-50 chance he follows through. This time at least he's the one initiating the dialog with his mother. It was the first time he'd ever talked with her about his eating disorder, ever. It's a good sign. But that doesn't mean he'll jump right into it. There will be resistance. His ED is going to be talking to him incessantly, telling him not to do it.

So it's wait and see, we might get our Prodigal Son back for a little bit. At least he's out of the moldy, rat infested basement and in a normal bachelor apartment with guys who have jobs. I saw the apartment too, it's not bad. Just a normal place, not filthy, didn't smell bad, just your basic apartment for three 20-somethings. 

I'm so glad he's out of that basement. And I wish I could see the look on Crazy Girls face when she realizes he's moved out.

Not So Sad Endings

Who am I kidding? I'm not going to give up on this kid. Maybe my love for him is unconditional. I hope not, but that may be the way it is.

His version of the story makes him much less of a villain, of course.

I'm sure the truth is about halfway between her version and his version. Because I know him, and I know there's NO WAY he's as innocent as he claims.

But she also led me to believe a few things, and he proved his point by providing me with written proof. She wrote him a note that (honestly) read just like something I would write in a total angry-middle-of-the-night-freak-out. Very harsh, very accusatory, very ugly. She led me to believe her letter to him was "expressing how hurt she was, and logical, and calm". Eh, not so calm, not what I read. Although it was well written and she had some great points for being totally pissed off. That's my girl!

SO. I'm leaving it all alone for now. I am still mostly on her side, told him he should not have done even what he admits to doing, and that's where I'm leaving it for now. Unless a good opportunity comes up where he and I can have a calm discussion about it. Sober. In person.

I told her if she still needs to bend my ear I'm here for her.

I told them both I care about both of them. I cannot take sides.

Fucking children. I wish they were grown-ups but then they probably wouldn't be nearly as much fun.