Going home

Many apologies for the late submission of this entry. Thanks so much to everyone who has written to me in response to the interview that was published in the Sunday Times at the weekend, linked to the conference at Wellington College. You may have seen the photo of me, holding our new puppy. She is one of the reasons this diary piece is so late. In between going to conferences, and having a birthday, I have been on hands and knees scrubbing carpets and going in and out of the garden with the new member of our family.  Her name is Lily, and she is an eight- week old blue roan cocker spaniel. Never having owned a dog before, I was nervous about being a puppy- mum, but she has brought into the house what I hoped she might – a lot of fun and distraction. All our boys love her, and when Will has been to the house, Lily has made a fuss of him too.

It’s been like having a new baby, though, and has brought back memories of those first days when I was left alone with William, after everyone had gone back to their normal lives, and I was left alone with what seemed, at times, like overwhelming responsibility of making sure a new young life was safe in my hands!

There has been a lot going on here, just for a change! Alex was mugged last week, on my birthday, as he made his way back home from the bus-stop. He had been mauled and pulled about by three older boys he’d never seen before – they tried to get his ipod and phone out of his blazer pockets. One of them threatened to punch him, and Alex handed both items over. He is now seeing the school counsellor, and has mentioned what he had been through with William too. He says it’s helping him.

Yesterday we received a letter from Will’s crammer in Kensington, saying that they had made the regrettable decision not to have him back this term. They had wanted to exclude him in January, and maybe they were right then to believe that it was hopeless. Guy and I pushed for him to be allowed to continue with his AS courses, to get those qualifications at least, of which he has done half up to now. It seems sad that he was close to finishing them, but there was a mock History exam last Friday, to which he did not turn up, apparently. Will is still saying that he did go in for that, but the college say he didn’t, and in their letter added also that he has only turned up for 4 out of a possible 12 sessions since January. They have had enough, and who can blame them.  It worries me that Will is saying he did sit the exam; he sounds genuine. This is often the case - he says one thing, others say another – you enter through a portal into a land where nothing is certain, and, when you try to get to the truth, it’s an almost impossibly perilous journey.

On Monday, he began a short course at a large London football club, or so I believe, and hope. He rang me last night, though, to say he was ill and hadn’t been that day. He sounded awful, very blocked up and weak. He then went on to say that he knew now that he needed to quit cannabis.

‘I know I’ve said this before when I was in the Priory, but I need to quit. It’s ruining my life. I know I’m ill now, but I’ve been thinking and all I know is that I’m stuck in this little room with no future. I’ve got nothing and it’s got to change. The course is the only good thing in my life.’

I had just that afternoon been speaking to someone from Marijuana Anonymous UK, who rang me in response to an email I’d sent via their web-site. I’d been interested in what meetings there are in this country, and a young woman from London contacted me. I was mainly interested to know because ‘Talking about Cannabis’ is setting up support groups for parents and carers, and I wanted to find out what resources there might be out there, in the form of groups for users. As she spoke, though, I began to think that the meetings she described may be helpful to William. Now he was talking about quitting, I told Will about the groups – all of which are in London, one of which is held in Brixton on Saturdays, which would be the closest. He listened and said that he’d think about it, sounding very far away, but then mentioned Donna, his drugs counsellor, saying he should ring her.

We had had a difficult time after the Easter weekend: Will had been at our house most days, which was fine, although every time he came over we all  did a pincer movement, locking doors upstairs, putting valuables in the safe again, making sure there were no temptations around for him. Exhausting but necessary. But later that week, we realised that a couple of things had gone missing from the house. Jack had lost a new (expensive) sweatshirt, and Guy’s mobile phone couldn’t be found. On the following Wednesday, Guy and I had been out and returned to find Will in his favourite position, sitting at the piano in the front room.

‘Oh, hi’ I said, trying to sound friendly, but struggling. ‘How are you?’

‘I didn’t ring cos I’ve lost my phone’ he said.

I’ve lost count of the number of phones he’s had and lost. This one I know he has had only briefly, a couple of months maybe.

‘Yeah, I lost it on a bus, it fell out of these trousers. That was how I lost my wallet too.’

‘So, what does that tell you about putting things in those pockets then?’ I said, trying to keep calm, and not sound like Joyce Grenfell talking to a four year-old.

‘Yeah, I know, I’m a retard’.

Oh, crumbs I wasn’t expecting that, so what do I say to that except ‘you’re not’, which I managed to say, of course.

‘William, you know that Guy has lost his phone?’ I said nervously. Will was still sitting on the piano stool in his coat. I was talking to him from the hallway.

‘I’ve got it here, that’s why I came over. I went to see Donna and she said to come home and give it back and things would be fine.’

Oh, right.

‘Well, good that you brought it back, that’s good I’m pleased’.

Guy wasn’t and asked him to leave.

‘Even when you’re not living here, you’re stealing from us.’  

He said quite a lot more too, and began going red from anger.

I found it impossible not to go after William. We sat in the car and talked. When I asked him about Jack’s sweatshirt, he said he didn’t take it. He went on to say that he was just a failure and didn’t know why he taken the phone, he’d been back to the house since he took it and didn’t return it then and couldn’t understand why.

At times like these I always talk about drugs and how he’s got to quit. The woman from MA told me yesterday that they talk very little about drugs, but a lot about recovery, which has given me a lot to think about.

Now, he’s been kicked out of another college and is ill. Possibly the ‘rock bottom’ everyone talks about. I don’t know. I do know that I’m very tired of this roller-coaster and just wish William could take the help that is there for him, and turn his life around. But, of course, it’s not that easy for him, as he always tells me.

I went after him and we sat in the car, he began saying that everyone hates him and rightly so, and cannabis was his painkiller, the thing that did it for him. Not alcohol, like a lot of people, but cannabis. When I asked him what he needed to make things better he said that someone older to take him under their wing would be good. Like a mentor? I said, trying to think of someone, but coming up with no-one. Why couldn’t I think of anyone. Damn.

I’m trying not to build hope that he may now get better. Addiction is so confusing. We saw one another again this morning; I took him to a local café for breakfast; I was having to make a conscious effort not to hold my breath out of nervousness.  What’s the matter with me? Christ, get a grip this is my own son. I could feel the headache that I have almost permanently at the moment, begin its familiar beat. I told him that one of my friends had read the last diary entry and rang last night to advise me not to make any further mention of crystals again, in case people think I’m a ‘crackpot’, as she put it. It’s got me thinking about ‘self-censorship’ as she called it. I asked William what he thought, and he grinned, saying that most of the mothers that he’d ever known round here were crackpots. He went on to say that when he’d been lying in his room feeling awful, he’d been thinking about how much I’d taught him over the years about how to look after himself.

‘Do you think the mind can make you ill, would you say? Is it just a state of mind?’ he asked, rubbing his forehead.

We talked, and I wished I could be more relaxed and enjoy our times together more. I want to repair the damage, but don’t dare to hope that it can be done. It really is a matter of trying to appreciate the moments of peace that we have together. When we’d finished eating, William said he was still feeling ill and asked if we could go and buy some ‘rescue remedy’. It was my turn to grin then. We went to the chemist, and I bought him Day Nurse and vitamins instead, which I knew would help him more. I drove him back to his house and he seemed better. He’d said he’d needed to get back in touch with us, to go home, and when we’re wobbling perhaps that’s what all of us need – we all need a concept of ‘home’, wherever or whatever that might be.

© Debra Bell 2007