Last Monday was met with a literal "Thank God!" moment as I heard the recording, "You have a collect call from (and I heard my son say, "Clint") . . . I could finally exhale and know that he was alive and safe. For the parent of an addict, a child being in jail is far better than the alternatives--overdosing, being shot while breaking in to someone's home, committing suicide. I was so thankful that he turned himself in. This was (another) attempt at wanting to change things in his life. I must admit that I was a bit surprised because his M.O. had been running from his problems. After two weeks of declining contact (that's what addicts do--withdraw), we didn't know where he was staying, only had the clothes on his back, and was to the point of using needles to get high. We were worried sick! Knowing he was in jail was a relief. We slept a little better.
What I hadn't experienced were the incessant telephone calls (at $9.99 per call). Who can afford that?! Thanks to a friend who's been though this, I learned how to set this up on a prepaid basis and save lots of money. The problem was, he called a lot (4 times in one day). This had to be better managed. He also complained about the food in jail and how gross it was. He asked for money to be added to his account so he could buy a pair of socks, a bowl, a cup and some snacks. He had already borrowed a cup-o-noodles from another inmate and "had" to pay him back. There was no question that I'd put the money in his account--part of his problem.
Next came the incessant "Get me out of here" pleas and begging. "I'm scared," he said. He apologized repeatedly and asked for us to help him have one more shot. He would pay us back, get a job, etc. if we'd just bail him out. The problem is, who has $2,500?! We sure don't. Furthermore, we knew he needed to stay in jail. We wanted to be strong enough to stop the enabling. If we bailed him out, what did that say to him? You get in trouble and we'll fix it? That was our habit in the past, but it's time to stop that. We knew better this time. However, I began to dread his calls.
The Lord continued to bless us with prayers from our church family and friends. Aunt Amy called me, Darlene hugged me, and lots of folks sent messages on Facebook. Sandra Sullivan reached out to me to go have lunch--she's a true friend. My best friend, Dean is available to go shopping or simply listen to me talk at all hours of the day. Those people have no idea how much it meant to know they were praying for us. I always thought the judgment from everyone once the story was printed in the newspaper would be suffocating. I'll admit it wasn't a welcome occurrence, but by that point, I was so happy he wasn't on the streets anymore that it became second to what really mattered--my son was safe and on his way to being clean again.
On Wednesday, when Clint went to court to obtain counsel (court-appointed), God showed up again by pairing him with Jennifer Hammonds. She knows Clint because her son and daughter went to school with him. I coached her daughter in cheerleading when she was in middle school, and her son played on the basketball team with Clint. She knows Clint was raised right, and he's a good person (when he's clean). I know she will do everything she can to help him. Thank you, Lord!
On Friday, I received a text letting me know that someone was praying for me and that her husband is a deputy at the jail and was keeping an eye on Clint. That's God, again. I didn't even know who is was at first. It turned out to be a neighbor of a friend who I'd attended a bible study with. She told me that Clint was being respectful to the officers (Yes, Sir and No, Ma'am--that's the son raised). Thanks again, Lord!
We got to go see him on Saturday. I was so out of my comfort zone!!! We rode the elevator to the 3rd floor at which point we were told to exit to the right. When the elevator closed behind us, I realized that I was in jail. We were in a 6X6 (a little bit larger than the elevator), white cell. We could see glass in front of us with some kind of wire mesh inside of it. To the right, I could see through a small glass in a door--that was locked. There were metal bars in the ceiling above. There was no button to press to get the elevator to come back to our floor. The signed on the elevator showed that we should take the stairs in case of a fire, but there were not stairs! I was trapped like a rat. I'm extremely claustrophobic, and this was not okay. I checked my pulse. The other visitor who got off on our floor was a former student of mine (God again) who knew the procedures and began telling me what to expect. This helped me tremendously (I'm such a control freak). After what seems like an eternity, I could see Clint through the tiny glass in the door. He was in an orange jumpsuit (I expected that). He mouthed "I love you" and held up his three fingers to make the sign for it as well. I did and said the same back to him. I mouthed to him to ask if he was okay, and he said, "no." I said, "me neither." I saw him fighting back tears. Once he came into the cell across from us, we could barely see him or hear him. The shock of seeing him like that was horrific. His hair was too long, his face was sunken in, and I could see the sores on his arms that he had told be about. (He told me that it felt like something was crawling on him when he was using drugs, and he scratched big sores on his arms--then picked them repeatedly). When he first got to jail, he was placed in a cell by himself to treat them, but they looked awful. He started with the, "Get me out of here" begging and pleading. He put us through a guilt trip with phrases like, "Because I'm your son." Before we left (visits are limited to 20 minutes) he made sure we knew he needed to pay back another inmate he had gotten food from, and that we needed to put money on that guy's account before we left the jail. Are you kidding me?! Talk about a sense of entitlement. At that news, I lost it and clearly let him know that this would be the very last time such a thing would happen. He is just gonna have to learn and appreciate the three meals he's given, gross or not. Furthermore, he would get a limited number of calls home each week, and when the money ran out, he'd have to wait until we could afford to load more money in the account. The biggest guilt trip of all was him letting us know that his attorney didn't want him to come to jail in orange because that would make the judge mad and it would hurt him as far as sentencing. Drug addicts tell lies, and we suspected this was another one. But, if not, how is that our fault?! But, as we left (I was never so glad to see an elevator open in my life!!!) Allan began feeling guilty and began discussing the possibility of bailing him out. I was not onboard at all.
After leaving from the visit, I felt completely drained in every way. I was rescued by Dean who took me shopping, and Allan protected our county (from the couch) by playing Call of Duty.
