![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraSo, after thinking about it all night (night before last), I decided Responsible Parenting called for me to contact the ESF School to apprise them of the RTT situation. Maybe he would be fine about meeting his academic obligations; maybe he wouldn't.
I called them at 9 yesterday morning.
As it turns out, he skipped out on his first final because he was too distraught so it’s a good thing I had called.
They were sympathetic but said there was nothing they could do until he contacted them himself.
So then I had to camp out on the phone for four hours, calling and texting every five minutes till I finally roused RTT.
"What do you want?" he snarled when he finally deigned to pick up the phone.
"Robin, if you had a friend who was going through what you're going through, what would you advise them to do?"
"I don't know. What would I advise them to do?"
I took a deep breath. "Talk to someone, Robin. This is a big thing, a tragic thing. But you can't sabotage yourself because of it."
"Will you stop harassing me? I'm going to talk to someone."
"When, Robin? You need to do it right now."
"I'm on my fucking way. Will you just fucking leave me alone?"
Some people might take their best friend's suicide – which we have assume was brought on, at least in part, by the perception that the world is a cold and heartless place where ignorant armies clash by night – as a kind of reminder that we should all be sweeter, gentler, nicer to one another.
Not Robin.
I got off the phone and I was literally shaking.
I got home and my legs are now so broken out from the Autoimmune Disease that I look like an illustration in a medical textbook, one of those unfortunates with a big black rectangle across my eyes.
Robin literally makes me sick.
Anyway, I am tired of tragedy. I think it's too bad that Justin had such poor judgment that he chose a permanent solution to what, in fact, given his age had to be a temporary anguish, but I'm done feeling sorry for him.
###
In Monterey, Robin's best friend was a kid named Wells whom I wrote about extensively in these very pages. I'm too lazy to hunt those entries down and link to them, though.
Wells and Justin always reminded me of one another. During one particularly bad interval in Wells' life, I invited him to come live with us. He did – sort of. He began coming by the house at 3 A.M. and either sleeping in Robin's room if the front door was unlocked or crashing in the RV in the driveway. Consequently, the RV developed a permanent stink of sour beer, stale weed and old vomit.
One day after some particularly egregious episode in the ongoing drama of Wells' life – which also included a custodial grandmother and a crack 'ho mother, now that I think about it – I decided to take Wells out to breakfast and lecture him.
I bought him blueberry waffles at the Old Monterey Café, a really great breakfast place, by the way, for any of you planning a trip to Steinbeck-ville.
"Wells, you're too smart to be doing this kind of stuff. You know that, right? I mean, you're a very intelligent kid. The wrong decisions you're making now are going to impact you for the rest of your life. When you're 40" – I figured "40" was the oldest possible age a 14 year old could relate to. Say "50" and you might as well be talking about a corpse, right?
Wells smiled at me. "Respectfully, I have to disagree. I mean, I'm doing what I'm doing now because I have to do it. I have no other options. What you don't know is that I was a perfectly normal kid until my father died. I played baseball." He smiled ruefully. "I was good at it. I lived in a suburban house, I was good at school. And then my father died and my mother grabbed me because she thought she could get cash out of it. And here I am."
He wolfed another mouthful of blueberry waffle. "These are delicious, by the way. Thanks! Sure you don't want a bite? Anyway. When I'm 18, I inherit my money and I'll be fine. I'll be fine. This is a waiting game. You don't have to save me. If you don't mind my saying so –I mean this with all respect, but I'm not blind – you've got to focus on saving yourself."
I was really blown away by this conversation. I mean, the fact that a 14 year old kid was mature enough to see a timeline. That a 14 year old kid whose life was as hard as Wells' life could see a timeline.
RTT is still in occasional touch with Wells, and Wells' prediction more or less came true – he is fine today, though his heavy dope and cigarette smoking brought on premature COPD so he's got medical issues.
Justin couldn't see the timeline, and that's what killed him.
###
RTT went and talked to the Wellness and Support administrator. The Wellness and Support administrator called me back. Emails will be sent to RTT's professors and advisors updating them about the situation. It will be up to RTT to meet with them individually, reschedule his finals. Some professors may elect to forgo the finals altogether, just give him the grade he's earned up till now. He has done very, very well academically this semester so the school is pulling for him.
He really should see a psychological counselor too, of course. But that's his decision. I won't weigh in there. My parental responsibility merely extended to making sure his future didn't crash and burn. What goes on inside his head is his business.
What's going on in my head is that I'm tired of all this shit.
Obviously, it's not about me – but it is about me inside my own head, and if it literally makes me ill to have anything to do with Robin, then I shouldn't have anything to do with Robin. I mean, of course I'll send Christmas presents. The occasional Kitten or Puppy Postcard – this being a convention I made up to deal with my own difficult mother.
But I only really have about 20 good years left. And I'll be goddamned if I'm going to spend them being as miserable as I was this past decade. Fuck that shit.
It's quite clear Robin hates me. And Robin' hatred has the power to physically poison me. Ergo, I need to avoid contact with Robin.
I get along very well with Max, so I'm not an utter failure as a parent.
And I'm thrilled that I managed to stop myself from quoting Dover Beach in its entirety recently in what was intended to be a lighthearted email to Max's girlfriend, the mother of my unborn grandchildren. That's progress, right?
I called them at 9 yesterday morning.
As it turns out, he skipped out on his first final because he was too distraught so it’s a good thing I had called.
They were sympathetic but said there was nothing they could do until he contacted them himself.
So then I had to camp out on the phone for four hours, calling and texting every five minutes till I finally roused RTT.
"What do you want?" he snarled when he finally deigned to pick up the phone.
"Robin, if you had a friend who was going through what you're going through, what would you advise them to do?"
"I don't know. What would I advise them to do?"
I took a deep breath. "Talk to someone, Robin. This is a big thing, a tragic thing. But you can't sabotage yourself because of it."
"Will you stop harassing me? I'm going to talk to someone."
"When, Robin? You need to do it right now."
"I'm on my fucking way. Will you just fucking leave me alone?"
Some people might take their best friend's suicide – which we have assume was brought on, at least in part, by the perception that the world is a cold and heartless place where ignorant armies clash by night – as a kind of reminder that we should all be sweeter, gentler, nicer to one another.
Not Robin.
I got off the phone and I was literally shaking.
I got home and my legs are now so broken out from the Autoimmune Disease that I look like an illustration in a medical textbook, one of those unfortunates with a big black rectangle across my eyes.
Robin literally makes me sick.
Anyway, I am tired of tragedy. I think it's too bad that Justin had such poor judgment that he chose a permanent solution to what, in fact, given his age had to be a temporary anguish, but I'm done feeling sorry for him.
In Monterey, Robin's best friend was a kid named Wells whom I wrote about extensively in these very pages. I'm too lazy to hunt those entries down and link to them, though.
Wells and Justin always reminded me of one another. During one particularly bad interval in Wells' life, I invited him to come live with us. He did – sort of. He began coming by the house at 3 A.M. and either sleeping in Robin's room if the front door was unlocked or crashing in the RV in the driveway. Consequently, the RV developed a permanent stink of sour beer, stale weed and old vomit.
One day after some particularly egregious episode in the ongoing drama of Wells' life – which also included a custodial grandmother and a crack 'ho mother, now that I think about it – I decided to take Wells out to breakfast and lecture him.
I bought him blueberry waffles at the Old Monterey Café, a really great breakfast place, by the way, for any of you planning a trip to Steinbeck-ville.
"Wells, you're too smart to be doing this kind of stuff. You know that, right? I mean, you're a very intelligent kid. The wrong decisions you're making now are going to impact you for the rest of your life. When you're 40" – I figured "40" was the oldest possible age a 14 year old could relate to. Say "50" and you might as well be talking about a corpse, right?
Wells smiled at me. "Respectfully, I have to disagree. I mean, I'm doing what I'm doing now because I have to do it. I have no other options. What you don't know is that I was a perfectly normal kid until my father died. I played baseball." He smiled ruefully. "I was good at it. I lived in a suburban house, I was good at school. And then my father died and my mother grabbed me because she thought she could get cash out of it. And here I am."
He wolfed another mouthful of blueberry waffle. "These are delicious, by the way. Thanks! Sure you don't want a bite? Anyway. When I'm 18, I inherit my money and I'll be fine. I'll be fine. This is a waiting game. You don't have to save me. If you don't mind my saying so –I mean this with all respect, but I'm not blind – you've got to focus on saving yourself."
I was really blown away by this conversation. I mean, the fact that a 14 year old kid was mature enough to see a timeline. That a 14 year old kid whose life was as hard as Wells' life could see a timeline.
RTT is still in occasional touch with Wells, and Wells' prediction more or less came true – he is fine today, though his heavy dope and cigarette smoking brought on premature COPD so he's got medical issues.
Justin couldn't see the timeline, and that's what killed him.
RTT went and talked to the Wellness and Support administrator. The Wellness and Support administrator called me back. Emails will be sent to RTT's professors and advisors updating them about the situation. It will be up to RTT to meet with them individually, reschedule his finals. Some professors may elect to forgo the finals altogether, just give him the grade he's earned up till now. He has done very, very well academically this semester so the school is pulling for him.
He really should see a psychological counselor too, of course. But that's his decision. I won't weigh in there. My parental responsibility merely extended to making sure his future didn't crash and burn. What goes on inside his head is his business.
What's going on in my head is that I'm tired of all this shit.
Obviously, it's not about me – but it is about me inside my own head, and if it literally makes me ill to have anything to do with Robin, then I shouldn't have anything to do with Robin. I mean, of course I'll send Christmas presents. The occasional Kitten or Puppy Postcard – this being a convention I made up to deal with my own difficult mother.
But I only really have about 20 good years left. And I'll be goddamned if I'm going to spend them being as miserable as I was this past decade. Fuck that shit.
It's quite clear Robin hates me. And Robin' hatred has the power to physically poison me. Ergo, I need to avoid contact with Robin.
I get along very well with Max, so I'm not an utter failure as a parent.
And I'm thrilled that I managed to stop myself from quoting Dover Beach in its entirety recently in what was intended to be a lighthearted email to Max's girlfriend, the mother of my unborn grandchildren. That's progress, right?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2012-12-08 02:07 pm (UTC)