Towards the end of 2014, I wrote a very personal blog post, more personal in regards to family than was my usual habit. It was written when I was in distress, following events with No.2 son that had spiraled out of control - that were never in MY control in any case. You can read that post HERE, for context.
Six and a half years later, almost five years since I last heard his voice (on his birthday in 2015, the last time he voluntarily made contact, calling early that morning before I'd had a chance to make contact to wish him happy birthday), I discovered that he's removed the FB account he made when he decided to change his name, and the messenger function no longer works as I found when I tried to send him a message this morning, although, the profile still shows up with that name in my messenger file.
Self indulgent? Perhaps. But the pain of my child removing themself from my life continues to eat away at me. I struggle when Dragon Dad makes big noises about how much he misses my stepson, who has been overseas for the last couple of years. Physically, he is far away, but they talk every day. No.1 son is interstate, and isn't hugely communicative, and that is also difficult to cope with, but he IS there. But where No.2 might be is, instead, a huge hole of unknowing... So, in the hopes that he might read this, I'm writing it here, because he followed this blog, and may find it.
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Dear, L - yes, the name I gave you, and not the one you say you've change it to...because I don't know you as that person...
I see you've deleted that profile from FB now.
You're often in my dreams. You were there again last night. I carry you with me in some weird metaphysical way that's hard to explain. I guess there's something about having physically carried a child that lingers, maybe.
I guess the biggest thing for me is always wondering how you are, if you're alright. If you found a way forward that's taken you to a place where you're doing something fulfilling that suits you, your abilities, and makes you happy. And the very hardest thing is just not knowing. And also knowing that if I had that time over when I came to Adelaide that last time I saw you that I don't know if I'd have done anything differently, because really, I don't think I had any other options - you didn't give me any, or Remi and her parents. I had a limited time there, constrained as always, by funds, or lack of. All I could hope was that you'd make a different decision than the one you made.
I'm sorry for the ways I failed you - clearly I did, or you'd not have cut me off so consummately. I suspect all parents fail their children in any number of ways. I know mine did, in so very many ways. I have a letter I found in Nanna's things after she died that she'd written to me but never sent, at a time when I'd put huge walls up to protect myself. It was around the time before your father left us, when I was struggling to deal with a great many things - my RA diagnosis, Steve's growing separation from us which was partly because he couldn't deal with the diagnosis, fear of what the diagnosis would mean long term coupled with the constant pain and fatigue, and the emotional pain of having remembered the abuse meted out to me by my father which Mum was busily denying happened, along with your father and other family members. I had no idea, really, of how my pulling away from her affected her - I couldn't have. I was too busy protecting myself and trying to cope on my own with you and Jo, given S was so increasingly absent, even though he was still living with us. There is a lot more I could say about that, and things I understand better about myself and why I made certain decisions in the time beyond that, including getting swept up in the relationship with K, which had such profound effects for all of us, and probably mostly for you. But this is not the time or place for that.
What I do know is that it impaired my ability to make better parenting decisions at times, for both you and Jo. And I'm deeply sorry for that. Should you read this at some point, and decide to reconnect with me, know that you can ask me anything, and I will do my best to answer with the truth. And in the spirit of that, yes I'm writing to you the day after Mother's Day, because one of the very big holes in my experience of Mother's Day these days, along with my mother's absence which is such a great gaping hole in my life, is the absence of you as well.
The alternate profile you made on FB is no longer there, and I discovered just now that the Messenger function for it no longer works. My mobile number is the same, as is my gmail. You may well be keeping an eye on this blog still, for all I know, and if so will have noticed I've not blogged for some time, for many different reasons. I planned to blog my way through last year and the lockdowns but in the end, I couldn't get myself into the right headspace. But I write this letter here to you know, knowing that you know this blog still exists.
You may also have found my art page on FB by now, and will see that somehow, I've become both a watercolourist and botanical artist...and some pet portraits along the way. So there are all sorts of easy ways that you could use to make contact, any of which would be so very welcomed by me and C, and your brother - who is married, by the way, which you'd know if you've been keeping an eye on my wall at all.
I have looked for you, but honestly, I don't know the ins and outs of how to do that properly. I've stopped short of contacting your father, and if he has contact with you again, he's certainly not bothered to let me know. The last time I had contact with him was when our mutual friend from the Con died and I touched base to let him know. He was a no show at her funeral. G - who's also in Melbourne these days - often asks after you, as do T and H. J wanted to invite you when S insisted he have a big bash for his 30th, but we had no means of doing that. Likewise for his wedding in 2019. A asks if I've heard from you. NONE of this is in any way intended as any kind of emotional blackmail via guilt, by the way. Just the facts of what happens when a loved member of a family makes a decision to disappear. It's an ongoing pain that is just always there.
Anyway, enough. Just know that I love you. You're my child. Nothing changes that, ever. xxx
