Monday night involved being up until the wee hours of the morning arguing with hospital staff that they should admit one of my teens.
In the end despite my pleas they didn’t admit him so we sat in the ER parking lot for 20 minutes or so while I tried to come up with a plan B.
At one point I was trying to assess whether it was safe for him to go home and he looked at me and said, quite lucidly:
“My house is fine right now. It’s the shit that’s going on inside my head that’s scaring me.”
I spent the rest of the night checking in periodically to make sure he was ok. Sleeping fitfully, always half awake, listening for the sound of my phone.
It was tough night that came to a somewhat positive resolution yesterday morning (or closer to, anyway) but I can’t seem to shake the tight ball of anxiety that’s been lodged deep in my gut ever since he got into my car, leaned against the backseat and quietly started crying, too exhausted to try and hide the tears.
I’m so grateful that we were able to track him down, glad that he trusts us so much, that we’ve known him so long.
I’m grateful too that even if we couldn’t make him safe in the hospital we were able to give him some sense of being taken care of, that SOMEONE was looking out for him.
That’s no small thing.
My inner clock is fucked and so tonight I find myself repeating the hours of the night before, still awake and alert even as the moon rises and makes the night almost as bright as day.