The wait was over.

My husband read what I planned on posting. He agreed that it should be sent, but minus to sentences that might have fueled the flames beyond control. So I posted my tirade to my son, and all of his 232 friends. Even edited, the tone and the hurt still came across pretty harsh. That was Wednesday evening.

I got a tip from a friend of his that gave me an idea where his vehicle was last seen. So Thursday morning on my way to work, I drove to where his car might be. I found it parked in a small apartment complex. It was locked, but still held all his worldly possessions. I knocked on a few doors, but came up empty. Writing down the address where the car was found, I went to work, but without knowing where he was, I was incapable of focusing, and had to leave after less than 4 hours. I drove him mentally frayed and physically exhausted. My depression was beyond control at this time, and the Fibromyalgia pain fed off my stress like a newborn to a mother's teet. My world was caving in.

Following another sleepless night, I called out of work, hoping to have enough motivation to find an answer. Any answer. It was now the Friday before the Labor Day Weekend holiday. Hoping to just find out somehow, if my son was at least alive and OK, I got a call from my husband.
Late Monday night, money had been withdrawn from our bank account. Recent security breaches at the local financial institutions resulted in my husband canceling our debit cards and filing a fraud alert. After a trip to the bank to take out cash and turn in my card so a replacement could be generated, a sad realization swept over me. Only 2 people on this planet, besides myself, know the PIN for that card. My husband, and my son.
The night my son went missing, so did $400 from our account. I did not want to believe that he was capable of hurting us further, but the facts were becoming more irrefutable at every passing moment. He had stolen from us.

I know he'll never understand this, but the money was truly the least of his infractions. Leaving his house keys, phone and a note on the counter was the greater transgression. Thinking that your only child may have left town, I can handle. He's an adult, and has the right to choose his own destiny. However, when you see textbook examples of clinical depression prior to going MIA, followed by that note; hope sinks like a lead balloon.

There are no words to describe the pain a mother feels when her child is hurting, and won't accept help. Like a roller-coaster, my mind swung violently between fear, anger, doubt and dread. The most disturbing is the sense of complete and utter helplessness. He won't even consider taking anti-depressants. Getting into a talk-therapy situation would be the best option. The question remains, as to how to convince someone who is in the depths of depression, to seek help?

But back to the rest of the story.

I spent the majority of my Friday attempting to locate the title to his vehicle. Having been co-signed by my husband and my son, meant both were liable for payments. We had requested that the title be sent from the bank to our local DMV so my husband's name could be removed. Although they notified us 2 weeks ago that it had indeed been mailed, no information as to which DMV site it had been sent. So Friday was title day. Best case scenario meant my son would turn up, the title could be transferred to his name solely, and he would then be responsible for payments. Worst case would be to remove his name, and put out a stolen vehicle report with the police. While in the process of going from DMV to DMV to find where the title to of my son's car had been sent, and swung by the apartments where I found his car the day before.

This time, the doors were open, and his guitar and duffel were missing. Despite the high heat and humidity, I opened the doors to his car, rolled down the windows, and sat in the driver's seat, hoping to draw him out of whichever apartment he was staying. It worked.

I talked to my husband to decide how to handle the situation if he did come out. We decided upon two options to offer dependent upon his intentions and rationale for his actions.

to be continued . . .