I don’t know the exact moment you began smoking dope.

Perhaps it was when I began waking in the middle of the night. Perhaps it was at high school when your grandmother was dying, or when I was traveling overseas for ten months, or maybe when your grandfather put the pressure on because of your poor grades. Perhaps it was because everyone you knew was smoking dope. The afternoon you were admitted I was at my friends home helping her prepare for Sabbath. A huge concrete like pain suddenly developed on my shoulders. After dinner I sat quietly miserable until a visitor entered who quickly noticed my suffering. He moved to place his hands on my shoulders. The reiki energy was extraordinary. An enormous light flooded through my body dissolving the pain. I had not rung you for several weeks because you did not like me ringing too often. I sat looking out the window of my rented house, rehearsing.

I’m ringing to ask you about a mobile.

Well I’m in St Vincent’s Mum.
What are you doing there?
I was admitted three weeks ago.
What was your diagnosis?
Well they think I’ve had a brief psychotic episode but I just think I wasn’t sleeping.
What have you been taking Adam?
Everything except heroin and cocaine. Why don’t you come and see me?

As I sat on the bus I thought: it’s been six long years since you allowed me to see you and it’s going to be in a psychiatric ward. I focused on gratitude for the bus, the driver, the psychiatrists, the hospital, and the opportunity to see you again.

I remember the question; why did you leave?

I’d said it was to save my life, yet during one restless night I wrote an angrier answer. Do you think I never cared? Do you think I abandoned you? No Michael. I had only abandoned myself. I left because I was dying. I left because I needed to find myself again. I left because I did not know how to live. I left because I was bleeding heavily every three weeks. I left because I loved you and when I love myself well, I love you better. I left because I kept going into the past. I could not live there any longer. I left to face my fears. I left to become who I was meant to be. I left because I was trapped in my mind. I left because I had decided when I was twenty-four years old that I would travel after I had had children, that I would learn to play an instrument, write books, learn bridge, make pottery. I left because I had made decisions about what I wanted from life at a young age. I left because I could not face any more pain. I left to regain my freedom.

I left because I was sad.

I left because I was lonely. I left because my entire family had been wiped out. I left because neither of my sons wanted to speak to me any more. I left because there were no more Mothers’ Days, birthdays, Christmases, anniversaries or celebrations. I left because I needed a holiday from mental abuse. I left because I could no longer tolerate the isolation from my children. I left because I was in hospital for a week with no visitors. I left because your grandparents did not want to tell me anything about you. I left because the door would not open when I knocked. I left because your grandfather was rude each time I questioned him. I left because your father was uncommunicative. I left because I had absolutely no idea how my fifteen and nineteen year old sons were. I left because your doctor auntie kept reassuring me you were fine on every occasion I asked. Indeed it seemed as if she was curious about why I would ask. You were depressed smoking cigarettes and later more. I never knew but a part of me that part which could not sleep at night knew.

I knew because you are my son. I knew because I am bound to you by deep ties of a primal, unconditional love without boundaries.

I left because I did not know whether you were alive or dead. I left because I cannot live in a world without kindness. I left to find a new world family. I left because I had nowhere else to go. I left because I could not forgive myself. I left because I thought it was all my fault. I left because I could not hold it all together. I left to grow blood cells around the world’s greatest mountains. I left to face my fears. I left because I could.

I am running late.

Rush into taxi. Run into the nearby cafe. Can I buy an avocado please? I’m having breakfast with my son.

I remember the many shifts I have worked in psychiatric wards. Remember working here. Remember the disheveled young adults.

During your birth Mozart played. After your birth a nirvana driven bliss exploded in my heart, spiraled like autumn leaves, burst like flowers flowing into an enlightened magical patchwork.

Behind the wooden windows I dreamily awaited your baby cry. Now a pain in my neck curls around me every single morning. I walk beside the tall plane trees lining the expensive suburb where my community independent living unit sits. I pat you on my shoulder, bring up your wind, cuddle my baby boy child, and throw out your pain until the pain in my neck disappears.

I tried not to blame.

But I did blame.
I tried not to whinge but I did whinge.
I cried.
I felt angry.

Why my son?
Why Michael?

Words don’t stop feelings.
And a mothers’ pain is the worst because it never leaves.

You are older now

Your brother seldom speaks
You will not

There are others
Women like me
Whose children
Have been used as weapons.