I know I’m not even your real dad, but you live in my house. And I’m sorry that you think it’s so patently unfair that I think a 16-year-old kid should not be blowing every dime he gets on pot, because I think most adults with a grain of common sense would be thinking the same thing. I know your bio dad thinks your MJ addiction is a swell thing. It would be particularly swell if your bio dad took you in and bankrolled your pot “needs.” Alas, just between you and me your bio dad is kind of a dick, seeing as he beat the hell out of your mom a couple times right in front of you–you are too young to remember this it appears–and has pretty much totally ignored most of the last 10 years of your existence, so even if he would take you in, which he won’t, I wouldn’t want you to go. So you are stuck with me. And my rules.
But son, much as I despise the fact you are bringing illegal substances into my house, I think what I despise more is what’s happened to you as a person. I remember a kid whose teachers tipped him to go to Ivy League schools and who impressed administrators with his hard work. Well, that was pre-pot, son. Now your teachers are telling us if you don’t get your act together you’re not graduating…from high school. You were doing impressive things in music and art. Now you sit in your room all day and watch the same YouTube videos over and over again. I remember a kid who liked doing stuff with his mom and his sister and me. Now you can barely be near any of us without picking fights over things. I know you’ve hit your sister during arguments. Felt like calling the cops over it but your good old mom wouldn’t let me. Like father, like son.
God knows I have tried to help you. We’ve taken you to therapy, to school counselors, to psychologists. And for all of them, you’ve got the same answer: you want more drugs. But not even theraputic drugs, you’ve asked for ridiculous stuff like oxycodone and morphine, as if any doctor who didn’t get their medical degree from the internet would prescribe those to a teenager. You say you’re “depressed”. Well I suppose if I had nothing staring me in the face but years of minimum wage jobs I’d be depressed too. We, the counselor, and the psych have all tried to get you help for your “depression”, but then you just end up lying to avoid help. Your first counselor told us in three sessions you never once mentioned the depression you tell us about regularly…or the drugs for that matter.
Son, the most frustrating thing is I have never seen a kid with as much potential as you. You’ve got two adults in your life who love you and are always there to provide for you when you need them. You’ve got loads of friends, a loving girlfriend, you’re immensely talented in music, you are incredibly smart, and for most of your life you have been very streetwise. But the pot is making you make decisions which are just fucking dumb. The latest stupid thing was when you managed to wangle 50 bucks from your grandmother (who has been told not to give you money for this very reason) and spent it on a hydroponics kit that looked like it was made by Hasbro. Then you, who usually watch tracking notices like most people watch TV, contrived to go straight from school to a friend’s house the day it showed up on our doorstep. Obviously when we got home to a box that had “HYDROPONICS KIT” in huge letters on it we were not pleased. You, showing the pleasant attitude you have been known for lately, screamed at us that we must have opened a box that was, oh my stars, not addressed to us, and somehow much have misunderstood, because obviously you were planning to grow tomatoes this winter, and you went into a bit of a sulk. As in, disappeared for 48 hours. We were ready to call the fucking cops on you. I would have hoped you weren’t riding dirty (well, walking…we are not crazy enough to let you anywhere near a motor vehicle until you get any common sense).
So son, you are pretty much on your last chance with us. Trouble is, our options are kind of limited. We’ve already taken away pretty much everything of yours you enjoy, including your computer and all your data plans. You’ve already run away once so we’re kind of walking a fine line with more punishment. We can’t ship you to your abusive bio dad because he doesn’t want you. All I foresee for you, frankly, is that you do something dumb enough to get caught. You already once thought a good hiding place for your stash would be under the bushes in our front yard where we could actually see it from the driveway. I’ve told you once, I’ve told you again…you can sit in juvie for a while. It’s going to cost me enough to bail you out, I want you to suffer a little too, because I’ve had it.
A couple months ago, in a bit of lucidity, you said the worst thing in your life was losing your bio dad. Well let me tell you, you are on the verge of losing your second dad. My mental health is gone, in large part to having to deal with you and the constant stress and fighting in my home. I do not want the cops finding illegal stuff in my home and finding myself in legal trouble because of you. My own psychologist and therapist have recommended a minimum of three months disability because of work stress. But I’m thinking of a different kind of “family leave”, son. I’m sorry that’s the way it’s going to be, but you never listened to anything I had to say anyway.
