A simple declarative sentence

"I fucked up."

A fine sentence. The simple declarative. The clear subject. The active verb. So much better than "It got fucked up" or "I was fucked up." And when you're a mom of a teenaged son who has had a wee bit of trouble with that whole personal-responsibility/ choices-have-consequences thing, this simple three-word sentence, articulated by said son, is a thing of transcendent beauty. And unbelievable pain.

When Hugh was little, I used to worry I had some version of Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome. Munchausen by Proxy, for those of you who do not watch tv medical dramas, is a mental illness. Individuals with Munchhausen's deliberately make their children sick, to the point of injecting them with poisons and such like, so that they can garner attention and sympathy. Now, let me make it clear: I never ever did anything of the kind to Hugh, nor was I ever tempted in any way. I mean, dammit, unlike many of my friends, I didn't even resort to Children's Benedryl to make the kid sleep. But--I did, actually, enjoy it when Hugh was ill (which he rarely was, and never seriously.) Illness ratcheted Hugh down a few notches; when Hugh was sick, he became like other children. Easier. Gentler. More even-keeled. Less hyper. And  yes, more enjoyable.

So, this last week Hugh was home. He'd fucked up. And he knew it. And, wonder of wonders, he admitted it. It scared the shit out of him. And like when he was little and running a fever, he was lovely, with all the teenage aggression and hostility and don't-touch-me and what-do-you-care dammed up, forced into the holding tank by his desperate need for us and our unconditional love.

It was awful. To see him in such pain. To know how much "I-fucked-uppedness" hurts. To want to make it right, to make it go away, and yet to know you can't. This is his business. All you can do is watch. And love. And hope.