I wish I could just give myself permission to have a nervous breakdown. Some sort of self-preservation instinct keeps me holding on. Make no mistake, I'm white-knuckling it at times and then the feeling subsides to a calm terror just under the surface.

Things had been going well for a few weeks. I had managed to adopt an out of sight out of mind mentality when it comes to my son. Instead of anxiously waiting to hear from him about where he was or when he was coming home I figured that if something went really wrong I'd hear from the police. My husband and I were getting along surprisingly well and managed to keep each other entertained and distracted with other topics of conversation.

Yesterday was a red letter day. My son was sick so I was home with him all day. We talked on the way to the doctor, while waiting in the exam room, at breakfast afterwards and even a little in the afternoon. We talked about his long term goals. We had an open discussion about his relationship with his girlfriend. He admitted that he's even thought it was strange for him to be so certain at his age that this is THE one. It was awesome.

It was a lie.

He's not the sweet little boy he used to be. He claims to have these goals and to have his future figured out. He fooled me into thinking he was going to be OK, but then I catch him with weed and a pipe last night. As I'm standing in his doorway, tears streaming down my face asking him what makes him think it's OK to continue to do stuff that he knows we so strongly disapprove of and to do them right under our noses. He tells me that I'm the one that chooses to get upset over something that, in his words, is "not a big deal". I'm emotionally gutted over that fact that his continued fascination with this lifestyle will ruin his chances to graduate (since he's on the verge of failing already), will cause him to get arrested again or will destroy his chances of ever getting a decent job (since he's pretty much screwed himself out of ever going to college). I am terrified for my child's future and he could care less.

Maybe it is my fault. I had a suspicion that he was up to something last night so I decided to pop in and check on him. His door was locked so I was pretty sure he was hiding something, but a quick check around his room turned up nothing. I went back to bed and tried desperately to let it go, to be one of those parents that turns a blind eye to stuff like this. I couldn't do it. I used the old butter knife trick (assuming he would have locked his door again) and caught him with the contraband. Of course I was overreacting  He wasn't smoking anything; he was just cleaning residue from his pipe.

I want to believe that in a few years I will be remembering this as just the typical difficulties of raising a teenager. I want more than anything for him to be right. I want everything to turn out OK. I want him out of my house just as much as I want him there so I know he's safe. I want a break from my own brain and heart and life. I want a nervous breakdown. I want the men in the white coats to take me away.