Not done

I feel like I’m in a dream.

Cassie left last night, no clothes, nothing but her license (which is how you are able to buy clean needles here), and $60 that I gave her from her tax return.

She didn’t say goodbye. On her dresser, under a small pile of papers, was a suicide note, telling me that this is not my fault. I’ve seen that note before, tucked into one of her sock drawers, so I didn’t know what to do. So I did what any mother would do. I cried and cried and cried.

She finally texted back last night that her phone wouldn’t hold a charge. That was the last I heard from her.

This morning, I drove around our neighborhoods looking for her and didn’t find her. I was convinced she had taken her life.

Matt and I had a long talk about him not accepting her efforts, about stealing not being something a “bad” person does, but a bad thing that a desperate person does. How she is different and always has been. And how she seeks to be the same as everyone else.

She could never say “I”m sorry” genuinely, even as the smallest child. I would model it for her, tell her why she should say it (because you hurt someone and you won’t do it again, not because you got caught and punished).  We’d practice over and over but it always came out as an annoyance with the person she had harmed rather than an honest act of apology.

How she nobody wants to be alone and sad and an addict. How she wants to be friends with his girlfriend. How she always wanted a sister. How there is no rule book, nobody can say how to manage this. But we do our best.

I got home from a failed attempt at the unemployment office (no parking–10 minutes is not nearly long enough to find a space anywhere) and ranted at Vince for his (albeit occasional) poor choice of words with her. Things she doesn’t forget, like “There are bad people in this world and maybe you’re just one of them.”
He immediately went out to Paterson to look for her.

About an hour later, while Matt and I were talking, Vince called me. He found her–safe. She agreed to a 6 month program.
I cannot begin to count my blessings. There are so many parents who get a different phone call–or greet police officers at their door, knowing disaster is about to be conveyed (I kept looking for patrol car lights on the ceiling of my bedroom last night).

Thank you, Higher Power, stars in heaven, God, Mom. Whoever you are, we not done. No we are not done.