Both my parents murmur a greeting. My mom sits with her hands neatly folded in her lap, while my dad sits as if he’s talking to one of his producers. He’s probably treating this like a business meeting.
“One of the avenues we like to explore during therapy is home life.”
“Bodhi has a great life,” my dad interrupts, but Dr. Rosenberg doesn’t miss a beat, even though I’m giving her the I-told-you-so look.
“No one is saying otherwise, Mr. McKnight. During therapy we pinpoint and identify triggers. I called you both here today because Bodhi needs to feel safe when he tells you how he feels and he needs for you to listen. Go ahead, Bodhi.”
“I don’t understand,” Mom says to Dr. Rosenberg before I can speak. “Are you saying we caused Bodhi’s drug problem?”
I sigh deeply.
“No one is saying that, Mom. What Dr. Rosenberg means is that since I’m moving home after I’m out of here, we, as a family, need to eliminate any potential triggers, so I don’t relapse.”
“I guess I don’t know why we’re here,” she says again as she crosses her legs.
“You’re here because you were shitty parents, that’s why,” I shout in a fit of anger. “You’re here because I did not have a normal childhood. While you were working all the damn time, I was raised by nannies, not you. You’re here because both of you are triggers.”
“You’re saying your mother and I are responsible for your drug use?”
“Dad, will you listen for one minute? What I’m saying is that instead of being parents, you put work ahead of nurturing your child.”
I grab at my head and bend over to ward off the impending headache. “I have a lot of anger toward you both. I hear all these amazing stories about how my friends’ parents played catch with them in the yard or took them to football games. We never did that. I know you provided well for me, but the part where you’re supposed to love me feels empty. I know you’ve been here for me since all this shit went down, but part of me thinks you did that to ward off the negative press.
“You have to understand,” I tell them, “that I grew up so fast. I started using pot at fifteen, drinking even earlier. I was fourteen when I had sex for the first time. All of this was happening under your roof, and you didn’t have a clue. I missed my chance at being a kid because no one gave a shit about what I was doing. Kids need structure, they need a path. I was given a credit card and a chauffeur.”
I lean back in my chair, emotionally exhausted. I didn’t want to have this conversation, and now that I’ve said my piece, I feel like a complete shit. Did I miss out on a lot? Yeah, I did. Does it define who I am? Apparently it does.
I look at Dr. Rosenberg and shake my head. “I don’t care what you say,” I tell her. “This doesn’t help my recovery.” I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated.
“I…I don’t know what to say.” The quaver in my mother’s voice tells me she’s upset. She’s never liked confrontation.
My dad is silent. I look over at him and can tell he’s stewing. He’s gnawing on his lower lip and likely listing the reasons my fucked-up life is my own fault. He may not say it here, but I suspect he will when I go home in a week. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat.
“I can see where Bodhi is coming from,” he says to Dr. Rosenberg, much to my surprise. “My wife and I work a lot, and we’re often out of town. I’m the first to admit that I have failed Bodhi. However, when I was informed that my son was using drugs, I took the necessary steps to get him the help he needs. Bodhi is an adult and needs to learn to ask for help, or speak up when something is a problem for him. He’s never done that.
“My wife and I will make sure that these triggers won’t be causing him any harm. He’s my son, and the last thing I want is for him to go back to the drugs.”
“What changes will be made?” Dr. Rosenberg asks.
“I’m not sure. I mean, I can’t go back in time to change the past. If I could, I would definitely change how I parented him. But we can do something about the future…providing he wants to make the change.”
“I do,” I tell him.
Dad smiles.
“Dr. Rosenberg,” Dad says to her, “I can sit here all day and apologize for our lack of parenting, but that isn’t going to make Bodhi any better. He needs to focus on tomorrow and the next day. If there is a trigger, he needs to speak up so we can remove it and focus on his health. Going back over the past isn’t going to fix anything. We’re here now for our son, and that’s what’s important.” He grabs my mom’s hand.
I glance at Dr. Rosenberg. She looks stunned.
“I was a horrible mother,” my mom begins, her voice rough. “When he was born I never wanted to let him go, but I couldn’t work with him on the set. Nowadays, children are everywhere, but back then things were different, and I missed the opportunity to be
a real mom to him.”
I wipe away the tears that are falling from my eyes. I reach over and take her hand in mine, squeezing it tightly. She squeezes back.
“Bodhi, what can your parents do to help you transition to living at home?”
I knew this question would be coming, and I thought I knew the answer. But now I think the real answer is something different.