To Fail, to Begin Anew

A few weeks ago, I was so concerned about Max's depression that I lined up six potential therapists for him to choose from.  He picked out the one I wanted him to: Xoel Rodriguez, married with kids, Spanish-speaking, and a former tattoo artist.  I knew Max would think this was cool.  

I left a message at the clinic. But before they called back, Max had a friend over for the first time in months.  Not just any friend, but his best friend since childhood--Vernon--who had a habit of dropping off the grid for a year or two, then suddenly reappearing.  

The next day, Max's depression was gone.  He told the clinic he no longer needed their services.  I still thought counseling would've been helpful.  But Max said, "I already have a therapist: my friends."

A week later another friend spent the night: Genuine Jack.  A 6-foot-tall teddy-bear of a young man.  He pumped Sam's head full of the pros and cons of college and its costs and benefits--stuff I've been saying for months and Sam's been refusing to hear. 

Vernon teaches Max to be grateful for what he already has.  Jack teaches him to weigh practicalities.  All his friends have told him over and over to have more faith in himself.  Apparently, unbenownst to me, there was one night they talked him out of a wish to die.

It was a feeling of despair and hopelessness, not a true wish to end his life.  But still. I never thought I'd hear those words from my son.  

Because of this depression, and because of some of the specific things Max said [he lacks something other kids have, he has to be perfect just to be good enough, he doesn't believe he can succeed, he doesn't believe in himself] I feel like I failed as a mother.  I berate myself for not having bolstered his ability to trust in himself.  I was so anxious for him, so worried that he would fail and thus feel like a failure, that I protected him too much and too long.  I should have encouraged him to attack life with gusto, go right ahead and fail as much as possible, and learn from failure.  I hurt him by not trusting him to cope with failure.  I am to him a signatory of fearfulness, not faith.  

I hurt my own son, whom I love better than myself.  Is this the human condition?  Or at least the parents' condition?  That we can never meet the lofty goals we set for ourselves and our children?  That we are bound to disappoint ourselves and each other?

I have to tell Max about my failure.  Ask for forgiveness, and the chance to start anew.  Amen. Amen.