The Sad Son Read online

  The Sad Son

  Claire B. Josephine

  Josephine Press

  Contents

  A Note from the Author

  1. Claire

  2. Anna

  3. Dante and Dicks

  4. Anna and Batman—Superheroes

  5. Michael

  6. Nicole

  7. Surprise!

  8. Pregnancy

  9. Greyson

  10. The Non-Sleeping, Non-Eating, Non-Crying Newborn

  11. My Little Jokester

  12. What to Do When Your Baby Attacks You

  13. Jesus Christ Is in the Houzzzz

  14. Allison, Anna, and AIDS

  15. Matthew 7:1–5

  16. Back to the Midwest

  17. The Rock

  18. Queen Linda

  19. Sam

  20. Michael, Part Two

  21. A Resort, a Chauffeur, and Fifty Dollar Dog Shampoo

  22. Goodbye, Hello, Goodbye

  23. The Sandwich Approach

  24. I Finally Do

  25. Nagness

  26. Molly

  27. Middle School and a Master’s Degree

  28. Happy Fucking Presidents’ Day!

  29. Violet

  30. Pretend People and Places

  31. Rockwell

  32. The Pleasure Is All Mine, Connie

  33. Boogers and Grapes

  34. Surgery in a Storage Closet

  35. A Hellacious Road to Nowhere

  36. Humans with Common Sense Need Not Apply

  37. California Dreamin’

  38. A Teacher, a Barbie, and a Witch Walk into a Bar

  39. The Sad Me

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Though a true story, names, identifying details, and places have been altered.

  Copyright @ 2020 Claire Josephine

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email [email protected].

  Published by Josephine Press, Chicago, Illinois

  Cover design by Josephine Press

  Stock photos. Posed by models.

  Edited by Jennifer Huston of White

  Dog Editorial Services

  whitedogeditorial.com

  ISBN: 978-1-7346998-0-7 (trade paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7346998-1-4 (e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2020904295

  To my eldest son—the most undeniable and multifaceted love of my life.

  A Note from the Author

  I wrote this book to raise awareness of the many challenges family members face when someone they love is mentally ill. Even though this is a serious topic, I honored my personality and unfiltered tone with a conversational writing style so my story would be entertaining instead of . . . well, just sad. That said, if you’re looking for a wholesome, serious, informational book on mental illness, this is not the book for you. However, if you’re looking for a raw, humorous (and a little naughty) inside look at what I went through as a mom raising a mentally ill son, then grab a glass of wine and get comfy. And one more thing: if you can’t take a joke, set down this book and return under the rock from which you crawled. Consider that last sentence a test.

  All places and non-famous names have been changed to protect the innocent and the not-so-innocent.

  Claire

  1989–1990

  My junior year of high school, I failed algebra. Maybe it was because I had a crap teacher. Maybe it was because I stopped doing my homework after my mom promised to pull me from the class but then didn’t. Maybe it was because I was a little bitch. Whatever the reason, the entire course of my life changed when I failed algebra in 1989. It was my first and only F.

  At my school in Muskogee, Oklahoma, an F meant no sports, and my first failing grade came right before tryouts for the senior cheer and dance squads. This was catastrophic news since my sole purpose in life was epic popularity. I’d been on the cheer or dance team ever since sixth grade. If I’m not on the cheer team, how will the cute boys at school see my perfect body in bloomers and a miniskirt? On game days, only the cheerleaders were allowed to wear short skirts to school. Without this discriminatory rule, I’d hardly have a reason to accidentally drop my pencil in the hallway. Hourly. And if I’m not on the dance team, how will the cute boys see how well I move my hips during half-time performances? Or that I can leap into the air in my skintight leotard and land perfectly in the splits? Eliminating cheerleader and dancer status would make widespread popularity even more unattainable. I mean, I couldn’t get there with my below-average personality unless it was camouflaged by my above-average looks wrapped in a school-approved naughty outfit.

  Plus, I knew life was over after high school, so I did what any logical person would do in such a crisis—I switched schools. If I’d stayed, people at my school in Muskogee would’ve thought I didn’t make the team, which would’ve been one tragedy heaped upon another. So with the help of my parents filling out a simple form, I dodged a humiliating bullet by going to an entirely new school my senior year. It was a stroke of brilliance.

  I chose Gunslinger High School in Gunslinger, Oklahoma. Ya can’t get any more country than that. Go Broncos. My friend Bridget—who I worked with at the mall—went there, so it seemed like a good idea at the time. Bridget was a supersmart, straitlaced gal; I was neither of those things. I had no idea why a shy, brilliant, Japanese girl wanted to hang out with crazy, stupid me, but she did.

  I mouthed off to teachers, occasionally did back handsprings down the halls, and skipped class when I had a hankering for tater tots at Sonic. I plastered the entire interior roof of my car with posters of half-naked men, went pool-hopping in the middle of the night (clothing optional), flashed truck drivers, and may have slightly vandalized someone’s house by spray-painting the word dickhead across it in five-foot-high letters. That kid really shouldn’t have picked on me in science class.

  I also knew how to throw a great party without ever inconveniencing my parents. I’d never do that—I loved my parents. Instead, I’d inconvenience other people’s parents—like the time I handed out 500 flyers for a kegger at Bridget’s house. I mean, her house was on an acre of land, there were stacks of wood for a bonfire, and her parents didn’t speak English. All the party gods had aligned.

  The best party I threw back then was at a vacant house that was for sale. It even had a pool! Breaking and entering was way easier than I’d anticipated. I simply attended the realtor’s open house, jammed a piece of paper towel in the lock when no one was looking, and ta-da! Hammer time! I’m proud to say I cleaned the house before I left. I’m not an animal.

  I was also reasonably responsible with money. I supplemented my $3.25 an hour income from my job at a clothing store at the mall by winning questionable dance contests at bars on weekends. Obviously, I had a fake ID—duh. I also got Bridget into bars by telling bouncers ridiculous, fabricated stories about her missing driver’s license—stories way too detailed to be untrue. Oh, the good old days.

  So even though I was a little twit, I was fun as fuck. Bridget told me life was boring before she met me. Until I came into her life, all she did was study. Like that’ll get you anywhere. She scored a thirtysomething on the ACT; I scored an eighteen. Not that I was dumb . . . much. I rocked a solid 2.5 GPA throughout high school, which, incidentally, was the minimum required to participate in sports.

  Grades just weren’t as critical to me as things like dancing, being popular, and messing around with boys. By the way, those are listed in the exact opposite order of importance to me. I loved boys. And boys, well . . . boys liked making out with me. I had long blonde hair, a great smile, and a perfect body. Even with my impenetrable, Aqua Net–engulfed, Meg Ryan-esque ’80s spiral perm I’d say I was pretty. At least until I opened my mouth and started spewing stuff people think but know better than to actually say.

  Popular boys liked me on a temporary basis—basically until they got to know me. Soon, my foot would set up camp in my mouth, and they’d realize that I didn’t know how to follow basic social norms. Looking back, I honestly don’t blame the kids who didn’t like me—which was almost everyone. I don’t know what was wrong with me. “If I could turn back time” (I sing in my best Cher voice), I’d slap my younger self. The weird thing is that I’m normal now, if there is such a thing. I reached likability at a sloth-like speed in my twenties. And now that I’m in my forties, I’m a peach. I now wonder why it was so challenging before. It’s like I was hit in the head in my twenties and became a different person. You know how you can grow out of an allergy? I grew out of my shit personality. It just took over twenty years.

  I was even awkward as a little girl. I was born and spent my early years in Chicago. My childhood best friend was a girl named Rachel, and she was the most popular person to ever walk the face of the earth. She was perfect—big blue eyes, cute little dimples, a petite figure, and a very quick wit. Like if the cast of Ocean’s Eleven had a baby.

  When we were kids, Rachel was cheerleading captain; I was just an average cheerleader. Rachel always had a boyfriend; I never had a boyfriend. Rachel was hilarious; I was comedically challenged. Rachel was a stellar student; I strived for mediocr
ity. Everybody loved Rachel; nobody really liked me.

  But miraculously—astonishingly—Rachel and I were best friends from kindergarten to adulthood. Clearly, I nabbed her before she knew better. We did everything together and had sleepovers every single weekend—until that dreaded day during the summer of 1985 when I moved from Chicago to Oklahoma after seventh grade. Also known as the worst day ever. After that, Rachel came to Oklahoma a couple times, and I spent summers with her family in Chicago and Lake Geneva, Wisconsin.

  Rachel’s family had a huge cottage at Lake Geneva. We’d go to the beach, go waterskiing, sneak into bars, and have cookouts. I have so many fond memories of my summers at their cottage. Still to this day, I can’t believe how wonderful Rachel’s parents were to me. Why did they allow me in their home? And their cottage? For months. Unannounced. That’s what dead bolts and peepholes are for.

  Even though Rachel and I were extremely close, I was always seeking her approval. I never understood how we were best friends considering my social improprieties. Maybe it was because I’ve always been, surprisingly, a really good friend. Anyone close to me will attest to that. I’m very loyal, extremely dependable, and would do anything for my friends.

  Rachel, on the other hand, loved to torment and play pranks on me. When I’d spend the night at her house, she’d pull various premeditated shenanigans. She loved chasing me through the house with a mannequin head on a stick until I was screaming and cornered in the bathroom. Then she’d pull the bathroom door shut, trapping me in the room where she’d planted a life-sized, realistic-looking witch that she owned for some reason. She’d have the light switch taped down and the doorknob covered in Vaseline. Trapped in the dark, I’d only be able to see the witch’s dark figure and bright, glowing eyes, but couldn’t escape. Y’know, fun stuff like that.

  Rachel also enjoyed making me watch scary movies and telling me that her house was haunted. Then she’d pull out her Ouija board so dead people could pick on me too. She took great pleasure in scaring me. So, yes, occasionally Rachel was a tad mean. Not to anyone else, just me. Like I was her puppy dog—her three-legged, one-eyed mutt. I was just so happy someone as perfect as Rachel would be best friends with someone as mediocre as me. Any torture she bestowed upon me was totally worth it.

  Honestly, I owe my wonderful childhood to Rachel. Of all the people I’ve known in my life, Rachel was the most fun. I wouldn’t trade my time with her for anything. We spent so much time together that almost all my happy memories include her. She made life a blast. And no one has ever, or will ever, make me laugh the way Rachel did. No one.

  Then, when I was thirteen, my parents dragged me to Oklahoma of all places, and I made new friends. I’m being generous making the word friend plural. I never made a friend with a cheerleader or dancer on my team. Every year, they never liked me—not a single one. A cheerleader is supposed to have a filter on her mouth, a smile on her face, and a bow in her hair. I mastered the miniskirt-bloomers thing, but other than that, I didn’t fit the cheerleader mold. I was the Tonya Harding of cheerleading.

  Still, during my years in cheer and dance, I was popular in the sense that everyone knew who I was—even at a school with over 3,000 students. I stood out in my Chicago clothes in a sea of Laura Ashley dresses. I refused to wear those calf-length monstrosities with lamb print and lace collars. I mean, why would anyone do that? I don’t know, but they did—they all did. And I never understood. I flaunted my splattered-paint minidresses or acid-washed jeans with a cool blazer and tank top underneath—outfits that screamed, “I am Chicago, hear me roar!” My uncensored clothes matched my uncensored personality. I just never learned how to reel things in Oklahoma–style.

  The popular boys liked me in small doses, they just never wanted me to be their girlfriend. The obnoxious girl was okay to kiss and feel up, as long as there was no follow-through. I never had sex, though. I can count on one hand how many smart moves I made when I was young, and that was one of them. Actually, I can only think of one other thing—taking care of my skin. I guess I only need my thumbs to count the smart things I did back then. Sometimes there were rumors about me having sex, but they weren’t true. Where I went to high school, everyone was screwing everyone, but I never let anyone screw me. I’m proud of that. That and my flawless skin.

  So I went from a school where everyone knew me to starting my senior year as the new kid . . . on purpose.

  During my first week at Gunslinger High School, I immediately connected with a guy named Ben. Ben was insanely adorable with his Patrick Swayze mullet and swagger. He was also a tae kwon do genius. He could do the splits between two chairs, and that was all I needed to know. Everyone loved Ben. He was charismatic, popular, friendly, and had a good head on his shoulders. He was like Tom Cruise before Scientology.

  I guess Ben was kinda my first boyfriend if you count an oh maybe, three-week relationship. Then, of course, he got to know me. And, we all know how that goes. I could only pretend to be likable for so long. Apparently my record was three weeks. However, Ben did learn one thing about me: I was a really good friend. A week after our relationship ended, I showed up at Ben’s house and said, “Listen, I know we’re not going to be an item anymore, but I really had fun hanging out with you, soooo, wanna be friends?”

  It was like a light switch flipped on, and Ben and I became instant best friends. He called me “Claire Bear,” and it felt like we’d been best friends forever. He became my closest friend since Rachel, and we were completely inseparable the whole year. We ate lunch together. We hung out after school together. We partied on the weekends together. We went dancing together. Good Lord, Ben could dance. And when we danced, we danced—filthy, dirty dancing, like our bodies became one. Like we could read each other’s mind and sense each other’s next move. Which, of course, made us horny as hell and led to the best part of our relationship—the friends with benefits part.

  Ben was also a tae kwon do instructor, so he had keys to the local dojo. We would go there after hours and drink and make out like the two horny teenagers that we were. We did everything on that dojo floor, except “it.” Ben was an amazing kisser. He was amazing at everything really, but he credits me for his unbelievable skills in the oral sex department. I’ll accept that. I was a good teacher. When he’d go down on me, I’d critique his moves like he was a contestant on Dancing with the Stars. When we started, he was a six, but by the end of his season, he was a solid ten and earned the Mirrorball trophy. Ben was my oral sex bitch.

  When I wasn’t with Ben, I was at rock concerts with Bridget. For some reason, Ben didn’t share my interest in watching beautiful men sing, so Bridget was my wing woman. Bridget and I saw every major concert imaginable, and every single time, we ended up backstage. Getting backstage was a breeze. I just dressed all sexy and flirted with the guy guarding the entrance. Worked every time. In limited exposure, I was really good with men. During senior year, Bridget and I met KISS, Twisted Sister, Damn Yankees, Bad Company, Slayer, Warrant, Tesla, Poison, Guns N’ Roses, and Bonham—just to name a few.

  Fun fact number one: I ran into KISS at the mall doing some late-night shopping. We hung out for a bit, and Gene Simmons showed me his tongue.

  Fun fact number two: Bad Company and Tommy Shaw from Styx invited me out, and we partied at a restaurant together.