Cruel, cruel world.

Last night, I held my son. I held him and stroked his long hair while he cried into my chest. Great, deep, wracking sobs, Ms J. It was the unmistakable sound of a heart breaking. This was no stage drama. This was real Life. Dan's real Life.

"It's all turned to shit, Dad, he sobbed. "Why does everything I do, turn to shit? I've been trying so hard, Dad. I have. I've fucked up so bad. I'm sorry, Dad. I'm just so sorry."

And the pain came again, louder this time. I held him tighter.

He has decided not to visit Miss Autumn Jones who lives in Defiance, Ohio. She doesn't seem to know what she wants. She's not sure if she wants to meet Dan. She says they're "moving too fast." What?? They've never even met, for goodness sake. How can that be "moving too fast"? Miss Jones is just a young girl. She's only sixteen.

The Boy was looking forward to the trip. Not only would he meet a girl, but more importantly, it was an odyssey - an adventure. A road trip on his own. He's very disappointed. So am I.

"After all the work we did to get me a passport ..."

He didn't start his new job yesterday either. The video store phoned him up and the owner asked him to come in last night for a "second interview." He shaved and trimmed his beard, and put on some nice clothes and arrived a little early for his meeting. He forgot to shower and so his hair was a bit oily and stringy. (The pills he takes seem to affect his memory at times.) He was in the store only about twenty minutes.

"We'll call you," the man had said and walked Dan to the door.

Hurt and disappointment tumbled from between my son's quivering lips. His words spilled out with his frustration. And his fear. And his desire to please me.

"I know I didn't get the job. 'I'll call you.' I know what that means. It means they've changed their minds. They've got someone else for the job. I wish I knew why. Why Dad? Why didn't they like me? Is it my hair? My clothes? What? I moved here all the way from Mum's. I brought all my stuff. I want this job, Dad. I really do. I'm not chickenshit like you said I was. I'm really trying to get a job. And you said I couldn't stay here unless I was working. I've fucked up my Life now, Dad. I've ruined my Life."

Oh how that boy cried! How beautiful and blue were his eyes when he raised his young face to look at me. So hungry for Love. So hungry for acceptance. And so afraid of my reaction to this honest, open display of raw emotion.

I stood beside him as he sat in a chair by the diningroom table and took his face in my hands.

"What do you mean 'ruined your Life', Dan?"

"With drugs. Bad drugs. And now I have to take these stupid pills for the rest of my Life. And I don't want to. I just want to be normal. I just want to fit in. Oh God, Dad," he sobbed, "What am I going to do?"

I felt so helpless, yet filled with Love and compassion - admiration, even, for this man child of mine, bravely baring his teenaged soul to me. It was a pivotal moment, Ms J. It felt that way, anyway. This was the very first time, he'd ever been so intimate, so honest with me. Ever.

He stood and fetched a box of tissues from the top of the fridge and joined me again at the table. We talked. I asked questions. He answered them. Clearly, he was ashamed of what he'd done. Clearly, he felt remorse at having disappointed me.

"I've been lying to you. I've been lying to Mum. My whole Life has been nothing but lies and bullshit. I can't go on anymore."

I told him about my drug days (daze) with Donna. And he told me about some of the drugs he'd done. A part of me didn't want to believe it, and I acknowledged that by telling Dan how I felt.

"Parents don't want to hear about this stuff, son," I told him. "We'd rather ignore it and pretend it doesn't happen. We say,'Not my kid. My kid would never do drugs - certainly not hard drugs.' But I'm listening, Dan. I want to know you. All of you. I'm so proud of you for being brave enough to talk to me."

I asked if Mum knew.

"No. Please don't tell her, OK Dad? She knows I smoke pot, but that's all. I sometimes ask her for a joint and she gives me some."

Is it just me, Ms Journal, or is there something profoundly inappropriate about a mother supplying her son with marijuana?

It was 12:30 a.m. when I went upstairs to bed. Today, I will call the doctor and get Dan in to see him. I'm unsure of how to proceed but I do know this much:

That boy needs help. Sometimes a father's Love just isn't enough.