I’m reading a book about addiction that Max read last year. He told me I might like it. I also remember him writing to his girlfriend that the book caused him to review his childhood, which he always thought was “pretty normal.”

The book, by Gabor Maté, a physician and psychiatrist, is extremely compassionate toward the addict. In fact, he explains at great length why the addict never really had a chance: Improper bonding during infancy harms the infant’s brain and sets him up for addiction.

Maté recounts study after study to underscore his thesis. When rats are removed from their mother for only one hour a day, their brains show damage. In human babies, this faulty bonding fucks everything up. The child is forever doomed to suffering and attempts to extinguish the suffering.

I can’t read too much of this book. Someone needs to do a study on my brain, to show how much harm the book has done.

Maté ends the long chapter about the origins of the addict’s malformed brain by assuring us that he’s not saying it’s hopeless! People can be healed, he says, through the indomitable Spirit that lives within all of us.

Meanwhile, I am compelled to look back in time and question everything. I remember loving my baby at first sight. I remember adoring his every expression, every gesture, every hair on his head. I remember nursing him for 14 months. I remember friends coming over  just to  admire him. I remember dressing him in his little outfits, reading to him, cuddling him, singing to him.

But I was a depressed mother. Depressed mothers ruin the brain as well. I forgot to say that. The baby picks up on the mother’s depression and is irreparably fucked.

I wish I could talk to Max about this. I want to know if he blames me. Or rather, if he forgives me.

His addiction must have been a nightmare for him. So much worse then the nightmare it was for us. It was such a long struggle. I never really felt it was my fault, until now.

My own mother hated me and told me so, but I didn’t want to become a drug addict. There was no comfort anywhere, from anyone, when I was a child. I have my problems but I never wanted to stick a needle in my arm. If everyone with an imperfect or depressed mother needs to escape their pain through opiates, who’s left?

I’m caught in this argument.  Depressed people don’t all become addicts. But my son did, and it’s my fault.

I wish it was nobody’s fault. I wish it was a wrong turn that led to more wrong turns. I wish he had been able to overcome his addiction and the pain that caused it. I wish I could comfort him and convince him that he was loved and he was perfect, addicted or not.

Mothers and children, what are your thoughts?

I think of my commenters here as my babies, even if you’re older than me. You’ve all given me so much comfort and laughter, you’ve made me feel special and you make me so proud of you. On the other hand, many of you have been like mommies when that’s what I needed. Sometimes you’ve got to make your own family as you go along.

I’d like to tuck you all in bed and kiss you good night. Then maybe you can tuck me in. Go and read about the Mommy Exchange here if you forgot it. Tonight my darling friend Summer wrote to me: “Happy Mothers day, Mommy! Love,  Mommy.” It works! xoxo

All my devoted trolls are demanding that I go away and mourn. But the problem is, there’s no way to implement this. Mourning isn’t a thing you do in a black dress. Maybe they want me to spend all day at a cemetery. But it doesn’t matter where I am, it’s all the same barren place, a place I’d rather not be.

I am going through the motions, because that’s all I know how to do. I could take to my bed and never get up again. I’m not ruling that out. It just seems unfair to my family. I don’t know how to have a nervous breakdown or I’d gladly have one.

I don’t want to “recover” because mothers who bounce back after the death of a child seem despicable. How could anyone “move forward” after this? What would be the point?

I don’t know what to do besides cry or distract myself.  I’m still waiting for him to come back. When he does, I’ll try not to scold him for putting us through this. Meanwhile, I have to pick out a grave marker and then try to pay for it.

I started blogging as a way to express myself. Now, it’s a way to escape myself.

If one more moron whines about my “negativity” or complains that I “hate on” people, I’m going to lose my fucking temper. You can’t hate “on” people. But I might have to learn how.

Max is gone and free now.  Light a candle and wish him a safe journey.

Here’s my mom. She died on April 27, 2001.  She loved opera, chili, shoes, vodka, books  and traveling. On her deathbed, watching Jeopardy on TV, she shouted out “Loyola!” and she was correct.

She was nuts, and I miss her.

If you feel like it, go read this in her honor.

I don’t think I can take much more of this. It’s killing me. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.  (Samuel Beckett)

Sea is excited about going to Tokyo in a couple of weeks to spend a few million dollars and take some cute photos.  She posed in some painful pointy Givenchy pumps, and twittered about vaginas and her dad’s cell phone.

Mom confided that she “had to have” these Lucite Prada shoes from Neiman’s. ($975) Not only that, but Sea “managed to snag a pair of the satin platforms … and they are really incredible.”

Who would like to deconstruct the phrase “managed to snag” in this context?

UPDATE: Now there are new Celine sandals for both Sea and Mom, and some hideous new garbage jewelry that was “sent” from Paris.

Sea won’t post your comments but you can leave them here. I’ll go first.

Dear Sea, Have you tried adding up the damage, shoe-wise, for the last month? Why are you throwing away your youth on this project? You’re staring to look nuts in those photos. Your outfits say “35 year old divorcee, circa 1980.” This is not a compliment. Stop the insanity and maybe poor dad can retire. Love, xo SW.

Has everyone read about the woman from Tennessee who sent her adopted son back to Russia after deeming him too psychotic to handle?

People are up in arms about this, primarily against the mother, who put the 7 year old on a plane, alone, with a note pinned on him. Authorities haven’t decided what to charge her with. Russian officials are threatening to halt adoptions of Russian orphans.

The woman, who is single, refuses to comment, but her own mother says that the boy was violent and had threatened to burn down the house. She also says they were lied to by the Russian agency that arranged the adoption. Many of the orphans in Russia (and elsewhere) who’ve spent their lives in institutions are described by experts as “feral” (i.e. completely unsocialized.) Many have Fetal Alcohol Syndrome.

If you adopted a child and discovered that he was emotionally disturbed or mentally ill, would you want to send him back, like a defective product? What about if he was violent enough to make you fear for your life? What about if he turned out to be schizophrenic or autistic? What if you kept the child to fulfill your moral obligation but forever regretted the adoption?

I once knew a woman who adopted an infant that turned out to be severely autistic. When I met them, he was about four. He was an unattractive, whiney child who tried to stick his finger in my eye when he noticed I wore contact lenses. When we took him out to a park, he attacked another child. Once, while I was driving, he grabbed my hair from the back seat and yanked it with all his might. He was the most repellent kid I have ever come across, but she adored him. I felt, secretly, that if it were me, I’d send him back.

I know another mom who adores her biological child but sent him to a residential treatment center after he hurt her during one of his rages. It wasn’t an easy decision. But she didn’t want to risk further violence.

I feel bad for the woman in Tennessee. I’m assuming that she wanted a child more than anything, but didn’t have the fortitude to care for a deeply damaged kid. I feel bad for the boy, who most likely has been abused and will be further traumatized.

Should the mother be prosecuted? Should there be better screening of adoptive parents? Should society have some mechanism for mothers who aren’t equipped to mother,  that would absolve them of blame and spare a child from neglect or abuse?

~

If you never signed up for the Crazy Mothers Club, go here.

Catching up with Sea of Shoes after her whirlwind visit to New York, we now find her back in Texas, specifically, at an exclusive sale of Mom’s “vintage” wares at some shop in Dallas.

Sea and Mom spread the joy of hideous animal-themed costume jewelry, most if it sourced from eBay at a fraction of the price charged to their hapless groupies. Years from now, Texas woman will be wondering what came over them when they gaze upon their gigantic monkey and elephant pendants.

Jane stood around in her Anne D. shoes, perhaps daydreaming about Asian boys or Martin Margiela. Meanwhile, Mom has posted about her love of studded shoes, featuring at least $4,000 of  her carefully edited collection.

Would you like to leave a comment for Jane, who doesn’t care what you think? I will go first:

Dear Sea, I saw a video of an interview you gave in New York, and I realized that you are just an average looking girl who doesn’t seem to grasp the implications of anything at all. I see that Mom is the brains behind everything, and I hope one day you can move on to a ‘transitional object‘, like a blankie, before finally breaking free of Mom for good. Meanwhile, I think you guys have enough shoes. Love, SW.

Several readers told me to go check out Mom of Shoes‘ new boots, so naturally I was curious enough to take a look. I left a nice comment but guess what? She deleted it! And not only that, she deleted another comment by someone else, who merely said she wasn’t crazy about the boots. Very, very sad.

Why have comments if you only print the supportive ones?!? What’s the point?

I wish I could remember my exact words! They were something like, “Don’t you worry that thigh high stiletto boots worn with fur will bring to mind hookers?” Then I added that every day, I myself have to fight off the temptation to dress like a prostitute or schoolgirl.

It’s not like I know a better way to wear thigh high boots. When I posted this photo back in October of 2008, a reader told me I looked like a drag queen.

I know Mom will be reading this, so let me just say:  Dear Mom, I was trying to be playful! You can dress like a hooker if you want! It’s better than looking like a drag queen, right? I hope you’re not mad about that awful bell-sleeved coat, because you’ll still make a bundle of money on it.  Love, SW

I came across this picture of a Nature Girl With Lesbian Stick while browsing at twistedlamb, a blog with a very strong sensibility I’ll call Pagan Hipster. It involves S & M, sexual ambiguity, Goth glamor and a whiff of bestiality. It’s the work of a stylist who manages to find strikingly sinister images that often attract and repel, without just relying on leather and spikes.

When can we call for a moratorium on leather and spikes? It’s like every sex-shop since the beginning of time has spewed its merchandise all over the fashion industry, leaving moto-this and moto-that everywhere. Enough, for godsake! The backlash is bound to be a return to modesty and preppy cleanliness. I think I’m ready for it.

Looking around the fashion blogs, I see how many are basically a collection of images, sometimes punctuated by a collage of “Stuff I Love!” or “Things That Inspire Me!” Kate Moss,  Bridgette Bardot, Anita Pallenberg, and Jane Birkin are the usual style muses, then there’s some obscure Death Metal Band or European poet.

I’m more inspired by people like Tragic Fashion Boy, who makes a bold new statement with red (thanks to andrea for the tip!)

For some reason, even though he evokes my maternal instinct, I just can’t imagine being his mother. But in the photo below, I feel he is talking to his mom. Am  I right?

Who is he talking to, and what is he saying?