Janet A Jackson |Nurturing Parents and Child Workers for Inner Peace|

"A Cry for Light: A Journey into Love"
COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL
ISBN # 0-9634086-1-5
From the Publisher:

A Hollywood publicist seeking help for her emotionally-disturbed adopted son, finds herself on a challenging journey that leads her to a surprising destination - self-love.

After giving birth to a son of their own, Janet Alston Jackson and her husband, Walter adopt Devon, a special-needs toddler born with drugs in his system and physically and sexually abused. When Devon's erratic behavior threatens to tear her family apart, the entertainment publicist abandons the glitter of Hollywood and becomes immersed in the dark world of battered and neglected children. However, Jackson finds little support from the social system. Instead, she faces constant battles with the child welfare agencies, schools, and mental health professionals. Finally, at the breaking point, Jackson is surprised to discover that her journey to save her son has also healed her lost relationship with herself.

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Excerpt from "A CRY FOR LIGHT: A Journey Into Love" COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL

CHAPTER ONE
Driving the steep, winding road into Angeles National Forest was like orbiting into outer space. I was traveling only 25 miles per hour, but my mind raced at rocket speeds. Our green mini-van snaked around the chaparral-covered mountain, passing looming, jagged rock walls that reminded me of the moon. The drive reflected the last 12 years of my life. A lonely, treacherous climb into uncharted territories.

I knew where the road was taking me physically, but not mentally. What would the future hold?

My 14-year-old son, Devon, sitting next to me, was motionless. He stared straight ahead as the pine and fir-covered slopes blurred past our windows. His fate was at hand. He didn't believe that I would follow through. I didn't believe it, either.

The wind buffeted the sides of the car as we passed bright yellow sunflowers waving from their spindly stalks, animating the still life picture around us.

Like a mummy waking from the dead, Devon slowly reached his caramel hand to turn on the radio as if to drown out my avalanche of thoughts. But we were traveling in silence. Neither of us knew what to say.

Ahead, another cluster of mountains came into view. They stood like an ancient ghost family that quietly watched over us as we drove deeper into Los Angeles' 650,000 acre backyard playground.

I caught a glimpse of life on the curving road. A few squirrels scampered among the bushes, a small lizard sunned on a rock, and a hawk glided gracefully above us. The mountains reminded me of the isolation my husband Walter and I had felt for so long. No one else seemed to understand our painful life with Devon. People simply offered empty, impractical advice that even they wouldn't follow.

The hum of the motor was drowned by radio static and snippets of songs that faded in and out as Devon switched stations, determined to find reception. A few irritating minutes later he found a strong signal on his favorite oldies-but-goodies station that played mostly '60s hits. Devon loved that period. He once told me that he should have been born then. But even he was too wild for that rebellious hippie era. Devon never seemed to fit into the world around him. He was years ahead in intellect for his age, but years behind in emotional maturity.

As we continued climbing the narrow roads, an old Marvin Gaye-Tammy Terrell duet wafted from the radio. It was strange that at such a scary time we both hummed a few bars, and softly sang the few words that we knew. Looking back, the music was probably grounding us, keeping our tightly wound nerves from snapping on that drive. We both remembered the chorus and sang it together.

"Ain't no mountain high enough, ain't no river low enough to keep me from getting to you, babe."

"That's dedicated to you, D," I said with tears brimming in my eyes thinking of our past and his fate ahead. I had already climbed too many mountains of despair and swam in too many rivers of tears raising him. He grinned at me with a cynical look, then snapped his head forward, tapping his leg in time to the music, shutting me and my emotions out. I could feel his tension as he softly hummed after the song was over. Music had always been his salvation. It was the only harmony in his life of constant chaos.

I couldn't believe the coincidence. I hadn't heard that song for years but it was the second time that it came on the radio within an hour. Earlier, we heard Diana Ross belting out her rendition as we were finishing last-minute errands before going into the forest. What were the odds of hearing this song twice? But it was symbolic of our life together. I had spent the last 12 years rescuing Devon, going through hell trying to save him from himself, but still I lost him. I had been willing to do whatever it took to help him, including dragging him to 21 different therapists. No treatment worked, which was why we were taking the drive on this day.

Except for his humming, he was silent. Devon knew what was coming. I had warned him, and the day had finally arrived.

We continued ascending, passing jagged cliffs overlooking the valley once roamed by the Gabrielino Indians. I could feel their souls in those mountains. I wished that I could have talked to them--learned from their ancient wisdom. I was taking Devon into their mountain home. I thought of the sacrifice those Indian families must have made fighting to keep their land. I, too, was going through a family sacrifice to keep my home.

Devon and I never thought this day would come. I had cajoled, threatened, and bribed him to cooperate, to stop defying authority.
The emotional ravage he had heaped on the family was devastating. We constantly suffered battle fatigue. It felt like we were sleeping with the enemy. I stayed on my knees praying, begging God to straighten him out. Why couldn't he be like my other two children? Clearly, he was spitefully different. Devon seemed possessed by demons. I didn't believe in them, but still I found myself wondering. Did this child need an exorcist? His mind worked counter clockwise to the universe. His time had run out.

Now on July 3, 2001, after years of being held hostage to Devon's antics, Independence Day had come a day early for me. It was time to break away from him.

We turned off Little Tujunga Road to Gold Creek Road and followed a winding, sharp turn with signs posted. Ten miles per hour. Navigating this narrow passage that overlooked a thousand foot drop, doubts surfaced about the mission that I was on. But I was not going to turn back now. Not now. I couldn't.

It wasn't an easy decision to take this ride. It ripped me apart like paper going through a shedder. I prayed that the result would result in wholeness for our family. I craved to find the part of me that I had left behind years ago. Because of Devon, I had become an uptight bitch who had long ago lost her joy.

Today I was about to start a new chapter in my life. I was giving up trying to find my happiness through an ideal family. I was giving up trying to stay in control. I was giving up battling with Devon, who was even more controlling than I was. I needed to give it all up to God, who had the real control.

We passed a dry riverbed with another sign- -"Flooding." Ten minutes later, we had reached the mountaintop, our destination. Suddenly my breathing became shallow and my palms sweaty. Perspiration poured down my back. I wished that my husband, Walter, was with us. But as fate would have it, his mother was desperately sick, and he was 300-plus miles to the north, in Stockton, California, taking care of her. This was something I would have to do alone.

I slid out of the front seat inhaling the pine scents of Christmas on this hot summer day. Each year in these same mountains our family cut down our Christmas tree. The air was thin and still. It was exceptionally quiet like the day after the holy day when everyone is exhausted from shopping and festivities. But this was no holiday.

Devon ambled out of the car and stood next to me as I looked around. He was nearly my height, handsome and slim in his oversized jeans and green plaid shirt. He flashed me his ever-present grin. I never could figure out if that meant he was in pain or happy. I always felt that it was really his mask.

I smiled at him and took a deep breath. A sudden gust of dry California wind ruffled my hair and the bushes surrounding us. I felt it was God's gentle hand pushing me forward as he whispered, "Don't turn back now."

I looked over toward the scattered, pastel one-story structures that seemed oddly out of place. I pointed and led our way toward the two-tone green building with a sign, "Administration."
As we walked, I stole a glance at Devon. I wished that he would register at least some little bit of remorse or grief in his blank, brown eyes.

"How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Fine." I knew that he wasn't, but I had to ask. "Okay" and "fine" were his stock answers. Devon had taught himself long ago not to feel. Not to trust.

I tried swallowing my sadness. My steps became more deliberate, pounding the pavement to suppress my anxiety. I had a mission to do.

When we reached the building, I pushed open the double glass doors holding them for Devon. He walked slowly and solemnly past me into the residential treatment facility.

How could it have come to this? Why?