Mr. P had an enormous setback, slinging his expensive phone across the room and into a wooden wall, shattering its screen. He'd been warming up to this for months, in his Cyclothymic Disorder spiral. Literally unable to control his behaviors that produce extreme rage in others, in that he pushes cruel buttons that should never be sparked, and the result is always explosive.
It's very shocking to observe.
A nearly 60 year old woman is emotionally able to walk away, to disengage, to regulate internally, knowing there's no real battle to be won, that entering into this skirmish will be a complete waste of time, but I was finally forced to consequence, to follow through, after many warnings, I was fixing to restrict his cell phone, telling him he'd earn it back, not to throw it, but he hurled it hard while mumbling in his unintelligible guttural tone, that always clearly indicates a snap from reality.
My inner anger surged, big kids came running to protect me, as my elbow was getting slammed in his door. I extricated my arm and made the other kids walk away also.
In that moment, it's totally pointless to point out the errors of his ways.
I've attempted to do so for more than a dozen years, knowing if, and when, he pulls this crap as an adult, he'll provoke someone to an extreme anger reaction and it won't be pretty, indeed at the end of a previous school year, someone had attacked back in his grade and their subsequent furious bullying of him had truly frightened him, me hoping against hope he'd learn something from what he intentionally does to folks.
This morning I'd read of meth babies being saddled with extreme behavior issues, another well Duh moment, and I couldn't help but think how awful that's gonna be, if they'll be considered even worse than what I've endured. Well-meaning foster and adoptive parents are gonna be in for a long haul if so. I'm glad I'm on my way out.
I breathe deeply, pray quietly for for patience and strength, and I keep on keeping on.
We'd had a delightful Sunday afternoon, Chuck had a cookout for my boys, a super warm 85 degree day in which Tabby and Sabrina had tagged along with Yolie, while Gina spent the afternoon with Lily at a State Park to run Gina's dogs, leaving me with blissful hours to work in my gardens.
To then, at bedtime, have such an ugly incident, well it just fired up all my PTSD neurons, making it hard for me to fall asleep later. Why I don't have constant heart attacks remains a mystery to me, all my healthy eating habits paying off I suppose.
Mr. Provocateur had trundled off to Yolie's house without my permission, which is technically running away, but can also be construed as a proper cooling off choice, totally lying to her that Allen had provoked him, but he always blames others. I was right there in the living room as I repeatedly warned him to stop provoking Allen, who doesn't have the inner emotional grip of a nearly 60 year old woman, but Mr P heedlessly kept amping it up hatefully.
Allen wasn't helping matters, feeding into all this, but he was laughing instead of getting angry.
It's ultimately sad, Mr P's adult future without a resident Mama to protect him from the consequences of being incredibly ugly to others, but he's unteachable too often, something I've seen over and over and over again in adoption because, in their minds, conceding to this strange old-school woman who's not-the-real-mother becomes a figurative idiot-move representation in their own minds.
It doesn't make sense on any level.
There's never any comprehension that this woman who feeds, clothes, launders, provides, sacrifices, nurtures, supports, cheers at soccer, takes 'em to church, goes to resource meetings and therapies, only to be routinely verbally threatened with, "I'll tell people this and that," which are absolute blatant lies that'll only cause pain to our family?
What the heck?
Who could possibly choose to act so ugly to other human beings?
This I truly do NOT understand.
Even if you hate what I represent, parenting you, common courtesy should be the minimum. Or if not that, at least bare bones decency. I am a human being, right?
Maybe not, I've been treated so badly by so many for so long that even smiling at church now feels like a chore. I'd rather isolate myself from the human race, digging in the dirt, hanging with my wonderful dogs who do treat me well. Hazel makes me smile at church.
I generally shut down in response to all this, which is a better option than lashing out, but honestly, after decades of being the recipient of unbelievably shocking hatred at times, it becomes more difficult to pull myself out of it again and again. I tend to want to avoid folks like that, a natural human self-protective response I'd say.
JoJo'd been so disruptive and inappropriate at church yesterday that I'd had to sit between him and Allen, Preston offered to take JoJo to the nursery so he could be with the other two year olds, an opportunity he jumped at of course.
And ironically, or conversely, maybe even oppositionally, I put up happy pictures of the ones who don't lash out at me. Gina'd taken Lily to a Thai restaurant, she'd had iced tea, the caffeine surging through her, she was playing her guitar past ten last night on a school night.
Posts
2 comments:
Life is a balance. It may be that a child will need to yell those things and break that which he treasures for the rest of his life. I expect my son to do so and I just made that part of my deal with God to please let me raise this boy.
My son doesn't always do that of course but I sometimes wonder if, when he is under duress, if the pathways of his brain lead him back to a reality in the before time where all this rage and hurtful feelings are still bottled up. That hate spewing, breaker of stuff is an aberration that causes such upset and makes me see red. He forces me to the very limit of my emotional endurance. That child knows he has me pushed way out from my comfort zone. It takes all I have to respond to him the way countless hours of therapy have schooled me to act. I got to practice it just tonight at the store, in a very public way.
And then, that kid goes away. Gone is the kid that says such terrible things to me and about me. Back is my sweetie. As much as his behavior punches my buttons, I leave all that drama by the wayside and go on with the rest of the night. As you say, there is no way to address it – it is not behavior we are actually a part of – it happens in what I call the “before brain” of the kid. I am still the amazingly awesome Mom that moves mountains for her kid. What is going is not about me or even the consequences being set. The behavior drives to the consequences simply because they are a point of escalation that can be manipulated and/or hijacked for other means.
That makes me wonder – are the flare-ups part of something else? I didn’t think about until I started writing but Sunday I spent most of the day in the Emergency room with my son because of still unresolved pain issues in his mouth due to cleft palate anomalies – we think.
And then there is the fact that someone (not me!) gave him his ADHD meds late today. While I remain on the fence as to whether he is truly ADHD or if his PTSD simply mimics it, the meds give some help.
Maybe it all factored in. Whatever – the kid that was there was then gone. And then back again.
I remember when he first came home and I gave him a cell phone to have even though it didn’t work. He wanted one because all the people in power had one. He subsequently went into a rage and smashed it to smithereens. I then watched him cradle the pieces for hours as he painstakingly put it back together, crying all the while. It was the most heart breaking and yet awe-inspiring thing I had ever seen.
I will never forget that five-year-old hunched over those bazillion pieces. I taped the sides of that flip phone and have it on a shelf today. I keep it safe for all our futures together. It holds a message for all of us.
Just recently he told me that he was so scared in the beginning which is why he did things he did in the beginning. His unsolicited words, not mine. And maybe that is why he still does that really difficult stuff today. Maybe I just don’t see all the things that scare him – I only pay attention to drama that affects me. I feel the buttons being punched and the quality of life ebbing away – I forget what he has told me in the quiet moments – he does that stuff when he is really, really, really scared.
It takes a special courage to love and parent a traumatized child.
I remain convinced it is worth it. As I have said, my son has hardened my position about adoption. I cannot image him left alone in the before time.
I love, love, love your comments. They take me outta my own busy head.
Post a Comment