Friday 13th
0 comment Thursday, April 3, 2014 |
A week yesterday, after Friday Sports Club, our Son went berserk, directing his anger at me and his dad, and things in his room that had been given to him with love. The anger lasted hours and it has left this family feeling very sore.
Since that night, Son has been maniacal and the threat of him tipping over into rage again has been ever present. I spent the week trying to get us some support in one form or another.
Writing to key members of staff at school and copying the letters to the Head turned out to be worthwhile. The school arranged for both Son and Daughter to be taken out of their classes just before the end of the day on Friday, and given somewhere quiet and safe to sit whilst they had something to eat and drink, given by me especially. Then before the end of the club, they were taken out again and given somewhere quiet to change and eat some more. The Head of Physical Education at the school, Mr H, called me into his office when I came to pick the kids up and might have made me cry with his kindness were I not so tense.
Then the kids were called into his office and they were all smiles; sweet children, small for their ages, looking vulnerable and worried. My heart went out to them. Little waifs in a big ugly horrible adult world. Mr H said some wonderful encouraging things, said he wanted them to check back with him on Monday to tell him how things had gone, and winked at me encouragingly as I softly said thank you when we left.
Things were fine until we got out of the main school door, when daughter whipped from her pocket the sweets she had been given during school that day and Son then went into a jealous mood.
I got us home through distraction and a calm and happy tone of voice, stuffed them with healthy food for tea as soon as they walked through the door, and then stayed the hell out of their way.
I should have stayed around, been present for them, kept an eye on then. But I couldn't do it. I can't do it. Not anymore. That week I'd been writing a letter to the Social Worker who is going to start therapy sessions with Son next week. I expected to write a paragraph or two of general stuff with some bullet points of concern. Instead it has turned into a two page list of the everyday dysfunctional behaviours that Son employs on us all, and I haven't even started on the major stuff yet. It's made me realise just how abnormal our life is. How much of it he controls in one way or another, with his threats of emotional showdowns.
I am, finally, worn out by Son's attempts at sabotage. I am also worn out by the children keeping constant surveillance on me. I am being watched all the time, monitored, prodded and checked for any sign that I'm going to do whatever the hell it is that their birth mother used to do. I feel I must constantly walk around my own home proving that I am innocent and not up to anything. It's unhealthy living here and this week has been worse than most.
Luckily, I had been busy all week and despite the fact that I was emotionally fragile, at least having lots of things to do kept me from stewing on the present situation too much. On Friday, I had nothing to do. I had nothing to do but think about how at 4.30pm I would be picking the kids up from sports club, and this time I would be alone. I would be in charge of the two children alone until Husband came home from work at 6pm. If Son attacked me, I would be alone.
I woke up with this thought and pretty soon I was taking my angst out on a sleepy and perplexed Husband who could not understand why I was so 'tense' first thing in the morning.
It got worse. With no jobs on I came straight back home after taking the kids to school. I went into the garden to have a cigarette, but I drew on it so hard and so much it left me feeling dizzy and physically sick. So I went back inside and sat, still in my coat and boots, on the sofa in the adult room. I could not even look into the family room, which is a shame because That's where the DVD and decent TV is and I'd planned to watch a film. Films always help. But I couldn't go in that other room and so I just sat crying until a good friend texted me and I fessed up to being in a state.
Luckily the school then phoned me and assured me of the plans we'd got in place to help Son through the sports club. This calmed me and I felt better, and I texted friend saying this had happened and I was OK now. I sat, trying to propel myself into standing up and taking my coat and boots off.
Then Husband phoned me and once again I got angry at him, cutting him off telling him not to phone me again that day which I immediately regretted because I love him and I needed him.
Then Mother phoned, and for the second time that week I sobbed before her, right down and dirty, can't breath, saying any old thing, panicky sobbed. In response Mum told me about a program she saw the other day where an adoptive mother couldn't cope with her son and she left, and the dad was a drinker and then the son was taken off them. So that really helped, as you can imagine. She offered to come over and I declined.
Then Husband phoned again, thank goodness, and I sobbed some more. He told me he was coming home for lunch. This calmed me enough to go and take my coat off and put my slippers on. I got a hot water bottle, wrapped myself in a comforting blanket and read adoption blogs on the internet until he came. When he did I lay on his chest and felt safe, and after he'd gone back to work I fell asleep. Thus passed my day. By pick-up time I was washed and dressed with shiny straight hair. You'd never know I'd been a basket case all day. As Friday 13ths go, I wouldn't want another one like that.
Today, Saturday, I have allowed Husband to take charge of things and even do all the cooking and washing-up. I feel washed-out and heavy hearted.
Son has been edgy and has had two tantrums. At bedtime, I sat on his bed and tried to connect with him. I stroked his hair and told him that I love him and how I wished the best for him. I told him I think he has a great sadness inside of him that kept making him so angry, and how I wished he would trust me and tell me about his sadness. He told me he never would because he his thoughts were secret. I talked about how I hoped so much that the lady he was going to talk to next week would help him talk about his worries, and all the thoughts that hurt him, because maybe then he wouldn't need to keep sabotaging things and could accept he deserved a nice life. He responded with cockiness and an insistence that he would keep being angry because 'that was normal to him'. When I left his room he tore up more of his posters and made sure I saw them. When I asked why he did it he said he was angry, but he wasn't. He was deadly calm.
Not for the first time it crosses my mind that he holds inside of him a secret that tortures him, and drives an engine of fear and rage. But at the moment the connection between us is down and there is no way he is going to communicate anything to me, never mind a secret that hurts.

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