Each of us has our own achilles enigma, the deep hidden pocket of puss that guts us when we least expect it, even though we're always bracing on some level... expecting it. Today I give you mine. I write to confess, to cry, to process my own guilty confusion and become even more human.Last year his suicide episode felt similar with its lung crushing blurred vision. The walls of Seattle Children's Hospital ER were striving so hard to be friendly and serene as they carefully held the dam of parental angst back from contaminating the parents of healthy honor roll students.
It's different than wondering if your child is faking the flu to stay home from school. The magnitude of misjudging this one is absolute.
All we want as parents is for our children to be happy. My son's chronic malcontent began perhaps in utero. They say what you resist persists. I have resisted his malaise.
The cause and remedy game began early on with colic. My tiny baby screaming for hours with stomach pain, or was he already screaming out in protest, full opposition to his human plight?
Dizzy with the advice of peers, "His behavioral issues are a result of food allergies. Get him off wheat, eggs, and dairy. All of this will go away." Frustrated with the wisdom of my elders, "All this kid needs is a good spanking."
His first suicide attempt was in second grade when he tried to hang himself from his belt on the monkey bars during lunch recess. That's when the school became suspect of my son's "abusive home" and called to meet with us.
It would be his art that rang alarm bells later that year. Pictures of death and destruction, "soldiers and insurgents fighting so hard they killed God" my son explained to the school psychologist as I sat across the desk in their cross hairs. Maybe that was the day his fundamentalist atheism was born.
His shocking IQ test results and advanced vocabulary made him a sure fire candidate for Aspergers syndrome. The University of Washington concurred though the signs were minimal, he did in fact show some up on the spectrum. A diagnosis that really means we don't know what the hell is wrong, btw you have shitty insurance.
The last public school straw came when he refused to put his head down on his desk to miss 5 minutes of recess. Two other boys had pulled some shenanigans that kept the whole class stuck inside heads prostrate in uniform shame. "No!" he refused boldly stating, "I will not be punished for crimes I did not commit. I'm going to recess!" The only place he went was the principal's office. En route he pointed to a stick lying on the sidewalk and told his teacher if he was a wizard he'd turn that stick into a viper to strike her dead. The emergency call came while I was at work. My son had threatened a teachers life. (In case you're wondering my son actually has no magical powers. We were however reading the Harry Potter series at home.)
Waldorf school was much kinder to his out of the box approach to life. It also gave his untamed creativity a place to romp. It is a system where learning is hands on and often outside. Dirt was a kid's friend and learning how to think was more important than learning what to think. Looking back with his teenage mind he's convinced this was a form of punishment I made him endure. He didn't want to be a "Waldork" anymore. I relented and agreed to letting him attend "normal high school." He dropped out in 10th grade.
When he's good, he's great. The combination of intelligence, curiosity, and wit makes him a hoot to hang out with. He's a conspiracy sympathizer, a writer of sci-fi, and a random facts buff. The lyrics that roll off his tongue are hip hop riots waiting to happen. He's got big dreams that take him soaring and he's got something else that leaves him plummeting unexpectedly. On days like these I fear, and he wishes he could plummet right to his death.
Between therapy, private school, numerous alternative body work modalities, and the myriad of dietary experiments we've made it, he's 18 years old now. There is one last ditch effort that has always been right behind Door #2 waiting its turn, the "natural mama's" nemesis: big pharma medication. I resisted it for so long. Right now I hear my inner bitch chiding, "You didn't homebirth, breast feed for years, family bed, and attachment parent to sell out like this, you should be ashamed."
Yep, I know it's bullshit, none of it has any meaning except the meaning I give it. That's so comprehendible when life is party, when the good times are rolling. Other times those wise words are hollow and I want to flip them off.
Thus far parenting remains the single greatest smashing of idealism known to me. Humbling my arrogant ass and taking the "Mama knows best" right out of me. All I know is I'm willing to do what it takes. Could this be another opportunity to peel away judgements, suspend assumptions on the nature of things and open up to what's possible?
Fuck Perfect! Fingers crossed and heart opening...
I love you son.
