Epic Mom Fail

Epic Mom Fail

Recently, I have been reminded of our preschool era, the days of extreme mood swings and aggression. The “good old days” when The Boy was still small enough to be moved to a safe spot when needed.

Flash forward about fifteen years. He is still the same happy-go-lucky, smiley, giggly boy, only now he has the teenage hormones and strength to go with it. Now he towers over me, at a little over six feet in height, about 260 pounds in weight. Most of the time, he is still happy and loving. But when the mood swings, it hits like an anvil.

The aggression is no longer outward, at least not in the same ways the preschool version of The Boy was. He bites his own hands now, to the point that there are callouses almost an inch thick on them. I am certain that any nerves that once lived there are long since dead. The only real outward aggression is if he happens to be within striking distance of someone. He does not hit; rather, he grabs said person, usually around the neck, and always while he is biting his own hand. He bites his hand with such intensity that his whole body vibrates. His eyes are often glassy, his face beet red. Sometimes this behaviour is accompanied by an almost guttural growl.

We have been saying for quite some time that we need a plan. We need to find a way into his brain, his mind. We have to topple the barriers of communication between him and the rest of the world. Find a way to let him know that “no” means exactly that, and that it is okay for no to be an acceptable answer. He needs to learn how to accept no, and how to move past it. He has to realize that he has the ability to seriously injure another person, or that he, himself, may be physically hurt by someone else in certain situations.

We have had several incidents over the past year, at home, at school, at social functions, and in the general public, that have proven our point that “something has to be done” about these behaviours. Some of these incidents have been as seemingly benign as removing a hair from another person’s clothing, others have had tones of what some may construe as sexual aggression. In today’s society, his actions may have very serious consequences. I am his mom; it’s my job to teach him, to protect him.

We have had several meetings with different members of his team over the year. Teachers and school administrators. Psychiatry. Mental health. Community support workers. Neurologist. I’m sure there were others as well. Each branch of his team is very knowledgeable and eager to be of service, but we were getting little bits of information from several different team members at several different times. We, as his primary caregivers, were left with the task of piecing it all together to try to make some sort of preventative plan. And we did it. A tour of our home will show stop signs to remind him of places he is not allowed to enter (office space, for example, where all the important documents and work projects are housed), visual schedules letting him know what is going to happen next in his day, chore lists with checklists providing instruction on how to help with the daily housework duties, a board with activity choices he can have for rewards, a sensory schedule. You name it, he probably has it. It has helped with the anxiety of not knowing what is expected of him, but has done nothing to help him understand and accept no as an answer.

This week The Boy and I had an altercation. It began with him wanting the backyard swing. I told him it was “broken,” as it had blown over in the wind the night before. With one arm in a sling due to a muscle injury, I would have to enlist Dave’s help to set it up again. Before I could do so, The Boy snapped. Quicker than the blink of an eye, his face turned almost crimson, his eyes glazed over, his fist in his mouth, every fibre of his being vibrated. His free arm snaked around my neck, and he began to squeeze like a python. Already at a disadvantage with one arm in a sling, I did the only thing I could do. I fought back.

I am literally less than half his size, half his strength, on a good day. That particular day, I was a mere fraction of a percent of his strength. When he “turns,” it is extremely difficult to cut through the brain fog, to get and hold his attention. I somehow managed to get my unslinged arm out from in between us. I knew I had to get some space between us, get air into my lungs. I could not think coherently. It was purely fight or flight. I could not flee, so I fought.

Without thought or even realization, I suddenly found myself backing him up, my fist in his throat. He didn’t stop, which meant that I couldn’t stop. In that moment, we were not mother and son. He had become an assailant, I, his victim. Fight or flight.

The next moments passed in a blur. By the time my vision and mind cleared enough to register what was happening, I had him pinned against the door frame, my hands around his neck. I somehow managed to get him to sit on the floor with a timer set for ten minutes. He was still enraged, still growling and biting his hand. I walked away. I needed space. I needed to pull myself together. I needed air.

As those ten excruciating minutes passed, I tried to make sense of what had happened. How did it happen? How did events escalate so quickly, so violently? How? Why did he act the way did? Why did I react the way I did? The timer sounded the end of the time away. I dried my tears, squared my shoulders, and went in to talk to him, as I do at the end of every time away.

I found him sitting on the couch with his iPad, of all things, asking “Mom smile, please.” I went to hug him, feeling like the worst parent on the planet. That’s when I saw it. Stark, absolute proof. Evidence that yes, indeed, I was the worst parent on this planet. On any planet. While trying to defend myself, I left marks, angry, red marks, on his neck. Gut-wrenching sobs filled the air. I could not stop the tears, the self-loathing. It is my job to teach him, to guide him, to help him make sense of this world, of his own feelings.

I failed. Miserably. It’s my job to keep him safe. Instead, I hurt him. Yes, it was self-defense. No, I could not think of any other way to handle the situation at the time. Yes, he was still smiling and laughing afterward. But I will never forget seeing those marks, knowing I was responsible. Knowing that I failed him.

Dave’s Note:

Both as an individual and as a classroom teacher for over 20 years, I have known many parents, good and bad. Few are completely one way or another. For Judy to call herself the worst parent in the world illustrates how deeply she loves her son and is driven to do what is best for him. She is, in fact, an amazing mother, possibly the most amazing I have ever known. Her flaw is that she tries to take on everyone else’s difficulties without regard for her own. The only thing she does poorly is ask for help.

For the record, I was asleep when all of this happened, and I am furious with myself for it. We have both been ill, both been in pain, and both been exhausted. We have been covering for each other and sneaking in rest when we can, which has, unfortunately, meant we have had very little energy for The Boy. I went to lie down and woke up to the sound of Judy crying. I am the one who is big enough and strong enough to restrain Victor when it’s necessary; it is my job to keep Judy safe. If anyone failed in this incident, it was me.

Our great fear is having to find a new living situation for Vic. We love our little three-person family unit, and we are determined to keep it together as long as we can. It’s just a question of how we get through those walls of his.