What is the response?

HatredThere is a scene in Mr. Holland’s Opus where Richard Dreyfus‘s wife learns that her son cannot hear and she is unable to communicate with him.  In frustration she talks to her husband, pouring out her anguish at not being able to talk to her son.  All she wants is to be able to talk to him and know that he knows what she is saying to him, “I want to talk, I want to talk to my son!”

I feel her anguish today.

My son has been diagnosed with ADD and a possible additional diagnosis which affects mood and personality.  I am unwilling to sentence him to the mood disorder as yet, I believe that growth and maturity will play some role in this in the future.  The ADD diagnosis fits and sticks.  Besides the “ring of fire” ADD tendencies is the superior mental and verbal intelligence he possesses, couple that with a highly developed intuition and perceptive ability and life here is hectic.  Hectic to say the least.

Tonight, I sat at the supper as usual and it was all I could do to keep from weeping. I watched as he slopped ketchup on his face, unaware of the obvious mess he was making.  Speeding through his meal, I sat listening to the tirade of topics and the mood swings happening right there in front of me.  When reprimanded for disrespectful behavior he turns the re-direction inward and begins self loathing conversation and then balling his hands into fists as he claims vehemently that we hate him.  Up from the chair he bolts to turn on the tv, then back again to snatch a bite of pizza roll, then off and running about some song lyrics, then he is screaming lyrics.  I wait patiently, hoping for a break in the action so that I might have some peaceful conversation.  It does not work, it rarely does.  I stare at my plate and wish for a quiet calm to overtake the house and blanket it in its warmth.  My husband tries in vain to ask me a question about my day and I have no idea how to answer amid the yelling and screaming that will eventually give way to an argument or fight between the brothers.

I look into my son’s eyes, so like mine.  A deep chocolate-brown full of emotion and intelligence.  I sob inwardly when I see them because so often he is motoring out of a place I cannot reach, an illness I cannot solve for him.  I know these upheavals will lessen as medicine doses level out and as he grows and matures.  It does not stop the hurt as I gaze at him.  I want to scream at the disease that commands his body and mind….I want to yell at it to leave my son alone, leave him in peace.  I want to talk to my son…I want to carry on a conversation with my son, I love him and it hurts to watch was has happened and continues to happen.  I fear what happens in his school day, I wonder what the future will look like for him, who are his friends–will they love him as I do?

I listen to the pain in his voice as he spews words of hate at himself or me.  I am afraid when he turns physical, he is pure energy and muscle and will overtake me in height soon.  I have a son that is 3 years younger than him and I am afraid for what may happen in the time to come as they engage in “brotherly love”.  More than the physical aspect, I struggle with what his self-image means at this stage.  I tears me apart to hear him scream that he hates himself and I must hate him too.  From that mindset, he quickly turns to running around, bouncing of walls and looking for something to throw, hit, kick, or wrestle to the ground.  There is a constant power struggle as he tries to thwart my authority as a parent and an adult.  He is intuitive to know exactly what button to push to send my emotions into the blender, when he has me in that spot, he turns on whip for all its worth.  Most of the time I am nonplussed–so he thinks. Most of the time I can shake it off in his presence, there are times when it hurts in a place I will never articulate to him.  Sitting here, watching him at supper I want to reach out and hold him.  I want to rescue him, snatch him up and run away from this and protect him.  I can’t.  It rips me apart in so many ways…I just want to fix it somehow.  I can’t.  I just want to talk to my son…just want…just.

Anyway, I have more to say, but I need to regroup so my little ones here do not see the tower of strength, named, mom–burst into tears.

If you are reading, thank you…I appreciate you letting me vent a minute or two.

Shalom,

cindy.

Advertisements

1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. hannah
    Dec 21, 2011 @ 04:05:04

    God I ask that you give peace and grace to all there at the Larson house, be God the mother hen and gather the Larson’s under your wings of protection and love. Be for them the dove that Noah sent out, bringing promise of the end of this flood. Send them the words, “do not be afraid” on the lips of your messengers and find them a place of refuge, like Elijah in the wadi. Thank you Savior for your constant care, amen.

    Reply

Tell Me What you THINK!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: