Things were sailing through the air again. How hard it was to wrap my head around that fact. I couldn’t stop my own frustration and disappointment from compounding what was actually happening. We were past all of this! “WTF,” I thought. (Sorry, but that is the thought I locked onto. My own shock and tiredness took over.) I picked up a smashed CD, with edges sharp as a knife. A phone charging cord was whipped in my direction. Fast. Furious. More powerful than I remember. He is growing after all.
Sadness. Deep sadness. (Mine.)
Will he always have these cycles?
Will this always happen – when we think we have things sorted and then it gets up-ended?
“I can’t be trusted with electronics!” He says this as he starts throwing them. I beg – totally off script. I beg for him to please, please, please just put things down, let me help him. I am oxygen to his inner fire. I know I should not be here saying these things this way, but I am.
I am deflated. In that moment I am feeling beaten. I am ashamed. As I was defending myself from the flailing cords, I made open-palmed, light but definite contact with the top of his head. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean that.” His betrayed eyes deserved more. I said it: “I am afraid you are going to hurt me with those cords. You HAVE to stop this.” I am completely off script. He stared at me. Shocked, I think, that I said I was afraid. Why couldn’t I stop, regroup, do this right?
Disclaimer: The views and opinions in this article are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of Edmonton and Area Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder Network.