The Monster Within

Sometime during the eighth inning, when Ohio and Cleveland fans sat at the edge of their seats, I stood on the precipice of hurting my twelve-year-old son, my body between him and his target, my daughter Olive, half her brother's age, as he clawed his way towards her growling: "I'm gonna get her!"

"Go downstairs Olive. Now!" Which in our cabin means climb down a hand-built steep ladder, with the rungs too far apart. As I looked back to make sure she made it safely, Elias swung and slapped me hard in the face with a hand that is now more muscled than my own.

It took every ounce of motherhood not to swing my arm back at my child.

"Elias, that hurt!"

I could hear Olive crying on the ladder, still watching, not able to pull her eyes away from the beast, as Elias swung at me again, as I deflected his assault, as he fell to the ground-- and in other homes friends and family gathered around the television cheering on a batter: Come on, hit it, hit that ball!

Nick was in town at a fly-tying event, hosted by local fishing guides, a chance to connect with like-minded folk, and I wanted him to have an evening without a text or phone call saying: "Come home now!"

I never expected this to be my life.  

Never hit by my own parents, never saw them hurt each other, never assaulted by a partner, slapped in the face by my son. Who knew I would be attacked by my own pre-teen child because his kid sister reclaimed a toy car he didn't play with from the give-away box and tied it to her plastic trailer.

But this is my life.

I could see it in his eyes as he struggled to untie the little four-wheeler, the storm cloud brewing, blighting the sunshine of moments before, when we played throw-Olive's-stuffed-animals-up-to-the-loft and my boy laughed and bounced and clapped his hands. "Are there more?" he asked.

As he sat on the floor, frustration mounting, determined to pull the vehicles apart that were never meant to be connected, as Olive whined about her toys, my zen-mama failed to emerge, and instead of humor or redirection, I said in my oh-so-adult voice: "Elias if you don't change your attitude the piece of Halloween candy is coming out of your lunch bag."

I know, call me Mother Dearest, how dare I threaten to take away his damn Dots.

Let the eruption begin.

Bring on the hurricane.

Claws get ready to rake skin.

I've been here before. The boundary line struggling to contain Elias's wrath. A moving wall between siblings, punctured by fingernails.

"Mom stop pushing me. You can't push me." Elias said, as I grabbed his hands from my face, my neck, my hair.

"I'm not pushing you Elias, I'm defending myself and your sister. I will not let you hurt her."

In these moments, it doesn't matter what I say. My boy no longer resides in his frontal lobe, he falls through the crevasse of emotion to his brain stem, where his monster mind tells him: FIGHT!

And I too can teeter on that ledge, falling back into anger, I screamed at my son: "Stop hurting me!"

I yelled louder than I've ever yelled as an adult, and not a child full of my own fury, but my raised voice only scared Olive more and didn't stop the beast from swinging his muscled arms in my direction. So I hauled myself out of the dark primitive tunnel and returned to a thinking place where I remembered the words of a dearly respected colleague.

"Elias, you know what Mrs. Justus told me? She said I could call the police when you act like this. Its called assault."

And whether it was Mrs. Justus's name spoken in the town of Seward, over a hundred miles from Anchorage, or the mention of the police, my boy emerged from the place he goes when I can't reach him. That dark hole where his injured nervous system explodes, the alarm bells clanging in unison, where he is more savage than civilized. 

He sat on the ground wiping his tears and I walked over to Olive and wrapped her in my arms: "I'm sorry you heard me yell like that."

"I don't like it when Elias acts like that Mommy."

"Either do I. Either does he."

The air in the cabin felt thick with adrenaline, exertion, and the the heat of the wood stove. "It's hot in here," I said, as I opened the cabin door.

Elias laughed, more of an exhale than humor, and said, "Yeah, it is."

Olive and I left Elias sitting by the fire, with his thoughts I'll never know, and climbed back up the ladder to the loft.

I apologized again for yelling and told her I was hoping to snap him out of it by doing so-- and yet I know I was all emotion in that moment, no logic.

"Like when you opened the door and said it was hot, that made him laugh."

"Yes, like that, that actually worked." Thank goodness for heat and for my body needing air.

Olive and I spent almost an hour safety planning. I showed her how to make an emergency call on my phone. She drew a a map of Lowell Point for the police. We came up with a code word we can text to a friend and neighbor which would mean come pick  Olive up now. We talked about taking a self defense class together.

I made sure she knew I'm not trying to hurt Elias when I appear to throw him on the ground, just deflecting him from hurting me, his impaired balance often helps with the fall. I could see the light returning to her eyes and she told me about her map and chose an emoji to go with her secret code.

She asked if I'd tell Dad, and I told her I would, and she can too and she can talk to other people about it, as I know I'll write about it, as this is how I cope, how I make meaning out of mayhem.

"Mom, are you still going to take the treat out of his lunch?" she asked.

With no walls between us and her brother, only height, I put my finger to my lips and nodded, not wanting the mere mention of candy to poke the bear.

As the World Series paused for a rain delay, the game tied in the tenth inning, I sat between my children reading a book of Olive's choosing, and Elias reached for my arm, pulled it to him so he could see the blood marks better.

I paused and looked at him as he studied the scratches.

"I did that," he said.

"Yes, you did. How do you feel about doing that?"

He let go of my arm and put his hands in his lap, rolling them across each other, head down, eyes lost to me. "I feel bad."

"Thanks for saying that. I feel bad too."

And I think what is harder to bare than the scratches, the red cheek, is the not knowing when he'll sink into that swamp again, the way I can't fully breathe, even when the sun shines within our home, when my children's laughter fills the cabin, when everything appears just right, because the monster lurks in the closet, under the bed, the monster that lives within our own evolving heads.

And I understand how it feels to love someone who can be violent. And to want them to change.  And to believe they can. And to act as though nothing happened after the tornado destroys the calm day, because the mere mention of the fury may make it return.

And I can't just leave, as people often say to victims of domestic violence, as if that is an easy option for anyone. But impossible when the person who strikes out at his family is my dependent son. My heart outside of me, derailing the tranquility, erupting into splinters, as I try to hold the pieces in place.

And I can hear the voice that says put him away. A home. An institution. But this voice doesn't see all the hours in-between aggressive meltdowns, the days I don't write about, when our family is as close to normal as I know.

This voice doesn't know that Elias holding my scratched arm and saying, "I did that," shows a level of understanding not there months ago, progress, hope: the string that leads me from the dark recess of my mind to an overlook... 

 ...where light filters through the cracks, where the prospect of evolution rises like dawn.

Comments

[Crickett]

It's a terrifying place to find yourself somewhere in the middle of an emotional I HATE YOU and an equally emotional I love you. Worn down, drained of inner strength, knowing you need to locate this strength once more. Not knowing when the battle will begin again and wanting so badly to just love your child for all their perfect imperfections. Holding. Just holding on. No real option but to hold on. Hugs beautiful lady.

[Kristen H]

What a scary night for all of you. I am so sorry. You parented both of your amazing children wonderfully - you kept Olive safe and you squared off with Elias, not backing down from the monster. Wow. I applaud your safety planning with Olive and for encouraging her to talk to whomever she wants to about this aspect of your lives. There is no shame, just an increasingly strong brother who, through no one's fault, cannot always control his emotions and the behaviors they drive. And you followed through with the consequences- no candy for Elias' lunch, which is such an important aspect of day-to-day parenting. You handled a volatile situation very admirably, Christy. How did Nick react to these events?

[Cheryl Childers]

Dear one. Phew. Surrounding you, Olive and my favorite all-time 6th grade health student with so much love and white light.xo

[Sara]

Oh, Christy. My heart hurts for the complexity you write about... loving your son as a mama bear, and protecting yourself and your daughter, also as a mama bear. I've had a different situation, dealing with a high functioning alcoholic (now ex-) husband who 99% of the time was wonderful, but still worrying deeply if/when his own, tortured monster would come out, possibly hurting me, or worse, our kids. Emotional injury was the primary concern, but the fear that it could've evolved to physical injury at some point lurked in the shadows, I hate to admit. And when is the right time to wait until--until something gets better or until something gets worse? Sigh. There are no easy answers In your, and probably most, situations except for love and trusting your mama bear instinct. It's the most powerful and usually true one. Will be thinking of you and your family, and hoping that the good parts of our souls prevail even in the hardest moments. ❤️

[Alison]

with you all the time.

[Mark]

Amazing cerebral, evolved understanding of a visceral, instinctual situation. I hope you are able to truly know, completely understand you are doing right by your family and yourself. I respect you and your family. Thank you for sharing

[Tracy]

This past year, year 12, has been the hardest year so far. Puberty and its rages has entered our life. I don't think that our rages are the same as yours but they come and they scare me, and I wonder if they will get worse or if we will manage or if puberty will end and we'll find our sweet boy whole at the end of it. Or at least closer to whole than now.

Autism is our monster and I hate it. Lately I look at pictures from age 2 before the monster arrived and wonder what happened. I wonder if we can keep managing as we get older and older. I was 38 when he was born. I'm not getting younger. He's almost as tall as I am now, 100 lbs and I am torn between keeping him fit and strong and wondering if he'll be able to hurt me sooner than later. I don't know. I wish I did know but the future remains unknown...

[Sheila Duffy]

You amazingly insightful Christy. Sorry for the constant hurt, but sending loving energy to you, Elias and Olive.

[Kate]

I wish I knew what to say here to make this better. Just thinking of you and your family. Hugs.

[Christy]

What gift to read all your comments this morning that I didn't know I had b/c usually my blog server emails them to me but failed to do so this time.

Thank you dear readers for opening up to me here for letting me know that you understand, that I'm not alone in the push and pull of parenthood, of loving someone with the potential to hurt me, my daughter, thank you for your words of love and support.

It was hard on Nick to come home from an evening away and hear that this had happened. "You could have called me," he said, wanting to be here to help protect and defend and yet the reality is we won't always be together when the monster emerges. Thankfully Nick is an amazingly calm and patient man and can often bring Elias down from a rage before he explodes and Nick is also aware of his own anger and knows to step away from his son before crossing a line. We are good at tag-teaming when needing switching between comforting Olive and confronting the beast in our boy. And once Elias's rage runs its circle its like a switch goes on or off and he is back to asking about elevators as if he didn't just want to scratch my face off. I'm learning to not press him to show remorse in traditional ways and finding outlets for my own feelings that still brew after an event.

[Danielle]

Christy, I am late to comment and know that things have since improved. No words of wisdom, just: I'm listening, and I marvel at the beauty you weave from the chaotic, colourful, vibrant, glorious and sometimes dark strands that comprise your daily experiences. You and Nick are producing such a rich tapestry of experiences. Love, D in Zurich

[Christy]

Thank you Danielle, I always love hearing from you. Yes, we are on a smoother tract these past ten days or so but the darkness is always looming. Writing and connecting with this online community saves me every time:)