When my husband and I decided to become parents, we thought we would be exceptional ones. While I was never a person who was particularly fond of children, I knew I would become a mom one day and had no doubt that I would do a tremendous job. My trust in my ability to parent well was further buffeted by the fact that I was a high school English teacher; I saw the effects of, what I always assumed was, solid, good parenting as well as the effects of crappy parenting. But, from the place I am standing today, I am not sure that those distinctions were accurate or fair.
My 15 year old son is struggling. Currently a sophomore in high school, he is in the Gifted & Talented Program and a passionate car enthusiast. He is a nascent mechanic, pouring time and money into a 1985 Nissan Pickup Truck he purchased recently for $150. My son has deep, soulful brown eyes like mine. He has an ability to establish a natural rapport with anyone, especially adults. I am particularly proud of the fact that he believes everyone has a story worth hearing and his conversations with people reflect as much. He is first to introduce himself and offer a firm, genuine handshake with a smile.
I first recognized him as a member of my “Soul Tribe” before he was ever born; this was confirmed the first night I held him in my arms. That first night made an indelible imprint on my life: those moments I was completely happy, in-love, and at peace. I was the proud mother of the most beautiful baby boy in the world, and we understood each other; I could feel it even then.
It is because of this deep soulful bond that I share with my son that I have to admit my deepest fear; I think I am failing at parenting. My son has ADHD, apparently I have it too, as we learned when he was in kindergarten. He also suffers from depression and has felt suicidal in the past. I too suffer from depression and it shatters me to know that I passed this disease along to him rather than my passion for reading.
A few minutes ago, I got a phone call from his high school counselor letting me know that a couple of my son’s teachers had reported seeing marks on his arm that suggest that he is cutting himself. When the teachers and counseler confronted him about cutting behavior, he tried to blame it on our cat, which I would believe if the cuts were not in neat symmetrical lines near his elbow.
Immediately, it occurred to me that just this morning, I noticed that my electric knife sharpener was sitting out on the counter. I was pretty sure that I had put it away after I used it a few nights ago. Later in the morning, before going to school, my son was running his pocket knife through it – his now gleaming, extra sharp pocket knife. I said that I didn’t think he needed to be taking the pocket knife to school. He responded that he has been taking a pocket knife with him to school for years and not to assume it was a big deal. I believed him. I wanted to believe him.
But here I am in the moment in which everything is a big deal. Everything has become a big deal. And I am frightened, frustrated, and angry. I feel tired too, exhausted by the weight of trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I neglected, and how it is that I am failing my beloved son.
The irony of parenting is that we seem to think that all of our investments and efforts need to be front – end.
Meaning, the infant and toddler years are crucial and any missteps will lead to near catastrophe. As soon as the double lines appear on a home pregnancy test, we buy volumes of books and register for multiple baby – care classes. Fortunate new mothers are able to find a mother-baby group with whom they are a good fit. The social support helps offset the onset of “new mother worry” and our babies are, hopefully, benefitting from their exposure to peer interaction.
My mommy-baby class was called MotherLore and was led by a nurse. We met weekly and all of the attendees were first time moms with babies who were about the same age. We were able to ask the nurse questions about our babies. Our nurse-leader helped guide us through the conflicting theories about “on-demand feeding,” “co-sleeping,” ” ‘breast-is-best’ vs. bottle feeding” and the dreaded “nipple-confusion” that threatened to ruin successful breastfeeding.
Fast-forward 13 or 14 years. Many of us dedicated much effort to getting the formative years right. Some of us worked, some of us stayed home, but ALL OF US did the VERY BEST JOB WE COULD.
What I did not expect is that the issues with which I desperately needed help would land on my doorstep about the time we entered the Middle School Years.
I noticed my son struggling in ways that I couldn’t assuage with an ice-cream cone and a heart-to-heart talk. My son tried working with two different therapists; unfortunately, neither was a good fit. The biggest benefit for my son seemed to come from the talks he and I had in the car while driving to and from the therapy appointments themselves.
High School has arrived, and I am in real trouble. I am struggling with my own issue with depression, bipolar- flavored. Things that seem easy to most people feel insurmountable to me. Basic things: managing a household, preparing meals on a regular basis, getting any of us to arrive anywhere on time. Our house looks like I am auditioning for a spot on the tv show “Hoarders” but I’m not quite making the cut.
What makes me feel worse is that since childhood I always dreamed about having a beautiful home. We have what should be a beautiful home, but we are not living a beautiful life inside our house.
What is more frustrating ~ terrifying is the more precise word ~ is how I feel that I cannot talk about what is really going on – to anyone.
Few things are as obnoxious to me as Social Media.
While I am well-aware that most people are mindfully curating what and how they portray their lives, I still find myself feeling “less than.”
I compare the life I am creating for my family to the ones other mothers are providing while managing to keep anything untidy and unattractive away.
Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy seeing people thrive and succeed.
I am genuinely pleased when friends post a child’s most recent accolades and accomplishments. I could list many right now with pride and admiration for each of them.
The problem is I can’t bloody well post, “Well – today the school called me to report that my son appears to be cutting himself and is managing to fail ALL of his classes, even though we are only four weeks into a new semester.”
Nope.
There is no safe mothering group with whom I can share these things.
I have “mom-friends” whose children are close in age to my son. However, the last thing I want to do is disclose anything to those women ~ at least things about my own children’s struggles and issues.
It is worth pointing out that I am quite comfortable sharing my own, but that is different.
We live in a competitive area; admitting your child’s vulnerabilities is just not done.
All this to say, the time in which I could use some solid support from my fellow mothers of teens is about now.
I have so many questions, multitudes of frustrations, fears that cause me to have panic attacks, and thoughts that keep me awake at night all playing against a chorus of, “all of this is your fault.”
The same chorus also sings about how unfair it is that I seem to be the only parent dealing with these issues.
Intellectually, I know this is not true, but it certainly feels that way. I am furious, and I just want to scream from the injustice of all of it.
And I wonder if I am making everything better or worse; if only I could just know for sure I could move confidently in one direction.
In the back of my mind, I know that somehow this is my fault.
Regardless of my intent; in spite of all of my love, I am just not enough.
At least I don’t know how to be enough for what shatters his soul. I just wish it was me instead.
Daughter of Circe 