I really thought that two weeks after the incident my left thumb would be completely back to normal. Originally it felt the same as when I’ve sprained it playing basketball or volleyball, something I’ve done many times in my life. Typically, a few days afterwards the pain is gone and I have totally forgotten how I hurt myself in the first place. Apparently this is not the same since after two weeks I have only gained about forty percent of the original mobility and flexibility. I suspect a hairline fracture, but have been too preoccupied by other things in my life to head to the doctor and have it checked. In his intoxicated state my oldest son managed to inflict much more damage than ever before. In fact, it had been over a year since the last time that there were any physical anger manifestations on his part, and at least two years since we originally spent 10 weeks of intense therapy dealing with his intermittent explosive disorder. What I find the most interesting and yet concerning of all is my own reaction to this last incident. For one, at the moment it truly took me by surprise so I had very little chance to brace myself, get out of the way, or even de-escalate the event. One minute I was asking him to be more considerate about his noise level at 4:45 a.m., and the next I was being taken down to the ground in a violent struggle. What amazes me the most is that I was not angry, which probably explains why I found myself in the awkward position on the floor with his fist reaching for my testicles in an effort to inflict excruciating pain. I never truly became aggressive; all I wanted was to get off the floor and away from him. Once I found the opportunity to do so, I retreated several feet away from him but then found one of his shoes hitting the left side of my face. “Why would he do such a thing?” was the only question that came to mind. He then charged again towards me, this time with the intent to kick me with his now shoeless foot, but by then my moment of confusion was over and I was able to react and get out of the way. His foot hit the wall behind me instead and I could see that it hurt him a lot. “You broke my foot!” he exclaimed, which brought an intense stare of amazement on my end knowing that the only reason he was in pain was because he meant to inflict his rage on me in the first place. “I know people that own guns, I could get one and shoot you!” he yelled as he limped away towards his room.
I challenge you to count how many different ways I was injured that day. The physical part of the altercation is but one of so many ways he hurt me. I doubt that many parents ever expect to be in this situation, much less without provocation. The groin pain subsided much faster than I anticipated and the face injury from the thrown shoe did not leave any mark or any residual pain. However, that sharp pain that still lingers in my left thumb is a vivid reminder of the unanticipated moment or rage I encountered from my son two weeks ago. Every time I accidently move my thumb thinking it is not going to hurt, the entire experience comes rushing back alive in my mind.
After 72 hours of “observation,” my son was sent back home. My immediate reaction was obvious internally still fearing for my life, but I never did say much more to him that day than “no drugs, no alcohol in my home,” and then I walked away. Now more than ever I have been sleeping with my door locked, and have not said much more to him than the usual offers of pleasantries and food. He’s approached me several times with the typical $1.50 request to buy coffee at the corner Chevron station and a few other things, but we have not had a conversation with regards to the incident. You see, if he was wired like most of us, then me wanting to set new or more stringent rules would not only make sense, but also be expected. However, I already know that if I raise the bar things only get not just a little worse, but a lot worse. Instead I am buying time, allowing him to meet with his new therapist, letting him discover the damage he inflicted on me on his own and a little bit at a time. He knows I am hurt, it is obvious in my demeanor and how thick the air is between us. The most impacting injury is inside my emotional state. I am afraid of my son, I am sad or more accurately depressed because of how incredibly painful it is to love him so much and be rewarded with so little respect in return. For the first time in 17 years I have felt much more like a victim than I have ever felt before, yet I refuse to accept that role knowing that what has driven him to this behavior is not his will, but his illness.
I have thought about this all day long today and I believe that the reason I have not yet gone to the doctor to have an x-ray done of my hand is because I do not want to lie. If I go in I feel more as a victim by answering the question of what happened to me by giving some lame answer such as “I hurt myself playing basketball,” than telling the truth, “my son became violent and hurt me!” You would think it would be backwards. The truth makes me look so much more like a victim to the outer world, yet lying to hide the fact of being a victim makes me feel weak and not in control of my life. Does this make any sense? It is as if I truly could care less what others think, and what I think matters much more so because I am the one that has to live with myself.
There are moments in all of our lives that can only be understood by the few that experience them first hand. Telling someone of how amazingly happy I felt when I held my children for the first time when they were born does not do justice to the actual feeling in itself. Trying to describe to a stranger our feelings is not only difficult, but in most instances impossible. I believe that is why we have such a difficult time explaining to anyone how sorry we are after hurting them, probably because our life experience has already taught us that getting our point across is mainly futile. Yet we all know how important it is to hear it, to feel it, to be the receptor of an apology; without it we mostly feel lost in our hurt. I doubt it that there could be a greater love manifestation than that which is revealed in true forgiveness. It is the ultimate act of love, to truly forgive.
“I need you to know, even though these words will probably reach you when you have finally become a man, that I love you and forgive you my son.”
Dad
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