Tuesday
There’s so many things wrong (clue: *) about my Tuesday diary entry :
“8.15am, freezing cold morning, minus 1. Left* T2 and T3 at home, both ill with colds*. Was out looking for Teen1 : we were supposed to go to a meeting with the Principal* to discuss his future (or lack thereof) at the school*. Went to Focker’s place* (see post of 12 August) ; when he saw me, he ran out the back. Drove around looking for him, roads icy*. Feeling panicked, frustrated, exhausted, high anxiety*, searching everywhere I could think of. Decided to call police***, talked to a Youth Aid person to ask for advice and help. Shattered. Worried.”
I look back at the day as I write this post and in all of it, I can only wonder at how I am still alive, how there’s no damage to people or property (see 30 July post), and how lucky I am I wasn’t pulled up for illegal driving/mobile phone use.
Tuesday was a really bad day. Following a series of T1s random absences from school, rudeness in class, being caught smoking behind the gym at school, swearing at the principal and then a teacher, a family meeting was requested but Teen1 had decided not to go, exiting the house leaving a trail of expletives and ‘make me’ comments behind him.
As I parked up in a side street, I knew it was time to meet the Police Officers from Youth Aid whom I’d been speaking to by phone of late. I was tired and cold and felt I had run out of options. It was either I went to them, or I had a feeling they’d be coming to me soon enough. The day I finally decided to cross into Police territory, to say my son was at risk, was so hard.
The Officer told me to stop driving around (!!), to leave it to them to look for him; I gave him the Focker’s address, and I went home and waited.
Two officers arrived with T1 an hour later. Sure enough, he was back at the Focker’s place, the adult in charge there uncomprehending as to what the problem was. My son looked hounded, was wet and cold, and I had to keep my arms crossed so as not to reach out and embrace him.
One of the Officers gave him a ‘good talking to’: they pointed out the disrespect he was showing to his home and to me, the danger he was putting himself in, the dead end he was headed towards by hanging out where he was and with whom…
It was ugly. He looked hunted and haunted. (I felt a bit like that myself). What the police officers said to him was no different to what I’d been saying to him, so to hear it from someone else gave me some reassurance that I wasn’t over-reacting or catastrophising the potential risky path T1 was on.
He told them to “fuck off”. That stunned me. The sheer gall, arrogance, desperation, strong will, disrespect – or whatever it was that could have a child say that to a police officer. If anything, his brain was not in working order - that much was certain. I felt like an observer looking through a window darkly. The officer commanded him to get into his uniform, and to get into the police car to be taken to school. Interestingly, he did what they said and they got him there, and into class. Our meeting with the school was postponed.
Sadly, T2 and T3 were both home ill on Tuesday and, from a couple of rooms away, would have heard it all. It breaks my heart that the collateral damage within a family in situations like this my well be irreversible (a boon to future therapists and psychologists probably). I spent the rest of the day close by the two youngsters, quiet, calm, a candle burning, the odd game of cards played, a story read, Tropical Escape muffins made for afternoon tea. How best to heal such wounds?
Wishing all parents calm and peace within, and without.
No comments:
Post a Comment