wonderful. lovely. dropped my children off at school this morning after a morning filled with fighting, yelling and hurt. it started off as any other morning, but my oldest was tired, and not happy with me waking him up for school. i let him sleep in a bit- but he was still frustrated, and in short order, he had everyone here whipped up into an emotional frenzy. he was focusing in on my next son, which is a common occurrence. after he went after him several times, and i had scolded him and tried to redirect him several times, he went after him again and hit him. my middle son then cried out in desperation, 'mom, please can i be in another family. please. i want to be in a different family.' he was sobbing, and my heart was shredded. this is mental illness. this is the face of the pain it can inject into families. this is the fallout of a brain that works differently than others do. the pain that those words seared into my heart won't soon lessen. i looked back at my oldest son and yelled- 'do you see what you're doing to him?! your bullying is killing his spirit!' my middle son just sobbed as he clung to my leg, and i stood in the middle of the storm wanting to die. wanting a do-over. wishing that i could somehow change, or stop or reverse the struggle we've had for so many years.
my oldest blinked- recognizing to some degree that he had hurt both me and his brother- i know he didn't mean to, and hurting our hearts wasn't his intention- but it was the result of his anger, his impulse, his irritation. the saddest part is that my angry response to him, provoked by the hurting heart of my middle son, poured acid into his soul. i hate this cycle. i hate that i'm not more patient. mature. gracious. i hate that i get so angry, and so hurt, and am so easily jerked around by his mood.
the truth is, that my anger isn't really with him. i hate the behavior, and i get angry about the drama it creates in our home, but I'm not angry with him as my son. sadly, i don't think that's the message he hears. i try hard not to stab with my words- words that would make me feel justified in the moment, but that would create a crust of oozing pain over his heart. but i do yell. i try so hard not to... and then he hits his brother, and through the broken hymn of a shattered heart, my mama bear instinct kicks in and i yell to defend the wounded. it's a sick dance we share, and one that is often repeated multiple times in a day.
it's night now. i started this early this morning. when the pain was fresh, and the hurt was raw. i wound up writing him a letter telling him what i need him to hear. that i love him, that i am proud of him, and that i hate our fighting. he received it well... then on his own went to his brother to apologize and to tell him that he loves him. thankful for those victories. it's messy here. if you stick around, you'll begin to see- but it is also beautiful. as momastary blogger Glennon Melton says- 'life is brutiful'. a thick mixture of being brutal and beautiful. i couldn't agree more.
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