I Miss You
Today is my baby’s birthday. He’s thirty-three now. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, over fifteen years. This is the boy who, when he was twenty, was diagnosed with four different mental disorders, two of them Cluster B; who was kicked out of college one month before graduation because he refused to stop threatening fellow students; who screamed at me for hours on end; who threw a crystal knickknack at my head and left a huge dent in the wall. I still don’t know why it didn’t hit me.
When he started in on his rages I used to pick up the cat, call the dog, and lock us in my bedroom. Then he would grab a hammer and try to break the door down. To this day, I’m overwhelmingly grateful to my guardian angels. I can’t think of another reason his rages didn’t splinter that door.
Every once in a while I scroll Facebook and discover a newly-created profile that I have to block. Yes, I block my own son. If I didn’t I’d be dead by violence, so if you’re inclined to tell me what a bad mother I am, please keep it to yourself.
And yet, I miss my son. Of all my children, this boy was my cuddle-bug. I found every excuse to sit down, wrap him in his favorite blanket, and just hold him. In parking lots I’d say, “Where’s my boyfriend? Can I hold my boyfriend’s hand?” And he’d reach up and walk me to the door like a proud gentleman. When…
