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 I read his favorite bedtime stories, his face would light up the room. I watched him perform in all his high school plays, and my heart swelled with pride. This was an interest we shared. When he wasn’t screaming at me.
Then he got sick. Or were those rages among the first symptoms, about eight years before his formal diagnosis? I don’t know if it matters. Nitpicking details doesn’t change the fact that my son is too dangerous to share a spot in my life.
But he does, and always will, occupy a huge place in my heart. I love my son. And I miss him. Happy birthday, son.