Staying in the Rage
Last night I posted on facebook about a silly moment with one of my kids. He had been upset and struggled to overcome a bad attitude. After a talk, we began to joke around. He pretended to shove me off his bed, and I held on for dear life while his arms and legs pushed against me. In the midst of the silly moment, my nose pressed into his, I said these words: "I'll always be your mama. It hurts an awful lot to be your mama just now, but I'm not going anywhere--even when it hurts."
The words echoed through my mind all evening--and I think, judging by the way he held me tight for a long time this morning, they did in his too.
This particular child has struggled long and hard with anger. It's been a long journey for all of us, and the road has had some very ugly moments. There have been times when the anger has raged so fiercely in him that he's lost control of himself. When he was smaller, we would wrap him up in a blanket and lay our arms and legs on him. "You've lost control," we'd tell him, "and I'm going to stay here and help you get control again."
We stayed.
As the years have passed and we've given the anger particular attention, the rage has subsided somewhat. But it still creeps up. Anger that sours the entire day. Words that were never intended to spill out. Destruction of things and feelings, left in the wake of his rage. We've met it all head on and chipped away at this mountain piece by piece. We've made huge strides, I think.
But recently, after another heated argument, he crawled under his bed. I went in to his room to talk to him after he'd cooled down. From under the bed, he said, "Why don't you just send me to a psychologist, Mom?"
I was taken aback. Really? Why would I do that? We'd come so far! Didn't he remember what it used to be like? "Why would you say that? Are you serious, or are you just saying that?"
He crawled out from under the bed and looked up at me with pleading eyes. "No, really, Mom. I need help. I just can't get this anger under control."
"OK. We'll get help, I promise."
And we did. I immediately contacted a friend who is a counselor. We met a short time later to talk about everything that had happened, everything we were doing, the progress that had been made, and what might have driven him to ask for help. He knew about all of it, and for a very important reason: he needed to know that when he asks for help, we will take him seriously. That the problems that are too big for him at eight might one day be too big for him at sixteen, and eighteen, and twenty. And when that day comes the same will be true as is true today: we're not going anywhere. We are here to help, no matter how ugly it gets, and how deeply the hurt cuts us. We're not going anywhere.
In the course of that conversation with my friend, she said something that especially stood out to me. She told me not to underestimate the importance of just being there, of staying with him, in a physical sense, while the anger raged. Just like we used to do when he was smaller, laying arms and legs on him until the anger subsided. "Stay with him in the anger," she told me. They were incredibly wise words.
Sometimes the anger and the fear and the emotions flare up. It's too much for any of us, much less for a child. He needs a safe place, a place to let the rage burn out, to vent the full force of it and fight this battle head on. We are that place. We are those people who absorb the blow, who take the full impact of the fury. Who stay. Who aren't going anywhere, no matter how ugly and painful it gets.
The moment last night wasn't as trite as it may have seemed on the surface. They were the words he's been seeing, I hope, lived out day in and day out all his life. There is nothing he can do to drive us away; nothing to make us give up. We will follow him to the darkest places, if need be. We're not leaving. We're not going anywhere. We will take the ugly, the broken, the out-of-control. We are staying.
"I'll always be your mama. It hurts an awful lot to be your mama just now, but I'm not going anywhere--even when it hurts."
The words echoed through my mind all evening--and I think, judging by the way he held me tight for a long time this morning, they did in his too.
This particular child has struggled long and hard with anger. It's been a long journey for all of us, and the road has had some very ugly moments. There have been times when the anger has raged so fiercely in him that he's lost control of himself. When he was smaller, we would wrap him up in a blanket and lay our arms and legs on him. "You've lost control," we'd tell him, "and I'm going to stay here and help you get control again."
We stayed.
As the years have passed and we've given the anger particular attention, the rage has subsided somewhat. But it still creeps up. Anger that sours the entire day. Words that were never intended to spill out. Destruction of things and feelings, left in the wake of his rage. We've met it all head on and chipped away at this mountain piece by piece. We've made huge strides, I think.
But recently, after another heated argument, he crawled under his bed. I went in to his room to talk to him after he'd cooled down. From under the bed, he said, "Why don't you just send me to a psychologist, Mom?"
I was taken aback. Really? Why would I do that? We'd come so far! Didn't he remember what it used to be like? "Why would you say that? Are you serious, or are you just saying that?"
He crawled out from under the bed and looked up at me with pleading eyes. "No, really, Mom. I need help. I just can't get this anger under control."
"OK. We'll get help, I promise."
And we did. I immediately contacted a friend who is a counselor. We met a short time later to talk about everything that had happened, everything we were doing, the progress that had been made, and what might have driven him to ask for help. He knew about all of it, and for a very important reason: he needed to know that when he asks for help, we will take him seriously. That the problems that are too big for him at eight might one day be too big for him at sixteen, and eighteen, and twenty. And when that day comes the same will be true as is true today: we're not going anywhere. We are here to help, no matter how ugly it gets, and how deeply the hurt cuts us. We're not going anywhere.
In the course of that conversation with my friend, she said something that especially stood out to me. She told me not to underestimate the importance of just being there, of staying with him, in a physical sense, while the anger raged. Just like we used to do when he was smaller, laying arms and legs on him until the anger subsided. "Stay with him in the anger," she told me. They were incredibly wise words.
Sometimes the anger and the fear and the emotions flare up. It's too much for any of us, much less for a child. He needs a safe place, a place to let the rage burn out, to vent the full force of it and fight this battle head on. We are that place. We are those people who absorb the blow, who take the full impact of the fury. Who stay. Who aren't going anywhere, no matter how ugly and painful it gets.
The moment last night wasn't as trite as it may have seemed on the surface. They were the words he's been seeing, I hope, lived out day in and day out all his life. There is nothing he can do to drive us away; nothing to make us give up. We will follow him to the darkest places, if need be. We're not leaving. We're not going anywhere. We will take the ugly, the broken, the out-of-control. We are staying.
"I'll always be your mama. It hurts an awful lot to be your mama just now, but I'm not going anywhere--even when it hurts."
