Rebound

When I talked to the Boy Sunday night, he was in a great mood. Cheerful, in fact, which was surprising considering he punched a hole in the wall Wednesday night. I didn't think he'd be happy to tell his parents that he "done fucked up."

But he was. He was happy (and I daresay proud) that this punch gave him awareness of how far he has come, how much progress he has made, in the past two years.

"I felt like I did when I was at home," he said. "I was reactive and explosive. I saw what was happening. I was upset for about ten minutes, and then I calmed down." He went to the brink and instead of fully going over the edge, he came back. He sounded relieved, grateful, and proud.

While the Boy talked, I just listened. I didn't pepper him with a hundred questions. I let him flow with his thoughts and words. Isn't that what most people want--myself included: be heard and then held? As a parent, the hardest thing I am learning is to listen. Just listen. Not give advice. Not ask leading questions. 

Just listen.

The Boy relapsed and recovered. He didn't collapse. I didn't rescue or fix. He is learning to take care of himself. 

I have to give his girlfriend some credit here, too. She told him it was dumb that he skipped class last week because he might get grounded for the weekend. Her words have far more impact than mine or his therapy team's. She speaks, he listens. I am grateful that her words to him (that I know of) are honest, direct, caring and kind.

The Boy turns eighteen later this month. His birthday is a few days before mine. Soon, he will no longer be the Boy. Perhaps I should come up with a new pseudonym for him on my blog.

Or maybe not. 

Now, this is becoming his story to tell, not mine.