voices

I always share my blogs on social media, but this will just be for me and my few followers. I have thought a lot about sharing this. Most people will be appalled and frightened and turn away from me like a disease that might be catching. If the stigma is to be broken, then stories must be shared.

My son assaulted me a week ago. He punched me five or six times in the face and head. The attack was sudden and brutal and I didn’t see it coming. Even though, I was surprised in the moment, I guess I’ve known that it could happen. The voices don’t like me. They keep a running commentary about me–“she isn’t your real mom”–“she never loved you”–“she wants your soul”–“she wants your money.” Who knows what else.

I don’t manage his medicine. I used to try, but it was an illusion. He would take it or he wouldn’t. He’s one of those interesting cases where the medicine doesn’t really work anyway. Maybe at best it brings the voices from screaming to a mutinous whisper. So this time, he blitzed me. I have a black eye, my mouth was cut inside and is bruised, but most of the blows were to my head behind my ear and my arm that was shielding my face. I don’t look horrible because my hair is hiding some of the injuries. Emotionally, it’s a different story.

At first, I was numb. I couldn’t take in what it meant. The few people I did tell all had opinions about what should happen. Police. Hospital. Out of the house. The cycle of abuse has started. The genie is out of the bottle; it will be easier for it to come out again. I know about all that, and I’m not saying it’s wrong, but at the same time, he is my son and he is ill. If he had cancer or AIDs, would I kick him out and make him live on the street? I went to social services and asked for help. I went to adult protective services. I’ve been there before. I was turned away. This time fresh bruises got me in the door. They listened and said they’d discuss his case and see if he qualified for services. I reminded them that I’d been before, trying to be proactive. I’m back, lucky this time. It could’ve been worse, maybe next time, I won’t be so lucky, maybe it will be someone else. Who will be responsible at that point?

I was able to apply for some services that my son is not getting and I did find out about a new resource in my community that might actually help with housing and maybe employment. I set up appointments. But that doesn’t fix the situation immediately. My son seems as shell shocked as I do, like he can’t believe that he is capable of what happened. He isn’t denying it, but he also can barely face me. My emotions are stealing in around my armor and my overwhelming feeling is sadness. But a sadness so big, that if I fully unleashed it, I am sure it would engulf me like giant tidal waves and carry me far out into an unreachable place. So I am acknowledging that the sadness is there and allowing it to wash over my feet; I’m not strong enough to swim in it. Yet.

Strength is a funny thing. Every time we come to a crossroad on this journey, I don’t think I have the strength for what comes next, but the strength finds me and I move forward. I am looking for the light. I sure hope it shows up soon.