the meltdown

I spent a good part of the day Tuesday wrapped up in blankets on my bed, sleeping dogs flanking the perimeter. The phone went unanswered except for once, the housework stayed unattended. Outside it was unseasonably warm, but with the promise of a dramatic temperature drop by late evening and a strong chance of snow flurries. On paper a lovely day. But it was not quite what it seemed.

Sasquatch had a monumental meltdown Monday night. A meltdown of epic proportions. Tipped over living room furniture, threw mail all over the entry hall and then moved into the kitchen. Emptied my fruit and vegetable baskets (one deliberate banana and onion at a time) against the sliding glass door, broke my brand new Ikea napkin holder, flung a pile of plastic hangers from the laundry room all over two rooms, sprayed shaving cream on the bathroom floor, upended a box of Wheat Thins into the bathtub and methodically took every single sponge and implement from the side of the kitchen sink and tossed them into the air, verbally taunting me the whole while. The happiest week of his life had been when I was in California. I was a liar and a cheat and a thief. My only reason to live was to torment my children.

All over a video game.

I tried at first to stop him but realized quickly that that was spurring him on. I was standing, back to the sink, watching him in disbelief when the FG walked in the back door to madness. It went downhill within minutes.

All over a video game.

I stood in my entry hall wrapped in my husband's arms and I cried so hard that his shirt stayed wet for the rest of the evening. All I could think of was Am I that bad a mother? And soon, the battle raged. The FG, infuriated, not only for himself, but especially for me. The younger boys scattering like marbles, running upstairs to huddle together in a bedroom, while the sounds of out of control fury lashed out around them. Sasquatch blindly saying and doing anything to hurt and humiliate. He hated us and knew we hated him. He accused my husband of physical abuse, and then, nose to nose, dared him to touch him.

And then, inevitably (and too late), came the remorse. The tears. The I'm so sorry I should never have done that/You know I can't control my temper when I get that mad/I didn't mean anything I said/Can't we just forget about all of this and try to have a nice Thanksgiving remorse. He cleaned up everything he had destroyed. He apologized to the boys. He apologized to me. He did not apologize to the FG, because there is a layer to their anger at each other that goes beyond a simple apology.

I know how terrible all of this seems on paper and I wish there was some way I could explain it so it makes sense. Sasquatch is at heart a wonderful kid. A generous, compassionate, funny, brilliant, loving kid. But...he is also exactly like my father. He is never wrong. Nothing is ever his fault. The world, somehow, owes him, and he doesn't like it when the world doesn't deliver. He has had anxiety issues in the past and even flirted briefly with an OCD diagnosis (which I don't think is accurate). He's been to see therapists and he's been on meds. I've dragged him from pillar to post trying to figure out what in the world is going on. He never cooperates with the doctors (or nurses or therapists or psychiatrists) because he thinks the whole thing is "ridiculous". Over time it's all come down to good old teenage angst. But I don't believe that. I want to, but I don't.

My husband was raised in a military family by a real "man's man" who did not hesitate to respond physically to his children. His was a You'll do it because I told you to kind of household. And there was hell to pay if they didn't. My mother-in-law, much as I love her, took no gruff either. As much as they could (and did) do behind her back, I cannot imagine any one of her children engaging in open warfare with her. It simply would not have been tolerated.

So it has been hard for the FG to not just haul off and let Sasquatch have it. But he hasn't. He has grabbed him a few times when the kid was totally out of control. He slapped him once, years ago, and has never been allowed to forget it, even though he apologized profusely and immediately. Every time there is a situation like this he's accused (by his eldest son) of beating his children. Every time.

My son is out of control and my husband is impotently furious and then there's me. I'm a mess. My chest hurts and I can't breathe and I feel like I'm moving through my day through a wall of water. My grandmother was only a few years older than I am now when I witnessed the dramatic appearance of her bleeding ulcer. I keep thinking I'm on that same track.

Tuesday night update: Sasquatch has been very sweet and apologetic since he got home from school. He has told me over and over again how sorry he is for his behavior and that he didn't mean anything he said. He has vowed to work on controlling his temper. He and the FG are talking and things between them seem cordial. Gumby is behaving as usual, although Surfer Dude is a little quiet. It's the calm after the storm. I'm always so afraid of the storms.

He used to have these eruptions often, but they've gotten a lot less frequent. I know he really is trying. Now having said that, last night was without question one of the worst explosions ever. Not the worst, but one of the worst. At least this time it was directed at the FG and I and not his brothers. I know he'd never hurt his brothers (at least physically), but verbally he can say some just ungodly things.

Sorry. This is a very choppy and disjointed post. The synapses aren't quite firing.

I just can't take this any more. And I have no idea what to do.