Running Away From Home Follow-Up Post

The next seven days after he ran away from home had been nothing more than miserable.  I miss my happy self.

Being a person led by her heart, I let my emotions display on my face, openly.  I don't have the gift to suppress my emotions within myself, it's suffocating.  When I am happy, people around me feel it.  When I am sad, people around me feel it too.

I haven't smiled, much less laughed, for a week.  I felt like a robot performing chores and making meals, without any emotions attached.  I wasn't a good listener, things that went into my ear from the left came immediately out on the right.  I didn't know what the kids try to tell me.  I didn't laugh at their jokes.  I couldn't.  I went to bed early with them, while they slept, my eyes were wide open.  I couldn't sleep.  My mind was filled with questions; the why's, the what's, the how's, the when's. My mind was filled, at the same time, with nothingness.  Nothing registered.  When I did sleep, my sleep was light.  Each time, I would wake up and then questions and nothingness bombarded my mind once more.  I am usually a sound sleeper.

I also lost my appetite.  It is an unbelievable phenomenon for someone who comfort eats all the time.

I have met with a major stumbling block in my journey as a mother.  Being a mother to a teenager is just all too new to me.  His running away shocked me to my core.  To say I was shaken is an understatement.  I didn't think this was ever going to happen to me - my son running away from me.  I was naive, I was too sure of myself, I was always confident of my parenting style.  He showed me otherwise.

My son that I love so much, my very first baby; the one who gave me the first experience of motherhood, the one who propelled me to learn everything about total breastfeeding (that his brothers and his cousins, I think, eventually benefitted, though not him, at least not fully) because I knew too little about when he was born; the one whom I celebrated his first steps with; the one to surprise me with his ability to understand complex Math concepts at a very young age; the one that I felt so hurt when he said someone from his school passed negative comments on him; the one who I want to protect but at the same time, let him learn to stand on his own feet; the one who soothed me, helped me when I was down at times; the one who fought several arguments with me; the one who helps me reach for things from the shelves that I couldn't; the one who asks for my opinion which hairstyle would suit him better; the one who teaches me that loving him doesn't necessarily mean that I should accede to all his requests; the one who bears the most brunt from me simply because he is my first child.  He shows me, step by step, how being a mother is like.  With him, I made (and am still making) several mistakes which I subsequently didn't repeat on his brothers.  Trials and errors.  My guinea pig.

I talked to friends, friends with kids and friends with adult children.  I searched the Internet for answers.  I reflected hard, on my actions and words; behavior and attitude.  There wasn't any solution.  Amanda asked when I was going to be happy again.  Until I see a solution to what I am facing, I don't think I will be able to feel happy.

But this sorrowful week must end.  I wanted desperately for something to happen.  Something good.  A turn for the better.  Some positive vibes.  But what?  I didn't see anything that might appear positive or favorable in sight.

I was living in denial.  I know I am the root cause.  But I had dedicated the entire week trying to look for a scapegoat to the cause of my misery.  Like anyone who would say, "not me!" when they are first found guilty, I discovered I am not any different from them.  "It wasn't my fault." is so much easier to  shrug off any responsibility.  No wonder my kids do that all the time.  In fact, any kids, not just mine.  It is human nature.  Sigh!  For a split second, I thought I was different.

When it became too apparent that I am my root cause to my misery, it was time to talk to myself.  Well, I chose an audience.  I asked Bart to spend a few minutes with me before his bedtime.

We had a long, intimate talk.  The gist of our talk is all in this post.  Tears were shared as we both bared our souls.  His tears escaped his eyes when he learnt I had a tormenting week, that I was deeply hurt and very much affected by his running away.

"But we are ok again, right?"

"Bart, I fell.  The cut is deep.  The wound might have healed, but the scar will always be there."

I felt horrible as a mother who had screwed up on her son, the one who was responsible in driving him away.  I did not know how to connect with him anymore, I felt he was distancing from me, deliberately.  

I wanted him to understand how it is being me in my shoes.  I said he would never be able to feel nor totally understand  how I feel no matter how precise my narration of what I was going through is.  And I understand that he doesn't understand.  He is not expected to.  He will never be a mother (but a father, hopefully one day), he hadn't yet need to experience all things adult even though he is slowly going to.  He is only 12.

I want to walk this journey with him.  Hand in hand.  Side by side.  Not he following me.  Not I taking the lead.  I want him to guide me, show me his world of thoughts, help me be a better mother, a mother of a teenager.  In another one and half year, mother of 3 teens.  And another few years, 4.  By the time Johann becomes a teen, I would be a seasoned mother of adolescents.  Thanks to him, and his brothers.  Because he is the first, he would, unfortunately, have to bear a lot more than his brothers as I learn.  But he would have the honour, on the other hand, that could claim the most credits in teaching me on how to be a mom we all " look up to".

There was one simple thing that bothered him.  Just one, when I asked him if there was a second.  Boys are so straightforward, aren't they?  It turned out that he had been extremely dissatisfied that We had gone back on our words of giving him his weekly pocket money.  We didn't want to give freely.  We wanted to give, with conditions.  Clean room, some basic house chores, good attitude.  It is our way of teaching forming good habits.  At times, he met with the conditions, but we didn't keep to our side of the bargain.  That left him very sour and most probably the reason why he always seem to hold a grudge against us, me especially.  And this grudge has to be vented somehow, somewhere, and members of the family become his easy targets.

"You see, when I go out with them, my friends get pocket money and they could buy things they like but I can't."

"Did your friends say anything?"

"I said I don't get pocket money and they said, 'Then you can't buy.' "

Tears flowed from his eyes.  I felt his pain.  His anguish.  His sense of feeling left out.  I was torn.  At this point, I finally realized I haven't paid attention to his emotional outcries.  He had tried umpteen times to get this message through, but none of us took it seriously.  Everything starts to fall into place.  

This will change.  For the better.  For a brighter outlook, with immediate effect.  We discussed a system, he will get his pocket money and I will help him earn them, with conditions.  I will throw in bonuses even, when he performs exceedingly well or do more than, within reasonable limits,  he is required.  The best bonus would be rewarded to the right attitude.  Looks like we have a plan.

We agreed the plan would be version 1 as there will sure be modifications along the way.  Just so no one could complain later.

It is the first morning after one week that I woke up feeling rested, feeling hopeful.

There is a reason to every thing that happens.  I now know the reason I couldn't see before.  God bless his soul!