“Get in the car.” I said. He looked at me and said, “What the fuck is your problem?” In my head I was screaming, but my face remained calm and resolute. As furious as I was, I had promised myself that this time , I wasn’t going to yell, or scream or even react. I had read enough parenting books to know that a reaction is exactly what he wanted. Giving him a reaction, meant relinquishing my parental power . Giving him a reaction, meant relinquishing control (which was completely laughable, control of what…this whole situation was a fucking nightmare and was completely out of control). I said nothing, took a deep breath, gripped the steering wheel and started the drive home. “By the way, I didn’t eat at school and you are required by law to feed me”, he said. “Yes, you are right, I'll make you a sandwich when we get home and then you will need to go to your room.” I responded. “I’m not eating that shit.” he said. My mom was there when I got to the house. She...
A Mother's Journey Navigating the challenging dynamics of raising a mentally ill child.