Paul then said, “I won’t do it again.”
Grabbing Paul, picking him up and putting him in a chair while squeezing his frail arms (in front of his cousin with whom he’d been playing), Jerry screamed, “Don’t you ever talk to me that way! You will not treat me like that! I am trying to tell you something! You were wrong! You were wrong!”
Paul started to cry, and Jerry continued to yell: “You never said you were sorry! You don’t care about Mandy!”
Crying harder, Paul said, “Yes, I do.”
Now in full-blown rage, Jerry screamed, “No, you don’t! No! You do not! You do not care about Mandy! That wouldn’t be your style, would it? You didn’t even say you were sorry!” All of this, with the emphasis on Paul’s supposed character flaws rather than his forgetfulness, was repeated more times than I care to report, or even want to remember.
As a school administrator, I advised many a parent over the years, frequently emphasizing the importance of respect (we cannot expect to receive that which we don’t give); modeling the behavior we want our children to assume; consequences for poor choices that are fair and understandable to a child, bearing in mind that discipline is a component of love. And probably the most important: Don’t put yourself on the child’s level. They have to know you are in charge and when you lose your cool, you lose your effectiveness. None of us is perfect, and children press our buttons. We are human and we make mistakes.
But Jerry broke all the rules, and my desire to share my perspective was often thwarted by fear.
For me, being in a therapist’s office had become almost as routine as going to the grocery store, but at this juncture I couldn’t convince my husband of the merits. So his explosive tactics continued despite my efforts and the warnings voiced by a couple of Paul’s teachers and mental health providers. Mundane occurrences, such as a misplaced remote control or the way laundry was folded, could prompt a no-win interrogation followed by a blow-up and literally days of hostility.
In some ways I became immune to the yelling, but he employed other subtle forms of manipulation, strategies to belittle me or trivialize what mattered to me. One school morning when Paul was a little older, we were having breakfast when Paul announced he needed to take a set of dress clothes to school for that day’s mock job interview.
Mildly impatient with him, I uttered one of those classic parental refrains, “Paul, you need to tell me these things the night before.”
Perceiving this as my reluctance to help him, Paul said, “Please, Mom, I won’t pass my competency if I don’t have the clothes.”
Naturally I got them together. Then, while Paul was at the front door watching for the bus, it dawned on me I had forgotten to pack his lunch. Knowing I was cutting it close, I dashed into the kitchen to pull something together. Jerry entered the kitchen, stood there for several minutes watching me as I flew around, making the lunch.
I said, “Do you think I’ll make it in time?”
He said, “No . . . because the bus already came and Paul left.”
I didn’t say anything more.
*
BY AND LARGE, with some exceptions, Keely was spared the personal attacks. Maybe this was because she was as close to a perfect kid as you could get but, more likely, I think she was spared because she was a girl. While I knew she paid a dear price for his antics at home, I appreciated the void he was able to fill in her life even though, through no fault of hers, it contributed to the trap I was in.
Later on, I came to understand that my husband’s behavior had nothing to do with me. The fact is, he wanted to dominate and control me and thus created an oppressive environment with verbal abuse as his greatest weapon. I learned too that the pain of verbal abuse is as great as physical abuse, but in some ways more insidious because it’s hidden and the perpetrator routinely denies it. And while he inflicted unnecessary pain, he did not destroy my sense of self. Maybe it’s because I didn’t crumble that he picked on the most vulnerable among us, as bullies do, knowing too that Paul was my Achilles Heel.
While I have avoided revealing the most egregious incidents, these challenges were part of the reality of our journey and significant in Paul’s development. The fact is, my shame in having made this choice, and then tolerating the circumstances, trumps any remote temptation to cast aspersions on an individual who is long gone from our lives. Unable to change the past, and fully acknowledging my own failing, I can only hope to help others who may find themselves in a similar trap and for whom my insight may have some value. So often, when in the midst of difficult times, we can’t see the way out.
When a therapist asked me why I stayed, I gave it a lot of thought. Naturally, it was complicated. One thing I realized—beyond my trying to make it work, hoping it would get better, not wanting to give up—was the degree of turmoil in my life that depleted the sort of reserves needed to take on disruption. Also, the children did benefit from my husband’s good qualities. He taught Keely to ride a bike and to love opera and taught Paul to ski, something they did together every year.
Paul’s few friends, outside the network provided by our family and friends, lived far and wide, and Jerry thought nothing of giving up a Saturday to drive to Leonardtown and back, for example, so that Paul could have a playdate. While they loved their biological father, his presence in their lives fluctuated, and they clamored for what children need most—time. And as they lapped up the attention their stepfather did offer, they learned to turn a blind eye to his hurtful behavior. And lastly, I would have been embarrassed within the community we shared, even though I’m now ashamed to admit that “appearances” could have kept me from doing what I knew in my heart was right for me.
The fact is, during these years, my children did not have a predictable home life or an environment in which adult wisdom and dignity were the norm, making me all the more grateful for the grandparents and aunts and uncles whose stability was reliable.
I alone brought this into our world. It is among my greatest regrets.
Chapter 4
Fighting for Our Rights
Lame but expected to carry
Simple but demandingly complex
Creative but left without canvas
Anxious but made to sit
Different but pressured to conform
I SAT ANXIOUSLY in the ARD committee meeting as Paul’s placement was debated. It was July. And all these county officials were seated around the table because of my objection, after the fact, to the outcome of the spring meeting. When a decision was finally reached, I was relieved. Paul’s placement changed from Level IV to Level V—full-time special education services.
It was just after this meeting, and by happenstance, that I became aware of a letter, written in June to the county coordinator for special education and signed by nine professionals who worked with Paul during his year at Annapolis Elementary, including his teachers, the school principal, and the school psychologist:
%%%
Unique is an adjective that has been used frequently to describe Paul. . . . Every effort has been made to help Paul gain the necessary learning behaviors for school success. Paul is a delightful child but we have failed to find strategies that would enable us to meet his needs. In our collective educational experience, Paul is unique. His needs cannot be met in a traditional public school setting. We believe his needs exceed our school system and we look to you to help us find the appropriate educational placement.
%%%
I was deeply moved by this expression of concern for Paul and by the collaborative effort to highlight the extent of his needs. In fact, their advocacy was powerful, and I could see that, maybe, it wasn’t just my persuasive gifts that had inspired this recent placement decision. Regardless, I was on to the next hurdle: Level V services were not provided within any public school in the state.
As