COME UNDONE — PART 2

“Lost, in a snow filled sky,

We’ll make it alright to come undone”

DURAN, DURAN

TERM 2

We scrape through that first term — all of us learning so much about one another and ourselves. Picking him up to come home after that term was easy. His spirits high, me elated at having my boy back in his cocoon. I allow him everything — late nights, junk food, gaming, sleeping in till midday and everything else we do as parents to overcome our guilt. He had a tough term, I had a tough term. Instead of trying to teach him to overcome all these emotions, I leaned into them and acquiesced to everything he wanted. I knew, somewhere in my sub-conscious that what I was setting was a dangerous precedent for future visits and yet — I couldn’t stop myself. I overcompensated in the hopes that I would be able to tip the scales in favour of the decision I was making to send him back for term 2.

The time comes too quickly to drop him back and, once again, we are cloaked in heaviness.

He knows better now what to expect, and so do we. The first term fantasy that it would be fun and an all-day everyday slumber party has been thoroughly quashed. Reality has set in. It isn’t pretty. Dropping him back to school after his 3-week break at home in Kenya where he was safe in his cocoon was much harder than the first time I whisked him away to school. This time he knew the reality of what was to come; his rose-tinted view of what school life could be had been shattered. Anxiety, fear, sadness all wrapped him up in a cloud so dark that he couldn’t seem to see his way through it. I know this feeling — I have lived it. Then it struck me. How much of myself and my own wounds am I now projecting onto my child? How do I separate my pain from his? I know he will pull every trick in the book to make me break. He does. I do. Tears flow from the second we take off. I hold him as he cries and as I cry, no words, just sadness that we pass back and forth between us. I have changed our strategy. My husband and I decided that staying in-country with him for the first two weekends would perhaps help him settle in more. I realised that, this time, a drop off followed by an immediate flight home wasn’t going to work for either of us. He needed to know I was close by, I needed to be close by. My rescue mothering mode was activated and tuned up to maximum strength. The knowing that we were not oceans apart — but just next door — ready and eager for the next time we could see one another abated our fears slightly.

We have one day of shopping for all his supplies which gives us a brief stay of execution from what we know is coming. As we take the long drive to school, the beauty of the countryside envelops me and I hold onto a sliver of hope that this term will be better — it takes time they say. I don’t know who “they” is, but I hold onto that line as I know that my patience is waning. The turn off the main road and into the country road brings with it more tears. The mist that had formed and was now hovering above the meandering midlands road seemed to reflect the mood we both are in. I talk to myself about staying strong, staying steady and holding space for my boy. His fight, flight and freeze response is fully engaged. We travel in silence as he contemplates what is in store for him and I chide myself for doing this to him. If anyone else had put my kid in this pain I would go ballistic. It feels like I am the one that is hurting him. If it is me, who do I blame? Who do I scream at? I swallow the lumps that have formed in my throat as I steer the car along the winding road that leads to the dreaded destination. I can’t hold it any longer, my vision is blurred. I pull over and we hold one another whilst exchanging silent pleas — him begging me not to leave him there, and me begging the universe to help me cope with both our pain.

We sit in the stifled car that is bursting with so much to say, but all the words that come to mind seem deficient — unable to truly capture and convey the depth and expanse of our emotions. I hold him hoping that he can feel my love, my energy. And then, in that particular moment, somehow, I found an inner strength to let him go. I tell him that this is not goodbye but a “see you on the weekend”. His courage and bravery in stepping out of that car is something I am incredibly proud of. To find it in himself to tear himself away from me when everything in him was asking to be shielded — that is courage. He walks away, shoulders slumped, stooped over with a heaviness; I realize I had stopped breathing. As he rounds the corner, out of view, I break. Again.

This school has strong male traditions. It’s an all-boys school filled with male energy that is transforming young boys into young men. As any parent with teenager boys could tell you — no matter where your kids are — it’s a tough transition. I am now supported by a course run by the school called “Strong mothers, strong sons” run by psychologist and author Megan de Beyer. She speaks to us weekly about what to expect and one of the things that resonated with me was learning how to avoid springing in to rescue your son and teaching him to instead rescue himself.

The daily phone calls I now receive are characterized with a morose tone and deep fear. I didn’t expect fear. I expected sadness, home sickness, a missing of all the creature comforts of home. But not fear. High schools are notorious the world over for the chasm between the ages. This school is no different. There are 13-year-old and 18-year-old boys sharing a house. The power balance is tipped in favour of the elder boys and the young, impressionable, home-sick ones take the brunt of their dominance. The underlying culture that resides deeply in the historic walls of this school and supports the hierarchy system within it, feels unfair to him . These are the injustices that are swirl around in his mind and expressed to us over and over on each call.

The calls are more frequent now and suddenly I realise the blessing here. Before embarking on this chapter in his journey, he was hugely introspective and never forthcoming with his emotions. I would try for hours on end to get him to share what he was going through on a regular day only to be met by stony silence. Yet now, much like a vintage bottle of champagne that has finally been uncorked, my boy bursts forth with his feelings and emotions with an energy and expressiveness I had never heard before. I am suddenly learning about him in ways I never could have imagined. He is sharing his soul with me, and I am learning how to validate and just hold space for him. The first few calls I fell into our old pattern of trying to “fix” things for him, but knew that this was disservice even as I did it. Teach him to rescue himself became the new mantra.

Swiftly, I switch gears. I am tired of the calls that are filled with anxiety, anger, sadness and my patience for this process has all but disappeared. I am firmly pushing the “suck it up” model and, as I am sure you know, that emotion does nothing good for anyone involved. Instead of trying to teach him to discern the difference between bullying and boarding school culture, I tell him to accept it all. Bad mothering 101. There seems, to me and to him, to be a very fine line between the ‘become-a-young-man’ culture at an all-boys boarding school and outright bullying; the lines seem blurred and the goal posts of definition shifting continuously and confusingly. I didn’t get the benefit of meeting parents and teachers to get a finger on the pulse of the dynamic at this school prior to dropping him off. Covid made sure of that. The word “bullying” is used so interchangeably these days and we forget that kids are at most times just honest. Kids point out your flaws in an open and candid way that leaves no room for misunderstanding. He couldn’t separate how some kids did this with meanness in an attempt to hurt, and other kids would merely point them out in an observational capacity. Nonetheless, words hurt. The truth about our “not-so-great” qualities hurts. And he was hurting.

I am tired of this negative energy and in sore need of some peace. The hotel I had checked into 20 minutes from his school had a beautiful balcony overlooking the Drakensburg mountains. They leave short bedtime stories on your pillow and lo and behold the one that evening happened to be a true rendition of a boy’s escapades at this same school. The memoire is filled with lightness and laughter and I think ‘when will I hear this version of school life from my son’? I decide that all I need to focus on is to get him through this first week until I can see him again. That’s the bargain I make with myself. Take it day-by-day. My meditations and prayers are filled with images of him, hopes for him, hopes for us. Sitting at the foot of these mountains, with nature showcasing its beauty, creates a small expansion inside me. A glimmer of hope — it will be ok. He will be ok. The week passes without anything different. He is still in a downward spiral and I am still in ‘suck it up’ mode.

****

The time has come where I can spend time with him on campus. It is a closed weekend where the boys are expected to stay on campus. It is a stunning 500-acre school with sprawling lawns, huge mature trees, lakes, rivers. Truly a haven of peace from the moment you drive through the gates, it oozes with history radiating from architecture that blends sympathetically into its surroundings. I spend hours with him helping him cultivate a new friendship. In falling into more mothering rescue mode instead of letting him take the lead again. I notice something I hadn’t before. His safety in friendships is inextricably linked to our friends’ kids and the family and friendship bonds and networks that define them. His closest friends back home are all the children of people we, his parents, are close to. This new friendship I am working so hard to help build for him seems more natural to him as we have got to know this family. We talk for hours, me and the two boys, learning all about each other. The kids begin to open up and start to share their fears with one another and start to actually bond. I am relieved. As I listen to him share his stories, I gather that he seems to be living a dual life — a sadness that he doesn’t love his new home, jostling alongside an upbeat, intermittent and fleeting glimpse of hope in him. It’s tiny — but I can see it. Saying goodbye to him until the next weekend wasn’t so hard this time. For either of us. He walked away smiling and I patted myself on the back for a job well done. The exhale came. Finally.

It didn’t even last 24 hours. The devastating floods that usually follow the initial tsunami now rolled right in. The call received at lunch time the next day. A story of deep betrayal by the actions of boys using their power to rip him of his voice, of his consent. They made him do something he didn’t want to do. It wasn’t a hugely terrible thing — and in truth it started for a great cause — but the stripping away of his voice, his choice, triggered me. I was in a blinding fury. The word consent — such a huge eruption for me. All the work I thought I had done to let go of this particular demon seemed to evaporate and anger took over. My own emotions fueling the mother tigress in me, I let forth a maelstrom of choice words and high pitch screams aimed directly at the perpetrators, those people that dismissed my boy’s rights. Rude and unapologetically full of rage.

Then I was done. I was ready to rip him from the claws of this institution without another thought. Multiple calls, strategies, decisions consumed me for the next 3 days. I was unable to separate my wound from his and, let me tell you, it’s the worst way to try and make decisions. Circling around the options over and over, dropping into confusion, then anger at all the adults who had promised to take care of him — I felt betrayed. It took four days and an ocean of tears to get me back to an even keel. To see clearly what the right options were. Yes, I could charge my way into the school and pluck him out into what I considered safety, or I could pause, I could breathe and separate my story from his. This is where the hard work came in. I used meditation techniques, music and loads of cigarettes to just take a minute and not run in to rescue him. Whilst he begged me alongside his allocated “big brother” within the school, to let it go — I couldn’t. I was getting on a plane in 3 days to fly far away again and I needed a resolution, a solution even. I needed to be the “fixer”. Then I had another revelation…here is the thing you have to remember, the thing I suddenly realised — trust your instincts. Whilst you sit in a flurry of emotions — the trick in the moment is to remember — they are all fleeting. Whatever it is. The pain, the anger, the sadness, the fury. Sit in it. Let it take the time it needs to pass. Gathering opinions, advice and recommendations from everyone around you only increases the distance between you and the truth of your soul. Whilst it feels great in the moment to be externally validated when you are spinning, all it does is move you further away from your truth. Once I was able to allow all these feelings to pass, I sat in stillness and listened carefully to what my truth was. The answers all lay within me — I just had to pause to access them.

New plans were set in motion and a deep knowing that if things didn’t go the way I planned, I was willing to walk and take my boy with me. I drive back through the countryside with a new determination. No pausing to admire the landscape this time, just a laser focus on the mission. An empowered mother whose voice carries more weight that the 125-year-old bricks that make up the shell of that school. I was eerily calm. That’s what happens when you listen to your inner truth. There is no frenetic energy, no wavering, just a stillness inside that holds you steady.

The discussions I had with all the powers that be were more than I could hope for. I was reassured that instances of true bullying had immediate consequences for the offenders — the lines are not drawn in the sand but firmly communicated. But I learn that this particular incident, whilst painful, was not truly done with the intent of harming my son. It was not even one of those hazings or an initiation that you hear about at boarding schools — it was simply an activity to connect all the boys together, to pull in one direction as a house, as a team, and, in truth, would have done him more harm than good if he hadn’t participated. This is where we have to listen to people on the ground and be open to learning. Be open to changing long held beliefs and trusting the people whom you have empowered to have his well-being as a priority. I am allowed to take him off-campus so that we have an opportunity to process all that has happened together. He is back in my arms — emotionally safe, for now.

****

Tough love — uuughhhh, I hate those words. Love is love. There is no word before or after. And yet that is the only phrase I have to describe the conversations that I had with my son that weekend. I don’t think we have ever spoken that much in his 13 years put together. Understanding him, validating him and then showing him the way forward. We as parents seem to have this idealistic view that we want “happy” kids. The truth of it is that we need kids to feel the whole human experience — fear, anxiety, sadness, happiness, anger, peace, all of it. They need to learn to get through those feelings and sheltering them from the true human experience and, if I am honest, doing all I can to stop this in the past is damaging. I have done this to both my kids numerous times. They need to learn the skills and master the tools to help them overcome challenges they face on the playground, or anywhere for that matter. That is at the heart of the cocoon we built for him for 13 years but the cocoon is not really a protector, it is the thing than that stops him from growing and spreading his wings — however painful that transition may in fact be. I — and he — must break it open and let him learn how to rescue himself in order to transform himself.

But that shit is hard.

My innate reaction is to protect my cub and ‘fix’ things. I knew that stepping in to help him navigate this one particular situation was necessary. He needed to know that when things got too hard to handle that I would always have his back. I needed to know that he would be safe before I had to say goodbye again. I learned that my need to jump in headfirst at every turn was superfluous to his need. I learned that I could show him how to handle certain situations on his own and to trust his instincts and values that would hold him steady. I learned how to trust again — the people who were all rallying around him at school, in the country and the universe. I learned to listen to the whispers of my instinct and trust them. I learned to let go just a little more than I had that first term.

Were there more bumps in the road? More hurdles to overcome? Hell yes — but armed with more knowledge, I didn’t dive in with anger, fear or sadness. I paused, I listened to him vent without judgement, I didn’t rush to fix it, I asked him what he thought would help him, I showed him how to trust the adults that were there to guide him. Some days it worked better than others, for both of us. Another big difference this term was that I had time to miss him. In between the flurry of frenzied calls, my instinctual reaction to not react gave me room to just miss all the things I love so much about him. His sense of humor, his strong moral code, his resilience, his courage, his kindness. So, in missing him, I cried, and then I painted for him. I channeled the sadness into creating and with that transformed the feeling into something beautiful.

***

One of nature’s great magic tricks is how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly. I have used the word cocoon here to represent protection, safety and security but it turns out that the inside of a cocoon in nature is miserable. Horrible things happen to a caterpillar in its cocoon. It has to fall apart completely, decompose down to its very essence, devoid of any shape or consciousness. It uses enzymes to reduce its body into formless muck. It literally dies. Once formed into a butterfly, it pokes at the cocoon in an effort to try and break out. It wrestles to do this. If it were not for this struggle, its wings would be too weak. It is this process of breaking free that then allows it to fly, whether it is for a day or to cover thousands of miles.

This story has been told to me by my husband over and over. It is his interpretation of what our son is experiencing. And perhaps what each of us is also experiencing. It has comforted me because as I delve into what the analogy means, it strikes me that this is exactly how our consciousness grows. Our beliefs, our feelings, our understanding seemed perfectly fine and then suddenly all that we know seems upturned. Our old ways of thinking no longer suffice and there is confusion and bewilderment inside us, but as we find our way through replacing the old beliefs with the new, we emerge stronger. I think that as we all go through this journey, each of us, are struggling to poke through the cocoon. Our resolve to keep going, to trust that if we keep trying — we will all become a family of butterflies.

So, I guess it’s true what Richard Bach says “What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.”