The anger comes over me like this tornado, taking out houses and trees, tearing up sidewalks, destroying everything in its path. I had a golf club in my hands and I was pounding on my son's door with it. I knew this was true because the door had these gauges in it. What had I expected him to do? Wait for me to beat him with a golf club?
Well, he was gone now. I couldn't call the police because this thing was my fault. I accepted that. It was the fault of my anger, it was the fault of my jealousy, my need to have things my way. My unwillingness to bend. I had chased my son away and no one could help me. Not the police. Not anyone.
I wasn't proud of myself. I wasn't the father I wanted to be. My son was the most important thing in the world to me. I wanted to be supportive in every way. Emotionally, financially, everything, every way. I wasn't that. I had terrorized him. I saw it in his eyes but I couldn't stop myself. My need for control had led to a catastrophic lack of it. I shook my head. And what must he be thinking? I couldn't begin to guess. Maybe he hated me. He certainly feared me. I didn't want to be hated and feared, I didn't want to be a dark figure in my son's life. I wanted him to be able to come to me with problems, to rely on me for support. I wanted to be both mother and father to him, I wanted to excel at this single parent thing like I excelled at everything else. But I was failing.
Where was he now? Out on the streets, cold, afraid? Being taken advantage of? He was so young. He could so easily be prey. I had caused this state of affairs. He would rather be out on the streets taking his chances with drug addicts and criminals than here in this house with me. And I was to blame. It was a bitter truth to swallow down.
Could I repair this tear in the fabric of our relationship? Could I rebuild the trust that I had systematically destroyed? How could he trust me when I'd beaten him? How could he feel safe with me when I had been the only thing to fear?
I felt like a villain. I felt like the antagonist in the novel of my life, of Craig's life. Dickens couldn't have written it any better. I'd gone beyond the bounds of anything that was acceptable. What if he had been behind that bedroom door when I burst through, the weapon in my hands, the red cloud of rage obscuring my reason? What would have happened, what would I have done? I need to demand the answers to these questions of myself. I need to take myself to task for this behavior.
I'd done more than just hurt his body. As a doctor I knew that the body and the mind were fused, were part and parcel of one package. You couldn't separate them. Whatever bruises I had caused were compounded by the psychic scars that went with them. Bruises healed. Broken bones knitted themselves back together. How long did the mind take to heal itself? Because I saw it. I saw the way he would flinch when I raised my voice. I saw the way he thought about what he said, the way he tried to interpret my mood, my tones of voice. I saw the hyper vigilance. I heard the slight stutter to his speech. I was causing this dysfunction. Was I grooming his potential? No. I was causing him to be fearful of relationships, of professions of love. Who knew the far reaching implications of the abuse? As someone educated, someone who works with patients in a professional capacity, I could more than guess about the harm I was causing and its eventual results. Let's see. I foresaw trouble in relationships, trust issues, violence, mental illness, substance abuse. This was not the foundation I had wanted to provide for my son. A foundation filled with crumbling cement and holes.
So here I was, alone, deep into the night. Craig could be anywhere, in any sort of danger. Anything that happened to him was my fault now. Did I have the capacity to change? Did I have the ability to admit that I was wrong, that I had to work on my own issues? I had to believe that I did. I had to believe that I could change the things that were causing me to lash out at him, that I could rebuild what I had tried so hard to destroy. There had to be some remnant of the relationship we once had. There had to be something to build upon. I had to believe that, and it was the closest thing to faith that I had. The closest thing. If Craig were here right now I would say I was sorry. I was so sorry for having scared him, hurt him, betrayed his trust. I would tell him I wasn't the father I had wanted to be, but that I would try to do better, to be better. With all my heart I would try. And I hoped he would believe me.