I’ll be honest, I’ve recited this post in my head a thousand times – never getting further than the fourth line. I’ve promised (my instagram following and myself) for a few months that I’d share what it is exactly that we’re going through with my beautiful, biggest bean – Hugo. Sometimes things are just too great to share in a social media caption, and definitely too monumental to squeeze into a 15 second instagram story. But the main reason I’ve procrastinated over this tome for the past two months – abandoning all other writing until this was complete, is that it’s hard to write about something when I’m not sure where it began, it feels like we could be in the middle and I most certainly don’t know if it will ever end.
But even before I begin, a preface if you will, I need to mention a couple of things. As always, I have Hugo’s permission to share our story. Secondly, Hugo, 85% of the time is a wonderful, intelligent, talented, sporty, witty and glorious person. It’s unfortunately that the other 15% is coming close to ruining our lives and Hugo is adamant there is nothing he can do to stop it. We’re trapped on Hugo’s emotional roller-coaster – I just hope someone finds the brakes or gives us a soft landing when we crash.
You see the pictures on my instagram – a busy, happy and healthy brood of boys. What those pictures don’t tell you, amongst other things like the dirty laundry piled just out of shot, is that one of those beautiful boys believes he’s “not good enough”! Everyday he battles with with painfully low self-esteem, emotions he’s not equipped to control, anger that rages out of frustration to communicate effectively, and ostracisation.
But I’m not going to write about H’s anger issues as there’s no diagnosis, no cure and, at times, everyone around him is floundering for answers to help this little boy. Instead, I want to share a little of my frustration and anger – as unlike H, I’m able to highlight the exact things that make me seeth (poor Mr Only Girl!!).
Suffering from rock-bottom self-esteem has always left H looking externally for approval, none more so than that of his peers. In a bid to make/keep friends he always asked for the biggest, bestest birthday party, inviting as many people as he could remember. The planning would start 6 months in advance: the venue, the theme, the cake, the invitations – he’d make list after list of his ideal day, only comparable to a bride-zilla high on smell of luxury, letter-pressed stationary. I was always happy to go along with it, as it was something he enjoyed planning and, as a mother to a child continually alienating himself from friends due to volatility, I just wanted him to feel part of something special.