My heart

I gave birth to him blind from pain and full of joy.  My second child, my only son, the beat of my heart.

Today the pain is no less blinding, for different reasons.

It started several months ago as occasional behavior issues at school.  He would lose his temper if disciplined and slam his desk on the floor or some other short-lived burst of fury.  We all chalked it up to normal childhood behavior growth.  After all, he's only seven. 

Slowly, but consistently, the outbursts became more regular and more violent.  A mild correction became the end of the world and he began to turn his rage inward.  Words like "I hate myself" started showing up on the back of his school papers.  Meetings were called, plans were devised, and tears were shed.  The next step is a child psychologist to help me find the correct path, as I've tried everything I know to do on my own. 

He has tested gifted, far above his 2nd grade level.  He is showing signs of perfectionism and anxiety, outwardly expressed by harm to himself via dialogue and physical means.  My baby is starting to hurt himself out of frustration when he doesn't measure up to what his little, genius mind is telling him he should be.  No amount of praise and adoration seems to break through his shell of self-criticism.  No matter how many times I assure him that he is perfect in my eyes and his happiness is the most important thing in the world.  He is his own worst enemy.

At home, he's happy and loving.  It's only in certain situations that his uncertainty manifests itself.  I watch him play in the evenings and wonder what they (his teachers) see during the day that I'm missing.  There are no outbursts here, no sadness.  I worry that he's trying to protect me.  I worry that he's not really happy when he's singing and dancing and playing with his Legos, and he's really putting on a show for Mommy.  I worry.  I worry.

My heart is in a billion pieces for my precious, sensitive, funny little boy.  If it takes every one of those billion pieces to help him find peace, I will live the rest of my days without them. 

He holds them in his little hands, anyway.