I’m still a little out of breath from having to take him up the stairs into his room for a timeout. The locks are once again broken from a previous rage, so I’m having to use all my body weight to hold the door shut. My hands are aching from clenching the metal handle, my heart is pounding fast and my stomach is filled with anxiety.
As the anger is pushed through his screams, he starts to calm down. Then his voice begins to change.
I recognize the voice. The gentle, innocent tone that I remember from when he was 4 years old. An image of my son in a home video, calling out my name, flashes into my mind. In the video, he comes up to the camera and in his unique way calls to me, “Mommee... Mommee...”, it’s the same sound I hear on the other side of the door. It’s like no time has passed, it’s the sound of my sweet boy before his illness. It breaks my heart in two.