The pieces that simply will not fit

Playing in the park on a sunny day in early Spring, we look like a perfectly normal family.

Sure, I am a divorced dad, co-managing two sets of kids in two countries. But that’s okay. We have got used to that now. We have our routine and that gets us through.

But on this particular day, I don’t feel normal. Despite my best efforts, the jigsaw pieces of my life just don’t seem to fit together in the way that they used to. At least, not right now. They are all bent up and slightly torn at the edges.

Let me explain.

When I had first had children, I made certain basic assumptions:

1. My children will outlive me.

2. My children will sleep (eventually).

3. My children will eat their vegetables (eventually - with the exception, perhaps, of Brussels Sprouts).

4. My children will go to school.

This, for most of us, is the bottom line of parenthood. Of course, we hope for much more for our kids. In my case it was 12 hour sleep patterns from 6 weeks, leading seamlessly towards a happy, successful and ethical life, cut short only by a peaceful passing anytime after the age of 80. And not to be greedy about it, I wanted my children not only to eat but actually enjoy everything I place onto the dinner table, play a musical instrument, join a sports team, become a doctor, marry and produce 3 delightful grandchildren to keep me entertained during my own twilight years.

Am I alone here?

I guess we make these parental assumptions in order to get us through those dark and difficult periods when raising a child fills seems beyond anything we could ever manage.

Sitting on her couch, the therapist opposite confirms my naivety in almost her first sentence: ‘David, we are only just beginning this process...’

Shit.

You see, my eldest boy, has not been to school in seven months. He is a ‘school refuser’.

Seven months ago, I did not even know kids like this existed. Kids either went to school or they ‘bunked off’ because they were bad kids. (Or they were like my sister who occasionally decided to ride around Birmingham on the bus rather than go to school).

This, though, is different. This is about kind of deep anxiety or phobia, akin to people who have a fear of spiders, confined spaces or flying. This is kind of serious.

I want to tell the therapist that she is wrong. I challenge her, angrily, and express that part of me that wants to simplify this situation, blaming it on some early adolescent rebellion.

It’s complicated. Too complicated for me to understand right now.

And I don’t particularly want to go into why this happened. My ex-wife thinks that it was because she went to work when he was small. The therapist half suggests that it was because I went swimming with my boy every Friday afternoon when he was small and then I got divorced. I argue with them both. Half the world’s kids have mums who work and dads who live somewhere else. But half the world’s kids are not school refusers.

Back in the park, we kick a ball around and enjoy each other’s company. We laugh, argue, run around: the first signs of Spring do us good. But it is different to last Spring. I feel a distance between him and I that was not there a year ago. When I try to get close, he pulls away – as if it is too painful, too confusing for him to bear right now. He has become trapped in a world where he is afraid to venture out and engage – even with his own dad.

I want to tell him that I love him. I want to draw him close, like when he was small, and reassure him that it’s going to be okay. Locked in his fortress, I want to find the key, defeat the dragon, wake him up, kiss him and rescue him from his demons.

I also want to kick him up the arse, shout at him, and tell him that he should be back at school like any normal kid.

The emotions are complicated for all of us right now. The pieces of the puzzle simply don’t fit quite as well as they used to.

All I can do is get angry with the therapist. And wait.

Travelling back on the Eurostar, I play a mental game with myself and wonder whether there is any other parent on this packed train who has to deal with this stuff? Am I really the only one? And what happens to all these kids? Are they simply forgotten?

I am home and suddenly I realize the irony of it all. In a few hours, I will be back at work, telling the story of a school that literally changes kids’ lives. Like Willy Wonka himself, I will give out a few more ‘golden tickets’ that few kids can even dream about.

And on Monday morning, I will take a moment to think of my boy, sitting in him room – locked in by something I still don’t begin to understand.

And wait.

This article was published in Expatica.com in 2009.  Click here to view comments by readers on this site.

Comments

[David Willows]

Here is the first of two comments I received on this article, that had to be manually cut and pasted into this post due to technical issues:

Hi David, It's been quite a journey on Facebook this evening and I'm so glad it's brought me here. I don't think it's a mere coincidence that I played golf with a friend this morning who has been riding a roller coaster with her school refuser son since January. My heart goes out to her when she talks of the frustrations, anger, confusion and helplessness the entire family is going through, and then it goes out to her son when I wonder if it's anxiety, anger, sadness or something one hasn't even considered that has sent him to this lonely place. Thanks for sharing - you deserve a prize for posting such an honest blog. (Debbie Wright)

[David Willows]

Here is the second:

I was completely moved by your most honest and heartfelt thoughts and concerns for your school refuser. I'm at loss for words but remain full of hope for a positive outcome as the healing continues. (Simonne White)

[Lacey]

Thank you for being so open you are far from alone with this!