My Background--Tim

I'm not even going to attempt to explain my absence.

Okay, really quickly: Chicago Trip, Texas Trip, Thanksgiving, House projects. I apologize sincerely to those who enjoyed the first installment of my personal soap opera and desperately craved more. Today's trip down memory lane includes a summary of Life with Tim (the "Difficult Child" as I referred to him in the previous post). I feel it necessary to mention that Tim is a very different person as a man than he was as a boy. Currently, he's in Iraq with the Air Force and one of the most respectful, driven, and well-rounded individuals I know. But, growing up, he encountered plenty of rough times--which impacted ME in various ways as well....
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We drove past the topless bar on Markland almost every day, and Mom was frank with 6-year-old Tim when he asked about the bright pink building. She said: it's not a good business because women take their clothes off. Another day, while riding with our dad, Tim tried to relate this knowledge.

“Daddy, Mom says that's a place where ladies dress up naked.”

Dad wanted to laugh, but he knew better. Likewise, we hid our amusement when we found out Tim, at 10-years-old, thought the guy who fell off the wall was called “Humpty Dump-Me.” And we forced blank expressions while he recited spelling words or read from textbooks, just to make sure he didn't mistake a smile for a joke at his expense. Tim was a sensitive little boy.

One day, during a not-uncommon screaming fit, Mom told Tim to go to his room until he could calm down. He yelled something back, gasping for air between sobs, and Dad stepped in to attempt reasoning.

“Buddy, just take a break and sit on your bed for awhile. You always get so worked up.” But Tim was already out of control, and he wasn't about to let Dad tell him what he “always” did. Clenching his fists at his side, his entire body heaving, he took a deep breath and bellowed:

“Well, you never, ever, E-VER!” My parents waited for the rest of his accusation. But when they realized he was finished, they looked at each other and burst into laughter. Big mistake. Tim flew into his room and slammed the door, rattling the windows and knocking a picture off the wall. Within seconds, toys were being dumped and flung against his bedpost, and he was kicking his closet door. Even across three rooms, I heard the thuds and shrieks of Tim's outrageous temper.

Right on schedule, the doctors diagnosed him with ADD. But, as far as my parents were concerned, the doctors simply informed them Tim was a boy—perhaps shorter-fused than most, but simply wired for energy. They were given a bottle of blue pills to manage him, which required a couple hours of fighting just to get down his throat. Even still, the medication didn't improve things. Sure, it made Tim lethargic, and he no longer had the stamina to scream and throw things. But the hate never left his eyes. He wanted nothing to do with family or with the happiness and affection associated with it, and he would say as much—scream it when he skipped a pill.

Then he grew up. At least, his body grew up. The house enjoyed quieter days than when Tim was in grade school, but this is because, as a teenager, he often stayed out with friends. Reports of his well-being had to come indirectly, through the rapid disappearance of food and overpowering scent of cologne in the morning. But when we did see him, we tried to be warm. Mom and Dad faithfully attended football and soccer games, attempting to speak love in Tim's language. Had we continued this way, more or less leaving him alone, he would have been content. But our parents knew he wasn't doing homework, and they constantly asked their jobless son where all his new stuff was coming from. During these confrontations, the tears would begin to form in his eyes and his temper would spiral away.

It was the first of June, Tim's 16th birthday, when Mom and Dad spelled out his options: bring your grades up over summer school or there will be no sports next year. Tim's point was semi-valid. “Coach said he could work something out so I can play if I get a paper signed.” And this was despite the school's policy stating that athletes had to maintain a C-average or be benched. But, Mom and Dad explained to Tim that school rules and home rules were different And they promised to call the rule-bending coach to make sure Tim didn't play unless he studied harder. The bedroom door slammed, several pictures fell off the walls, and I could hear Tim swearing three rooms away.

Mom often said she couldn't handle it anymore, but this time, she demanded my dad call the police. I saw disbelief on his face for only a second before he composed it again. Mom continued, “You call them and tell them we have an insane teenager, and tell them he's violently out of control.” Dad hesitated for another minute, but then we heard the sound of glass shattering in Tim's room. Dad dialed.

“Yes, I could use an officer at 1103 W. Taylor. We're not sure what to do with our teenage son right now.” At that moment, Tim came down the hall, holding his right hand to reveal a gash between his fingers at least an inch wide--causing blood to stream past his elbow and drip on the carpet. “And, we're going to need a paramedic, too.”

I hid in the stairwell when the police pulled up, but I could smell leather boots and foreign fabric softener from there. The crackling radios and strange voices didn't let me pretend it wasn't happening, so I listened to them. Straining, I could hear the EMT's tell Tim he'd have a pretty big scar, and one of the officers asked him why he punched the mirror.

“They just make me angry,” Tim said in a low voice, sobered by the pain and commotion.
“There's nothing wrong with being angry, partner. You just have to deal with it better.”
Another officer said, “Look, son, we're gonna go ahead and take you to the juvenile jail for booking. That way, if there's ever a problem again, we have you in the system.” And Tim spent his birthday in the police station. As the officer made his way out the door, holding my baby brother's arm, he spoke into his radio. “10-16, just a domestic disturbance.” His nonchalance infuriated me. I couldn't believe he summed up our nightmare in so few words—that the police had a code to label my family's crumble.

Two years later, Tim was picked up for shop lifting, and a few days after that, our parents kicked him out of the house for good. Dad, the reasonable one, put all of Tim's belongings in garbage bags on the porch. Then he locked the door and went to bed. I went to bed, too, but I didn't sleep. The house seemed empty and cold without my brother, even though he wasn't home much anyway. It was different when he wasn't even welcome there. Mom and Dad had been hardened by the Difficult Child, and they didn't care if he was sleeping on a bench somewhere. But, I wanted to march into their room and plead his case. I knew he had burnt through all his extra chances, but I didn't want to let it go. I contemplated sneaking to unlock the door, even if it was just a temporary fix. But I laid there and cried instead. Tim was never, ever, E-ver coming back.
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Okay, so it only FELT like he never would come back. But, as I said in the beginning, he only needed some time to mature. Tim moved in with a friend's family and got a job. Then, after highschool, it suddenly occurred to him that he "didn't want to rot in Indiana" like his friends, partying and getting into trouble with no real direction. So he joined the Air Force and never looked back.

Anyway, I tell this story because, years later, I'm actually really glad God allowed me to experience the irrational, emotional tantrums of my little brother. Now, in my job at the daycare, I'm responsible for calming and teaching children (mostly angry little boys) who exhibit the same behaviors Tim did. In fact, sometimes the similarities between my students and my brother downright floor me.

But, I've never felt intimidated by the violent outbursts or unpredictability of relating to a Difficult Child. It's almost homey, in a way. Or, maybe what I mean to say is my first instinct--rather than fear or anger--is a sense of sisterly protection and sympathy when one of my students has a really bad day.

Finally, and most importantly, growing up with Tim has taught me the number one thing that keeps me returning to work when others might quit. I know, since I've seen it in my brother, that there always remains hope for the most unhappy, out-of-control little boy to grow into a truly impressive man.