Raising my children was a feat, and not for the weak by any means. Growing up the way I did taught me not to give up. My children were a product of the war zone we had run from. They were a product of our combined genes — Al, schizophrenic and off the rails; me, a basket case because of what I had been through. Our children were doomed from the very beginning.
It became my job to alter their perception of humanity, to teach them love, compassion, and inclusion. What every parent wants: for their children’s lives to be easier, better than their own.
Trying to reshape their behaviors and perception was one thing — hard, but not impossible. But you can’t change genetics. And their genetics were going to create chaos one only sees in horror movies. Some of what they inherited was good. They were both brilliant; school came easily for the older two. Straight A’s without effort. I taught them courtesy, kindness, generosity. I showed them love and acceptance, and in those areas they thrived. But the other genetic mapping in them… that was the root of most of their problems. They were timid, and both began showing signs of depression.
I called my oldest, Ben, a volcano waiting to erupt. His anger sat just below the surface. He was angry at everything — nothing was good enough, everything needing to be better. When he exploded, all hell broke loose. I spent too many nights sweeping up broken glass and whatever else he’d thrown across the room. He angered easily, and it took an act of Congress to calm him down. Not yet dangerous but headed there quickly.
Avery handled herself differently. Her anger mixed with self‑doubt. She silently hated herself and took to cutting as her release. Her anger was quiet, written across her face, but not explosive like her brother’s. Different behaviors, same rage at the world.
Rowan, always the angel, sat back and watched the theatrics around him — curious, but untouched. Thank God for small favors. With all his medical issues, he was the easy one.
Between Rowan and Avery, I managed twenty‑seven suicide attempts. We were approaching a world record. They tag‑teamed me — one in a hospital, the other at home, teetering on the edge of self‑destruction.
I wish I could say there was a moment where it all turned around, where love conquered biology and everyone was saved by sheer will. There wasn’t. There was only persistence. Showing up. Sitting in hospital rooms. Locking away sharp objects. Learning how to sleep with one ear open and still get up the next morning.
I didn’t fix my children. I fought for them. Every single day. And sometimes, that has to be enough. The problems are still there in both of them, but now they’re working on it — getting the kind of help I couldn’t fix with a hug, an “I love you,” or a cupcake.
Still showing up even when the war should’ve been over by now,
K.
