he subsequently moved into my home—the only home the children had ever known.
Our strengths included respect for each other’s career and work ethic, good friends with whom we socialized frequently, and the support of my family members who embraced my husband from the outset. But, catching me off guard, significant challenges surfaced early on. Jerry had what I then would have described as temper tantrums.
The frequency of these often frightening outbursts ranged from a couple of times a month to multiple times in a given day. During a typical episode, Jerry would simultaneously shout—launching unfounded and often vicious verbal attacks—and stomp from room to room and up and down the stairs from one floor of the house to another repeating himself over and over. In sum, he lost control and, along with it, the ability to reason.
This behavior was shocking and incomprehensible to me, and initially I was handicapped, thrown off balance by confusion. I know I adopted a protective mode—protecting myself by making a conscious effort to maintain my composure and not let him upset me while also protecting the children to the extent I could, often making light of any verbal attacks they could overhear.
For a long time, I thought my reasonable approach would win out. Basically, I was good at influencing others. Additionally, I was eight years Jerry’s senior and had faced more challenges than he. I was confident in my ability to communicate and to establish standards. At times I thought maybe my efforts were helpful, extending the periods of smooth sailing.
Part of my quandary was figuring out what provoked Jerry’s anger—a piece of the puzzle I could rarely grasp. But even when I could, I didn’t get why his reaction was out of proportion, more dramatic than the circumstance warranted with accusations and personal attacks that knew no limits. And because this correlation with reality was shaky at best, there often was no way out of the labyrinth he created.
Making matters worse, it wasn’t long before these bouts of hostility turned on Paul, whose reactions, depending on the specific situation and his own degree of fragility at the moment, included crying, words of self-defense, and occasionally even assuming a more “adult” role, accepting the assigned blame just to minimize the drama. Nothing worked. Nothing but time.
Generally, somewhere between one and three days after an outburst, Jerry adopted a conciliatory manner, “making things right” with acts of kindness. While I was sincerely grateful for his gestures, he rarely acknowledged his destructive behavior. Nor did he retract the insults that bore no resemblance to the truth. I walked a tightrope—trying to keep the peace, minimize the toll taken on the children, and defend Paul when I could do so without fanning the flames.
One evening, a year into our marriage, Jerry became infuriated because Paul was having trouble completing his homework. I think it’s fair to say every parent in the country, or maybe the world, has experienced similar frustration and may well even overreact as a result. I know I have. But this scenario triggered an episode of outrage on Jerry’s part, and among the hurtful things he repeatedly yelled at Paul were:
“It’s no wonder you can’t read and write like other children your age!”
“You will continue to be weak. I guess you think it’s okay to be weak!”
“Go cry to your mother. She likes you to be weak!”
No resolution was reached and no words of respect or regard were spoken. When Paul was ready for bed that evening, I quietly went into his room to say goodnight and, if nothing else, give him a hug. He asked me if it was true that he couldn’t read and write like other children his age, and I did my best to point out his strengths and to explain the array of differences among various learners, in terms of ability and pace. I also said there were many whose skills may have advanced beyond his, but there were others less capable than he, telling him too that the poor reader may be the fastest runner, or that the child with disabilities may become an engineer, a famous artist, or a world leader.
I usually tried to provide comfort without directly countering one of my husband’s declarations, something I saw as necessary in keeping his reactions in check lest he accuse me of undermining “his authority.”
However, as I left Paul’s room that particular night, I do remember saying, “By the way, Paul, you are not weak. And you know you aren’t.”
“Goodnight, Mom. I love you.”
*
AS SUMMER AND our family’s annual two-week trip to the beach approached, Jerry said to me, “I am not going to do anything with, or for, Paul while we are on vacation, unless you want me to be volatile with him. Actually, it’s your choice; so just let me know what you decide.”
He repeated this for days, always emphasizing that I was in the driver’s seat—it was my choice. Elevating himself to the benevolent position, he reiterated that he would simply go along with my decision. One hardly needs to be a psychologist, or even a tad insightful for that matter, to see that I had no choice. The fact is, this twisted maneuver was nothing but a threat, a strategy to keep me on edge.
In spite of the fabricated land mine I was trying to navigate, we had fun on our family vacations, and I found that the network of adults—whether friends or family—served to keep Jerry’s unreasonable behavior in check. As a matter of fact, the beach trips were good for us, reminding me that we could laugh and be light-hearted.
This particular year, the eight cousins—ranging in age from two to thirteen—could go out unsupervised after dinner in the little oceanfront village where we stayed. One night they were out on foot, except for two-year-old Molly who they put in her stroller with Caitlin, the oldest cousin, at the helm. It was getting dark, and as they approached the path to the beach, they were frightened by a man on the walkway who reportedly was wearing a long black hooded cape—with the hood up, concealing his face. They were spooked and took off running for home! As they burst in the door, breathless, with all of them talking at once, we had to laugh at the vision of them running for their lives, all the while pushing the stroller over some pretty rugged terrain. Little Molly’s hair was slicked back as if she’d been in a wind tunnel! We took some pride in the fact that they didn’t abandon the stroller, given their state of high alert. For the rest of our vacation, they swung into investigator mode, fixated on discovering the real “cape man,” who obviously lurked among us, and deciding whether or not he was a threat to the safety of this otherwise tranquil community. While I don’t think they solved the mystery, theories abounded, and “cape man” was a legend for years to come.
A passage from Paul’s laptop files:
%%%
Of all the places in the world I could want to be, the beach house was the place. It was a place where dreaming stopped and where real living began. All of the memories of the beach in Delaware make me wishful to be a child again, carefree and down at that same beach chasing the crashing waves back into the ocean. If only life could be so simple, I would be a millionaire.
%%%
Back at home, another incident between Jerry and Paul took place that same summer. On this particular day, Paul’s crime was leaving our neighbor’s garden hose running. Our street is lined with old houses that are just about as close together as detached houses can be, so much so that in looking down the street, you see the eaves of the roofs overhanging one another. Our easement, a little more generous than some, provided a narrow side patio used in common with our neighbor Mandy, a circumstance we enjoyed, and one that over the years led to a deep friendship between Mandy and me as well as among her three children—Josh, Danny, and Lara—and my two, all close in age. Not only were the children back and forth between our two houses, but Mandy and I shared garden tools, the lawnmower, detergent, anything and everything.
As Paul came inside, I heard Jerry ask if he had left the hose running. Although in another room, I braced myself.
“Yes,” Paul said.
This prompted an outburst that started with, “That was the wrong thing to do.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Paul interjected.
The drama took