Chapter 18 - THE FIRST TIME I YELLED
I yelled at Leo when he was seven.
Not abuse.
Still important.
He ran into a parking lot after a soccer ball.
A car braked.
I grabbed him.
“WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?”
He froze.
Then covered his head.
My entire body went cold.
I crouched immediately.
“Leo.”
He stared.
“Bat voice.”
The phrase destroyed me.
“I’m sorry.”
“You loud.”
“Yes.”
“You mad.”
“Yes.”
“Wall?”
“No.”
I sat on the curb.
“I got scared because the car could hurt you. I yelled. You still don’t go to a wall.”
He cried.
I held him when he asked.
Later Dr. Ellis said:
“You are allowed to raise your voice sometimes.”
“Not like that.”
“Then repair.”
“Does repair erase?”
“No.”
Good.
I needed that.
Parenting a traumatized child does not mean creating a house without anger.
It means anger cannot become unpredictable punishment or threat.
We made parking-lot rules.
Hold hand.
Stop at curb.
If he forgot, consequence was proximity and practice.
May you like
Not shame.
I kept learning.
