The Green Mile

An adage at Wiltshire Towers has always been "when you're going through hell, keep going." 

It's served as a timely reminder that however empty the barrel is, there's still more you can scrape to keep going.  It's a reminder that bad times are transitory.  It reminds me that I can get through anything, even the shocking revelation that I can agree with a Tory.

It has founded our philosophy that Wiltshire's don't quit.  It has reminded us to keep banging away at things, even when they should be let be.  It has inspired me, damnit.  It has inspired me never to give up on these wee babies of mine; never to give up on myself; to always believe that things can be achieved, that I have the resources to keep getting things done, regardless of whether I feel I can keep going it has made me continue.

It also serves to remind me that sometimes, no matter how hard I try to get things done, it's time to give up and move on, to look elsewhere to achieve that which needs to be done. 

This year, The Boy has become a changed character. He used to love going to school; he used to achieve.  He had the odd moment of bad behaviour, rarely at home.  He enjoyed activities, and although he didn't have any friends per se, he was liked and appreciated by others.

This has escalated so that now a day does not pass without a phone call from school to tell me he has performed some wrong doing.  Whilst this is something to be expected if he is hitting someone, the school itself has defined which aggressive behaviour deserves to be reported to me (apparently, it is worse for him to hit an adult than a child).  They phone me if he calls a teacher cheeky.  They phone me if he tells them he needs to be left alone.  They phone me for imagined insolences.  They tell me that I am to define to him which people he can stay away from if he dislikes them (again, that I must define between an adult and a child).  They tell me how to punish him and that I must do what they say.

I haven't had a single day with him at this blasted school this year where I haven't felt like crying. I hate forcing him to school in the morning, bribing him to get ready, and make no mistake it is a process of asking, pleading, shouting to get him out of the door every morning.  I hate the playground duty with the Sewing Circle; the gossip, the bullshit. 

It is like dragging the wrongly convicted man to the electric chair, forcing him along the green mile to the destination of torture; school.

He is upset. I am upset.  My ability to support the Victorian pseudo authoritarian regime put in place by the head, or at least pretend to, is exhausted.  I just can't anymore, and I can't see why he should either.  I can't understand why I have forced him through this for so long.

It all became clear when we sat down to write a list of pros and cons of school.  His "for" list consisted of the blue jumper and tie he wears as uniform, and that was it.  He could think of nothing else positive to say about it.  That, my friends, is the wake up call I had needed.

Yesterday, I spent the time contacting and visiting schools for him.  Monday will be the same procedure, as will Tuesday, Wednesday etc until I have found something that works for him, and I will find something. 

I'm not prepared to give up on the little sod; never have done, never will do.  I am, however, prepared to swap one definite hell for a potential hell, one that might help him, or at the very least do him no harm. 

It just took a plummet to the mud at the bottom of hell that prevented me from moving at all; a stop that gave me time to see clearly, look around and see what was really going on, to be able to decide to keep chugging through; but towards the happy space this time.

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