When people hear about child-to-parent abuse, they often focus on the behaviours.
The shouting.
The hitting.
The biting.
The strangling.
The hair pulling.
The kicking.
The threats.
The broken things.
The fear.
And I understand why. Those things are real. They have consequences. They leave physical and emotional scars that can take a long time to heal.
But what people rarely see is the child behind the behaviour.
My son does not wake up in the morning wanting to hurt me.
He is not sitting there planning how to make my day worse. He is not calculating the damage his words or actions might cause. The truth is far more complicated than that.
What I see is a child who is struggling.
A child whose emotions can become so overwhelming that they consume him.
A child who sometimes gets trapped in thoughts that feel darker and bigger than he knows how to manage.
A child who loses control.
And perhaps the most heartbreaking part of all is what comes afterwards.
When the storm has passed and the adrenaline has faded, he is often left to face the reality of what happened.
I have seen the tears.
I have heard the apologies.
I have watched him struggle to understand why he acted the way he did.
I have seen the horror on his face when he realises he has hurt me.
In those moments, I do not see a monster.
I see my son.
A child carrying burdens he does not know how to put down.
A child who is often hurting too.
Sometimes the behaviour happens because his mind is racing and he cannot find a way to make it stop.
The thoughts build and build until they become unbearable.
People often ask why he cannot just calm down.
I wish it were that simple.
When emotions reach a certain intensity, reasoning disappears. Logic disappears. The ability to pause and think disappears.
What remains is pure overwhelm.
And overwhelm can be frightening for everyone involved, including the child experiencing it.
Sometimes the behaviour comes from unmet needs.
That can be difficult for people to understand because the need is not always obvious.
It is not always hunger.
It is not always tiredness.
Sometimes the challenge is that my son simply does not have the cognitive skills people expect him to have. People often look at him and assume he should be able to reason through a situation, communicate what he needs, manage his emotions, or think about the consequences of his actions.
But knowing what you should do and being able to do it are two very different things.
When he becomes overwhelmed, his ability to process information, solve problems, and communicate effectively can disappear almost completely. What might seem like a simple conversation or straightforward request to someone else can feel impossible for him in that moment.
He can struggle to identify what he is feeling, let alone explain it. He can struggle to understand why he is upset. He can struggle to find a way forward when something is not going as he expected. The frustration of not being able to communicate or make sense of what is happening inside his own mind can quickly build into anger and distress.
Sometimes it is a need to be understood.
A need to feel heard.
A need for connection.
A need for predictability.
A need for reassurance.
A need he cannot identify for himself, let alone explain to someone else.
When those needs go unmet, frustration grows. Without the tools to communicate what is wrong, behaviour can become the communication.
Not because he wants to hurt me.
Because he does not know another way to tell me that something is wrong.
And sometimes the trigger appears insignificant.
Sometimes it is boredom.
Not ordinary boredom where you simply look for something to do.
The kind of boredom that feels uncomfortable.
The kind that makes you restless in your own skin.
The kind that leaves you wanting something but not knowing what that thing is.
I have lost count of the times my son has told me he is bored while rejecting every suggestion I offer.
To an outsider, that can look oppositional or defiant.
What I see is someone who genuinely does not know how to fill the space.
Someone whose brain is searching for stimulation while simultaneously rejecting the very things that might help.
Someone who is as frustrated by his inability to engage as I am.
The truth is that child-to-parent abuse is rarely a simple story of a bad child and a victimised parent.
It is often a story about pain.
Pain expressed in unhealthy ways.
Pain that affects everyone in the family.
Pain that leaves everyone carrying wounds.
That does not mean the behaviour is acceptable.
It is not.
The injuries are real.
The fear is real.
The damage is real.
Loving my son does not mean pretending those things did not happen.
Compassion and accountability must exist together.
One does not cancel out the other.
My son has to learn that hurting others is not acceptable.
He has to take responsibility for his actions.
He has to develop healthier ways to cope with the feelings that overwhelm him.
But he also deserves understanding.
He deserves support.
He deserves people who can see beyond his worst moments.
Because none of us would want to be judged solely by the times we struggled the most.
None of us would want the hardest day of our lives to become the definition of who we are.
My son is more than the moments when he loses control.
More than the behaviours.
More than the incidents.
More than the reports.
More than the labels.
He is funny.
He is clever.
He is loving.
He is fiercely protective of the people he cares about.
He is capable of extraordinary kindness.
And despite everything we have been through, he is still the little boy I brought into this world and love with every part of my heart.
Living with child-to-parent abuse means holding two truths at the same time.
I have been hurt by my child.
And my child is hurting too.
Neither truth cancels out the other.
Both deserve to be seen.
Both deserve to be understood.
And perhaps that understanding is where healing begins.
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