On Breaking and Melding Back Together Again

Several years ago, my husband and two children were very caught up in a video game. I did not deem it worthy of even registering what game this was at the time, but it was the Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time. A classic of the video game canon. I did not fully appreciate what an enjoyable experience this was for the three of them, how they all bonded over unlocking the puzzle pieces and brainstorming what steps can next, how each of them delighted in seeing the emerging world unfold. I was only annoyed because they were playing a video game, something I afforded little value.

One night, around 10:30 p.m., I was trying to sleep. Our master bedroom was directly on top of the living room, and, in an incredibly awkward design choice, had a completely open wall extending on the west side of the room that opened up onto the living room. This meant I could hear every conversation in the living room as if the person was yelling next to me in my ear.

I am not sure what exactly led me to snap. But I did snap. I ragged. I seethed. I fumed. I yelled about what a terrible choice of a pastime video games were, how everyone was wasting their time, how they were “garbage” and “junk” and made me so very, very angry.

I apologized later for my outburst, but the damage was done. Daniel immediately ripped up the homemade sword and shield he had been designing off of Legend of Zelda. Annika sobbed. Will stewed in quiet fury. But the real damage extended beyond that night, into the days, months, years ahead. Every time I entered the living room, if Daniel were playing a video game, he would immediately tense up, throw the remote control, switch off the power in a state of anxiety, and try to eradicate any trace of evidence that he enjoyed video games.

Daniel’s general anxiety continued to mount – for a multi-faceted array of reasons – so many so that I almost forgot about my video game outburst in the first place. And, indeed, it would be overly simplistic to reduce his struggles to my attitude about video games. What I do know is that his anxiety grew so intense that we started therapy with a psychologist, with whom we discussed Daniel’s extreme tension. I gave the example of tensing up whenever I came into the living room. Daniel sat on the well-padded couch, his arms folded, his shoulders high against his ears, offering monosyllable responses to any inquiries as to why he might be feeling so tense.

And something clicked for me. “I think,” I offered slowly, “you might be really afraid to play video games because I called them junk before, and I screamed about how much I hated them one time. Is that why?”

“No,” Daniel sniffed, a solitary tear forming in the corner of his eye.

“Did that really upset you?” the psychologist asked softly. “Were you afraid your mom was mad at you?”

“No,” Daniel stammered out louder, rubbing the backs of his palms into his eyes. “Just Dad. She was mainly mad at Dad.”

“Would it maybe help for you to teach your Mom that video game? Maybe just 10 or 15 minutes? So she can understand what it means to you?”

“Maybe,” Daniel’s voice cracked open as the floodgate of tears began in earnest.

I squeezed Daniel tight into my body, feeling his wet cheeks, his body shuddering in tiny gasps. And I wondered how I could have gotten something so wrong. How I could have so misjudged how important something was that I made him feel unvalued, inferior, less than. How I could have been so angry over something so inconsequential. How I could have snapped in fury instead of coming from a place of curiosity or wonder or love.

Daniel was hesitant to show me his game. I prodded him to show me the next day, then the next, then the next, until a week had past. But then, one Friday evening with no obligations, we set up Legend of Zelda into our aging 55-inch television set in the living room, and I took a stab at the controllers. I was terrible. I struggled to navigate any type of movement on the screen. I was confused about the overall purpose and wondered which actions to take. But Daniel was delighted. And, by extension, I was delighted as well. Delighted that it was something so easy to fix what had become so toxic and broken.

I will never enjoy video games the way my son does. But I hope to always come at them at a place of curiosity rather than judgment.