This is a mini diatribe. Not really so mini, but two thousands words written over the week. I understand if you only make it through the first five hundred words before you start screaming, cussing or just walk away. Maybe I should have broken it up into small bits, but it really makes more sense this way. -ASR
Again I woke up heart pounding
in time with the drip, drip, dripping faucet.
I made the sound go away and
noticed the sound of my furnace running
“The windows are open and I’m heating the
whole neighborhood,” I thought.
I knew I’d have to go downstairs
to turn the thermostat down.
“Why am I the only one who thinks
about the practical things in this house?”
I noticed as I walked down the stairs
that the house was dimly lit, not dark
as I was expecting. The hall light was on
and his bed was empty.
This is becoming like an Agatha Christie novel.
Too many clues, not enough meaningful communication.
Last night, Wednesday, I was working with my son
on his resume as he got more and
more irritated with me.
My mind reading abilities were
blocked by the waves of anger
and resentment he was projecting.
“You have to supply the dates, I wasn’t there.
How many years did you play piano?”
His answers were becoming terse until,
‘I don’t know,’ became the answer to
every question I asked about duration and
activities to be added to the resume.
I remember thinking, “This child has done
many good things in a short span of time.” Yet,
he couldn’t tell me any details.
He mentioned a list, but handed me a stack
of art awards I started to decipher.
I created a spreadsheet to make his age
correspond to the appropriate years. After all,
a resume must have dates on it to appear valid.
Otherwise, it is merely a list.
He wouldn’t look at the spreadsheet
to correct the dates.
Surly, is his middle name.
(Eldest Surly Reverie)
I snapped the computer shut and snapped,
“I’m going to bed.”
I woke up around three am (see first paragraph.)
I waited until four or five am to wake up my bear to ask if he knew where the eldest child had gone. He told me that the boy wonder had told him that I agreed that he would be sleeping at my mother’s house last night. He just came home to do some paperwork. I asked if he had called or texted to say he arrived? Blank stare that said no is what I got, “No?”
The night before, Tuesday, I was up some of
the night with Girly,
at three and four am.
She had had a slight fever Monday,
then I had to be up to open the door for
the babysitter at six am.
My bear had some complication with the
truck at 5 am, so I didn’t get much sleep.
What did I need sleep for? I only had to perform
for a bunch of teens at a neighboring school
district in the morning early.
Some ungodly hour of seven thirty-three
is when the class started.
When I came home she was sleeping,
I was able to garden for a while
before I made the mistake of calling
my new prescription plan insurance company
to make sense of a letter I had received,
telling me about some ineligible medication,
that I needed to continue taking
to be considered stable enough to function
in this crazy world.
I realized half way through an
unintelligible conversation that all
of my medications fit some tier system
that I was unfamiliar with and I was about
to be asked to “step up” to my current medications
as if I just had a headache and needed to try a
generic aspirin to cure my
major depression disorder,
anxiety, panic and adhd
before I moved to the one name brand and
two generic prescription cocktail that
finally keeps me as stable as I can be.
Maybe, I can get a letter from
my retired psychiatrist to show
that I have already done the “step up”
to prove that I cannot use the older
cheaper less stable drugs that
just don’t work for me.
I asked, “You want me to change my
medication (destabilizing me) though I have
been medicated since 2011?” I asked,
“What about my clonazepam and my viibryd?
Do you mean that you are going to reject my
other medications as well when I need refills next month?
You do realize this causes anxiety right?
I have depression and anxiety and your
process is making me anxious. Why would
your company contradict my doctor’s prescriptions?”
She kept putting me on hold and wouldn’t
or couldn’t answer my questions, but wanted me
to provide my doctor’s fax number.
(Who has that? Shouldn’t they have a
database with his information in it?)
There is a form that I am going to
have to give to my doctor
(who does not fill out forms, by the way.)
Can you hear the hysteria, creeping in from the edges?
The insanity of a broken system that I graduated to
by being designated as differently-abled.
I lost my nurse, social worker, transportation
support team during this transition to a
better medical insurance plan.
I haven’t had time to find a new support team yet. The
paperwork, forms and booklets alone are overwhelming.
I’m educated but I have terror about my paperwork.
It usually really is bad news, like,
they gave me the wrong amount of money
and I would have to pay it back through
a reduction in the award amount.
Understanding this is a full time job.
What do I need support for???? Support? Sanity?
Reality checks that I can only
complete one little task a day
without breaking, cracking, while giggling
semi-hysterically, a little?
My laugh is becoming brittle again, a bit
too high pitched and loud. A bray, where it
had once again become a lilting warm sound.
The next day my eldest had to leave my house. He is
a scared little boy, about to graduate with
no understanding of emotional and fiscal health
but I ABSOLUTELY cannot have him
pushing me over my limits every night.
I want to teach him to be financially frugal
so he can support himself in school, because I
can’t and his father won’t.
I love my children
I am sleep deprived
I have no energy
I’m trying to pack
everyday so I can move
to get away from this stress.
My days are swirls of other people’s needs.
My toddler is the only one
allowed to throw a tantrum in my house.
She can be distracted with food, meowing
and blowing on her feet.
His tantrums arrive like a tornado with dark clouds
blowing in, darkening the afternoon sun
with lightning and thunder storms
accusations of hate and betrayal,
rude displays of disrespect,
judgmental as if he can not comprehend the
complexity of my psyche, my pain, my trauma.
He is the center of the universe in his mind.
He is but one of four children and has a way
to go before becoming an adult;
who must take responsibility for who he is,
what he has done
and that he has the ability to heal himself
by whatever means necessary to be a positive,
beneficial human in this society.
If the goal is to frighten and inspire
revulsion, there is some corrosion on the
inside leaking out like a green patina that
creeps along the edge of copper as it oxidizes.
I’m human, but as an adult, I control
my surroundings and the stress levels around me.
Too much stress and I could blow like the top of a former dormant volcano.
Way too much magma under pressure to neatly erupt into the ocean.
I take out the whole forest and the side of the mountain.
Hopefully, the small birds and animals run and fly fast enough
to clear the ash that I’m capable of producing.
I’m no longer a door mat when I get attacked verbally.
I’m unfortunately a mental speed match for the child who
is used to the attack and retreat/bribe methods of his father.
He bandied about my “irresponsibility, lack of time management
and organizational skills.” In general, I sucked as his parent
At least he wasn’t back to calling me a whore and a bitch.
(Funny, why would those words come from a child
if he hadn’t heard them from an adult in the house?)
I countered with, “If (he) had such great time management skills,
had he overslept and been late to school during his month with me?”
He stopped and looked at me, stunned that I could argue on his level and speed.
“Well…yes.” I asked if he had completed all of his homework?
“Well, no…because his teacher did this… and then that happened…
therefore it was not his fault.” Really?
He got angry again and told me to basically,
“shut up and sign the forms he needed,”
that he had thrown on the floor at my feet.
He, “was tired of repeating himself and wasn’t
going to explain why he was asking me to sign forms that were
I explained, that it was not responsible to sign documents
without completely understanding the content on the forms,
especially if the form was incomplete or incorrect.
His fury was increasing and I wondered at what point he would get in my face.
Then I asked him about showing up late to a standing appointment,
if he truly was just at ngsaafds’s house nine blocks away.
The truth was he just didn’t feel like being bothered,
then blamed it on the time and distance it takes to ride his bike
across town to get a good workout (he bikes up and down each street,)
since I have not provided him with a bedroom large enough to work out in.
He admitted that he was on the other side of town, not nine blocks away. I’m not sure he meant to admit it, but I slipped into my old habit of prying truth from lies. Too much energy wasted.
Why would he have done that instead of being home on time
for an appointment he has had
every week for at least a year?
I even sent him a text to remind him of the appointment and he called me back complaining about the phone not working properly. When I reminded him verbally about the appointment all repeated was, “uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh…”
IS HE INSANE or just OCD?
Since when is providing a workout area
a requirement for rescuing a child from a
violent situation at home?
Was he high?
Or, does the US Parenting Guide
(they forgot to give it to me in the hospital)
say that good parents must provide at minimum
a 10′ x 10′ room for privacy and personal activities?
Earlier this week, I had a discussion with him.
I told him to pay attention to when his moods changed and
that he probably needed to eat even if he was not hungry.
(‘Hypocrite,’ I said to myself. We are so similar as far as
lack of appetite is concerned.)
He had skipped three days of his medication,
I counted his pills and gave him a wall calendar (and marker)
to keep track on as he tried to convince me
I just didn’t remember him taking it some mornings.
I put his meds in an alarm pill box at the head of his bed,
but it got covered during the frantic,
“keep away from the baby time in the morning.”
I set the alarm on the pill box so he could find
it while it rang at seven am, but he couldn’t
lift the two items that covered it to find it.
He complains about the mess in my
tiny little house yet does not lift
a finger to help unless he makes a mess,
then has to be reminded to clean it up.
He takes no responsibility for himself,
or his actions when he is angry.
He is spoiled and entitled and does not
comprehend the emotional sacrifices I made
for him to come into my home.
So time to go.
I don’t back down.
I stand my ground.
I don’t negotiate.
If you don’t like it
you can leave or
I will put you out.
I don’t apologize to my adolescent man child
for who I am now as opposed to who he remembers.
I do less, I function less, I prefer less.
If he needs more, he cannot suck it out of my spleen.
He vented his, I vented mine and
Momma trumps baby every time.
Nothing physically violent happened,
but it was too close to the home I no longer
wished to be a part of. It took too much
energy to do battle with this boy man after
doing the weekly phone battle with the ex
(mr. I don’t plan- I just expect everyone to
pick up my slack after I change my schedule
without giving enough prior notice,
“You agreed to do this you just don’t remember,
remember? bs) and his new email slinging sidekick.
I need at least six days of gardening therapy
to make up for these complications.
Next step: Eldest S. Reverie will be moving in with my mother, the drill sergeant. He will clean out the spare room, so he can have his privacy. He will appreciate the television, wi-fi and cooking, but regret the lack of freedom. His fear of pissing her off will keep him in line. Maybe.
Note to self: Join a PTSD or victims of domestic violence support group and discuss the stigma of being physically abused by your own child while your husband watches and/or instigates.
Garden update: Flower bed next to driveway is ready for seeding, so is the sedum bed in the front. Next: I take out the mint, chives, sedum, lavender, monardia, strawberries in the drawers flower bed. Yes, I planted flower beds in drawers. I’m going to dig for the gladiola bulbs, hopefully, they are still there.
Second Garden Update: No they are not there, if they are, I must have planted them deeper than I can remember.
I started this post five days ago and nothing can change any of the details about it.
Girly is singing and would like a change of scenery, so goodbye.