Dove gray, damp and dull, the sky seems directly connected to my emotions on a dreary Sunday morning. I open a window desperately gasping for a breath of fresh air, but I am met with the musty scent of the screen instead.
Do people clean these? If so, it’s just one more thing that’s been neglected in the house. Like changing the sheets, sweeping underneath the refrigerator or getting a repairman for the dishwasher. The laundry is piled high, there’s a chip in my favorite tea mug-the one with a pug on it, and the kitchen sponge needs to be replaced.
Everything is my fault
I should have taken care of all of these things. It’s my fault I can’t breathe. I didn’t clean the screen.
I feel as if everything is my fault.
A good friend told me that when a household is constantly in crisis, the actual house becomes impossible to upkeep. She’s not just a good friend, but an upstanding person, with a good job who has clients and attends meetings. She’s a real adult, and her words comfort me.
I don’t feel like a real adult, more like a shell of an adult, faking it by applying concealer to the bags under my eyes-applying it to the cracks in my life. My friend’s words make me feel vaguely validated, but not better. My home is a metaphor for my life. I crave a tidy, organized home, but I have other things to tend to. Other things to clean up.
My son is here with me, but feels far away
My son is inches away from me, but the space between us feels sweeping. Nothing has prepared me for this cool emptiness. My heart actually physically hurts. I want to lunge towards him, smell his fruity breath, tousle his pale pink dyed hair, touch his soft cheek.
He stands in baggy 90’s style pants, a black Lowertown concert T-shirt and a Kelly green crossbody bag. His fingernails are chipped with black polish. My ex-husband waits in the car outside, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of yet another eruption.
I try desperately to search my son’s face for some sort of apology, remnants of remorse, but there’s nothing. I can see glimpses of residual babyhood in his pink cheeks, around his bright blue anime eyes. He has the finest poker face.
He wants to know if I took his rolling papers. His voice is soft but impassive. My son is resourceful, he will use old gum wrappers, corn husks, or a page ripped out of the back of a Bible. He avoids receipt paper. The ink is opaque and burns too quickly.
I clean up the mess after my son’s eruption
I clean up the broken glass pieces of his shattered bong, along with the scattered bits of picture frames, carefully stacking the now homeless photos into a neat pile. I remember when I took them. It was early October, the weather still warm, as if Autumn refused to let go of Summer. We had gone to a petting zoo.
I snapped pictures as my son let the goats lick feed from his small hands. He was still enough for me to capture a picture of him with the sun shining in his face, eyes squinting, mouth agape. He looked so endearing. He was so lovable. He is still lovable,
It’s one of my favorite photos.
My mother tells me to change the locks
“You should change the locks,” my mother says. I want to reach through the phone and shake her. She will tell my sister about this one. She always tells her when broken glass is involved. I feel so vulnerable.
There’s an internal dialogue in my brain-two voices, one cruel and harsh, telling me I am failing my child, another more soothing and empathetic. You’re doing the best you can with the tools and resources you have.
Remember when we bought him that gift and she forgot to make him say thank you? She was too lenient. This is why he’s like this.
It’s my fault. Everything feels like my fault.
I can feel the judgment in my bones. It’s like I’m caught up in a riptide and I’m exhausting myself trying to swim out. They say you shouldn’t fight a riptide, it could make things worse. Instead, let it carry you until its ferocity wanes. I want to be carried.
That my son is sweet, smart, brave, and worth fighting for
Once, we stayed at a refined hotel for a night. There was a ridiculously expensive gelato bar by the pool. My son insisted on using all his tooth fairy money to buy his brother a cone.
I want to share this story with my family. I want to convince them that things are not always what they seem. That my son is sweet, kind to animals, a snappy dresser, smart, brave, and worth fighting for.
If you walked in my shoes your ankles would break. Everything feels so heavy and hard.
At Walmart a toddler was having a meltdown. I could see the mother’s patience thinning, lips pursed, face red as she carried this kicking screaming child past people straining their necks to view the commotion.
I know how you feel! I know exactly how you feel!
When you’re kid isn’t happy it’s heartbreaking
Toddler. Teenagers. It doesn’t matter. The view is the same. When your kid isn’t happy it breaks your heart. You try to do everything you can. Therapy. IOP’s. Zoloft. A Med card. But anyone who understands mental health knows there is no magic pill. No perfect prescription.
My son walks down the stairs to the front door. His footfalls are softer than usual. There is a pause before I hear the storm door open. Not a long pause, but definitely a pause.
A moment of hesitation and hope. My heart flip flops. Then he’s gone.
This will carry me. I find slices of hope in the chaos. In the pain. I will wait until my boy returns home. Returns to me.
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