I know damn well that Carter doesn’t do the things that he does to upset me. I know that he loves me. I know that the last thing in the world he wants to do is hurt me.
But there’s only so much a person can take. I’m at my limit, which is just something you say because obviously I’m not, since I’ve been there for 3 days and I haven’t gone over the edge yet. But still. I try to soften things somewhat when I talk or write for public consumption because God forbid anyone ever think I’m complaining. I’ve heard it before: “You chose to have kids; this is just how it is for you.” Yeah, thanks. So I try to put a rosy glow around it and you know what? It’s bullshit. It flat sucks donkey balls sometimes.
Today was one of those times. I feel like nothing more than a walking, talking punching bag. Not physically; he’s not raging these days, but emotionally. I hardly slept last night because of the stress and anxiety of the past few days, but today I pulled out all the stops: I devoted myself totally to trying to keep Carter comfortable. Know what? It was no better than yesterday when I was trying to get the laundry done. He’s called me every nasty name that his 7 year old experience of profanity can manage. “Fuck you, you stupid bitch-ass woman!” is not something that any mother yearns to hear. Even worse are the pleas for forgiveness that come later, the remorse and anguish he feels after an episode is over.
I’d reach for a larger meaning here, something broad and deep and full of hope, but I’ve got nothing. I’m tired. No, weary. This is a long, shitty road we’re trudging and I’m more than ready for a break.