It has been a difficult week, because it was a torturous weekend. My son has the capacity for great empathy and caring and selflessness, but, unfortunately, he has a greater capacity for bursts of temper that are frightening. He exploded on me last Saturday, and --- my right hand on this --- spent hours ranting and raving and throwing things and spitting at me and waving his finger in my face and punching walls and windows. Hours.
He did go see his girlfriend that night, but within 20 minutes of walking in the door, he had spiraled out of control again, screaming about how much better off every one would be if he were dead, pounding on his chest while saying "I'm a waste of skin and oxygen. The universe is against me. Why do I even care?" That went on for another couple of hours. I hid all the knives and chemicals in the house, and took away his car keys.
Sunday was The Walk on the Eggshells for me. I never know what will set him off. Of course, he was fine --- he had spewed all his poison and felt much better. While I had a splitting headache from the yelling and the crying I did afterward, not to mention the lack of sleep I got because I was listening for him in case he decided to do something stupid.
Monday I had therapy. It dawned on me somewhere in all the warfare that I am in an abusive relationship. With my own son. I spent another hour crying, while my therapist just let me go. Add more pain to the still-throbbing headache.
All week, I've just laid low. No energy, really, to do much else. Everyone thinks I'm in a bad mood, but I'm just scared to talk. To trip the trigger. And I'm empty. There is absolutely nothing left in my tank. No energy. No joy. No hope.