Breathe in… breathe out…

I’m wondering why I inspire men in my life to want to harm me? 

My 15 year old has told me, yet again, that it’s not his siblings’ safety I should be concerned about…

I’m not sure the resigned answer of – so kill me then.., if that’s what it will take so you’re forced to get help, go for it.., so what you need to do… – was the best response…

But what is the best response? Get out? I don’t want you here? It’s not safe? Becaus… he’s still my little boy… somewhere deep inside…

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Some stories need to be told… but the words never sit quite right…

How do I tell a story so old it’s taken up half my life… yet I had the pieces in the wrong place until only a few years ago… and even now there seems to be pieces that I didn’t know… the puzzle larger than I thought…

I remember an old school friend. From primary school. Not a close friend. A peer really. Nothing more. 

An encounter on a train station or somewhere early in uni days. Catch the train with us. There are so many of us. We take over the bottom floor of the second last carriage… not the last carriage – that would be ever so quaint… and we were young and invincible and far from that. 

I remember he had a friend. And I remember another encounter. Another friend I made somewhere. I don’t remember all the connections. They just weren’t important. 

But I do remember there were three of them. They seemed to gel. I liked matching friends to the misfits. I liked seeing people happy. I liked people. I liked everyone. 

That liking often landed me in trouble. The misfit that noone else liked would often think our connection was something more. 

One of them though that. Now, looking back, perhaps they all did… I have no idea. 

I’ve told the story a handful of times of a guy taking me aside at a BBQ to break up with me. The thing was… I had no idea he thought there was anything to break up from. We were friends. We hadn’t dated. Or even gone out together as friends. There was nothing to misinterpret… but apparently there was. 

I remember the first of these guys. The one I’d known the longest. I remember him being odd as the years went by. I have a vague memory of an expression of interest.. of a maybe date… that I fobbed off. I sucked at fobbing, but I tried. And I managed that one. I hated that awkward feeling. Knowing I’d hurt someone. Embarrassed them. I couldn’t seem to connect with being friendly and so many people thinking that meant more… 

I remember the other guy. Was he the the Third or the second ? And where did he actually come from? Suddenly a part of our lives. Suddenly everywhere I turned. He’d walk me to my seat in lectures. Meet me at the door. He knew my timetable. He seemed to be around the bend so often when I was out and about. 

Today, id think he was stalking me. Back then… he was just odd and at times, kind of creepy… til that day he broke up with me and I didn’t know we were dating. 

I look back and simply see odd memories of people from all walks and all personalities. Funny memories. Sad. Lost. 

But a few years ago, those memories changed with a few emails. 

They’ve stayed with me… dimming with time…

Until a few weeks ago when I was talking about them with a friend for some reason… laughing. Vaguely concerned. The memory I am living back here now… using my maiden name. 

Then three days ago, sifting through old emails… literally thousands of them. Archived. Went back all those years… and there were two of those emails. Only two remain. I thought they were all erased. 

The missing ones filled in with my memeories. 

Reading those two. Remembering I hadn’t simply dramatised. They were real. The fear justified. 

Then suddenly, last night, my phone rings. An old friend from primary school I haven’t spoken to since we were 8. Fb friends for years. But suddenly she called. To catch up on the last however many years…

And in the middle of the long conversation…

We touched on this guy…

And she said – yes, we talk occasionally…

Me – I’m sure it was nothing… I’ve dramatised it..

She – no.. it was very real…

Me – but he’s has therapy. Years of therapy. Institutionalised a couple of times. I’m sure he’s fine now… healed…

She – no… he doesn’t seem to be thinking of you at the moment. He knows we’re friends. He knows you don’t want to talk to him. But he’d still like to. We don’t talk about you – I made that clear. But no… it’s not really in the past… he’s not healed… he’s on the edge… delusional… 

and we left it… she’s declared she actually wants to cut ties with him now that she’s confirmed with me. She’s concerned he’s begin fixating on her. Remembering a fondness from primary days that didn’t exist. She’s worried…

And now I am too… probably foolishly. And I’m worried for my children. For a teenager who looks far too much like me. 

I’m worried that I was talking last night, wandering about as I was wont to do when young… when noone knew I would wander the streets to escape my home… but that somehow, a few years ago, in a couple of emails, I learned that he knew. He knew all of it. All of those moments I was sure I was alone…

And I worry that last night as I chatted and worried and roamed around the street just outside my place, that a car kept pace with me, stopping and turning… probably just looking for the right address… possibly wanting to ask directions… 

I worry at then coincidences in my life. In my last week. 

I worry at what the universe wants me to hear. 

Thesis topic

I have been contemplating my one day thesis topic… and it needs significant refinement… but I wonder how many parents kill themselves when their child is so incredibly unbalanced… when the path is so damned dark and empty and never ending… because I find myself planning it these days… the escape. I’ve never thought I’d ever want to die… I never thought there would come a day when I no longer want to live…. but the latter came quite some time ago… when it all just became so damned hard that I couldn’t find the energy any longer for that next corner… when I found myself just getting through the years of raising them until I could just finally stop… but now, now I find myself planning ways I could do it… will do it… maybe.., 

So I think a thesis should surely be written on this. Studies completed. Because… it’s one thing to be a teen on edge… but it’s another thing altogether to be the one raising him. 

My son is an arsehole…

I know that breaks all the golden parenting rules… but you don’t live with him. I’m sure he’s well on his way to being a psychopath. Or maybe it’s a sociopath. Those two seem to change depending on the day. 

He’s just so mean. He hates me. Well… maybe not hate. Hate implies a strong emotion. And he seriously dislikes me. Wants me to be miserable. Wants my life to be hell. It seems to give him a reason to get out of bed in the morning. 

And I’m so incredibly done. I’m so incredibly exhausted. And no one gets it. No one. Absolutely nobody. 

Everything out of his mouth is to tell me how much he dislikes me. Or to upset me. He stirs up the others. He makes everyone cry. He’s loud. He smashes things. He swears. And I mean swears. At 3 in the morning I’m worked by vitriol smashing through the walls as the Internet lags or as his team mate doesn’t do what he wants… 

and his little brother imitates… and I just can’t do it again. 

I wrote a moment from the dark parts of my heart… a curtain drawn back… but the internet is off and it disappeared… lines in the sand washed away with the tide… of only life could do the same with my heart. 

I doubt my parenting credentials daily… 

I have a 15 year old who tells me he despises me, in detail, daily… my walls for him are so high, and I don’t know how to break them down and let him in when he needs me… because I know he will turn in a heartbeat.
My 9 year old can text me he loves me. There’s something in the written word that allows his heart to shine through… but the words out of his mouth are so often harsh and angry… so often an echo of his big brother. 

My Y chromosomes…

Then there’s the 10 year old who gives hugs and kisses as needed… helps her little brother, listens to her big one. 

And my 17 year old who offers me her last bath bomb… knowing I need to relax… step outside my usual routine… bubbles and sparkles. 

The softness of my X chromosomes…

But there is softness in my Ys… just that the oldest has his so barricaded… and it can be so damned hard some days. It can destroy your sanity to hear so much anger. The litany of every single tiny flaw it mistake. It doesn’t abate. Every. Single. Thing. Is. Pointed. Out. And remembered… 

I wonder… in the midst of my self doubts and recrimination… if perhaps they are not here for me to parent, but rather that I am here for them to teach.