The Box

An ugly post, with ugly feelings. Feel free to skip it and come back another day if you're not up for it. I am okay, just feeling sorry for myself and my boys.

At the fair yesterday, I had Ja.son in the stroller, pushing him toward the livestock area. Is.aac was holding Sh.awn, who was completely overwhelmed by the chaos around him, following behind us. When I finally reached our end destination, I looked up to find Is.aac and Sh.awn gone.

I sent him a text to tell him where we were at.

He responded by calling me an ass and saying he was pissed that I left them.

Not one of our his finer moments to be sure.

It was a simple misunderstanding. Not even something that should have registered on our radar. I went where I thought we were going; he stopped where he thought we were going. It was nothing more than that.

But, I am hugely hurt by it all, even though he has since apologized (today). It isn't even the argument anymore, exactly. The more I think about it, the more that incident highlights the internal struggles that have been just below the surface for a few weeks now.

The "misunderstanding" so to speak of where I thought we were going compared to where we actually ended up.

I thought I had made my peace with things. I had taken all of the hurt over the issue, neatly packaged it up, and put it in the dark recesses of my brain. Then I put a few heavy bricks on top of it for good measure. Keeping it there prevented it from sneaking up on me. It came out only if I let it.

The very physical reaction I had to the thought of going to the BlogHer special needs session knocked the bricks off the box.

Fighting with Is.aac, moved the box front and center.

Tonight, without warning, the box has been opened. All of the pain I'd carefully hid away came flooding back.

I thought I was okay.

As usual, I found out that I am not.

The guilt has hit full force. Oh how I hate myself for causing* their struggles--our struggles.

My head...my heart...my entire body screams that things are not how they are "supposed" to be. Where we are is not where I thought we were headed--where we should be. Things should be different. Easier. Less. More.

I hate myself for thinking it, for wishing things were different.

I hate feeling that because I continue to struggle with this issue, I am sending the message that I am not okay with my boys. How could it not, when knowing that if I wished this away, it would change them?

Right now I can't "just" embrace the challenges in our lives, work through them, and see how blessed we are. I am feeling sorry for myself and my beautiful boys. I'm seething with an intense anger at the universe because my family has to fight for every single fucking thing we have.

Right now, I am wallowing in the pain, holding on to the anger. I am grieving the loss of "typical" one more time, even though I hate that it will not likely be the last time I grieve.

Right now, I am feeling oh so very alone.

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Soon, I'll be strong enough to capture these emotions and put them back on the shelf in the corner. I may be quiet for a few days, though, until I can make that happen.


*Yeah, yeah. I didn't cause the boys to be born early...blah, blah, blah.