Screaming on the Inside is Giving Me a Headache
I clearly remember being depressed during my first pregnancy. I thought I had good reason to be--I was involved in a shitty relationship with an abusive pothead who didn't have a real job, I had a crappy job myself, and I was un-medicated for my long-standing anxiety.
So here I am at 31 weeks in pg #2. I'm married to this Baby Daddy and things in that regard are fab-u-lous. I have a high-stress job, yes, but it's a job and a steady paycheck. I'm not really involved in any court drama with Baby Daddy 1. And I've been medicated for said anxiety for well over a year now.
And I'm still ready to pull every hair out of my head and scream until someone slaps the shit out of me.
Most of the problem is, of course, Bob. I am much, much ado about Bob. Suffice to say I'm just sick to death of dealing with his bullshit on a daily (hell, hourly) basis. I'm sick of trying a new medication, having it work for a brief period of time, and then being back to Square One. I'm sick of people throwing their hands up in the air and telling me they just don't know what to tell me. I'm sick of people telling me how bad it's likely going to get in the future--like I haven't fucking considered that over a million sleepless nights already--and telling me I need to get a handle on it (but, again, they don't know what else to tell me). I'm sick of taking two steps forward and six more steps back. I hate the thought I may end up throwing the rest of my family (myself included) under the bus in an effort to save this kid from himself--and may or may not be remotely successful in that attempt.
Things started going down the shitter a couple of weeks ago, just before spring break. Then came break, itself, and off he went to db's for six days. (So much for the GAL's intention he not spend more than 3 days with db at a stretch.) When he came back to me last Thursday, he was a nightmare. Friday wasn't a whole lot better. Then Saturday I sent him back to db's for the fucking holiday. And back he came Sunday evening.
Yesterday morning, I was barely able to move, and he was a serious pain in the ass. He wanted to take a pair of cheap novelty glasses to school to give to his teacher; I told him no. He snuck downstairs and stuck them in his backpack. I took them out and confronted him. He drew back his fist and threatened to hit me. I told him to put his fist down (because, I swear, had he hit me, I likely would have hit his ass back). He did. Then he went upstairs and got a whiffle ball bat, which he came out hitting against his palm with a shit-eating grin on his face, and said to me, "I've got a better idea." I gave him my 100 yard mommy from hell stare and told him to put the bat back in his room (before I shoved it up his ass--no, I didn't say it, but I was thinking it). He did. That was the end of the mommy-directed violent outbursts, but apparently, he spent the morning at school being a shithead, although he did have, by report, "a better afternoon."
Let's fast forward a few years, shall we? Let's say I can't ever get his shit under control. Let's say he's outgrown me by the age of 12. I've got him and a 6 year old to get off to school in the morning by myself. Who's going to protect me and the 6 year old from his rages when I'm no longer physically capable of restraining him? What do I do, buy a taser? How much will I have to spend on therapy for the 6 year old to counter all the bullshit he gets put through by his psycho older brother?
My blood sugar monitor log book has little blurbs on each week, sort of like "inspiration for the diabetic." This week's says "stress can make it hard to stay in range."
No. Fucking. Shit. Sherlock.
The problem is, my stress doesn't appear to be going anywhere. And I don't know what to do about it.
So here I am at 31 weeks in pg #2. I'm married to this Baby Daddy and things in that regard are fab-u-lous. I have a high-stress job, yes, but it's a job and a steady paycheck. I'm not really involved in any court drama with Baby Daddy 1. And I've been medicated for said anxiety for well over a year now.
And I'm still ready to pull every hair out of my head and scream until someone slaps the shit out of me.
Most of the problem is, of course, Bob. I am much, much ado about Bob. Suffice to say I'm just sick to death of dealing with his bullshit on a daily (hell, hourly) basis. I'm sick of trying a new medication, having it work for a brief period of time, and then being back to Square One. I'm sick of people throwing their hands up in the air and telling me they just don't know what to tell me. I'm sick of people telling me how bad it's likely going to get in the future--like I haven't fucking considered that over a million sleepless nights already--and telling me I need to get a handle on it (but, again, they don't know what else to tell me). I'm sick of taking two steps forward and six more steps back. I hate the thought I may end up throwing the rest of my family (myself included) under the bus in an effort to save this kid from himself--and may or may not be remotely successful in that attempt.
Things started going down the shitter a couple of weeks ago, just before spring break. Then came break, itself, and off he went to db's for six days. (So much for the GAL's intention he not spend more than 3 days with db at a stretch.) When he came back to me last Thursday, he was a nightmare. Friday wasn't a whole lot better. Then Saturday I sent him back to db's for the fucking holiday. And back he came Sunday evening.
Yesterday morning, I was barely able to move, and he was a serious pain in the ass. He wanted to take a pair of cheap novelty glasses to school to give to his teacher; I told him no. He snuck downstairs and stuck them in his backpack. I took them out and confronted him. He drew back his fist and threatened to hit me. I told him to put his fist down (because, I swear, had he hit me, I likely would have hit his ass back). He did. Then he went upstairs and got a whiffle ball bat, which he came out hitting against his palm with a shit-eating grin on his face, and said to me, "I've got a better idea." I gave him my 100 yard mommy from hell stare and told him to put the bat back in his room (before I shoved it up his ass--no, I didn't say it, but I was thinking it). He did. That was the end of the mommy-directed violent outbursts, but apparently, he spent the morning at school being a shithead, although he did have, by report, "a better afternoon."
Let's fast forward a few years, shall we? Let's say I can't ever get his shit under control. Let's say he's outgrown me by the age of 12. I've got him and a 6 year old to get off to school in the morning by myself. Who's going to protect me and the 6 year old from his rages when I'm no longer physically capable of restraining him? What do I do, buy a taser? How much will I have to spend on therapy for the 6 year old to counter all the bullshit he gets put through by his psycho older brother?
My blood sugar monitor log book has little blurbs on each week, sort of like "inspiration for the diabetic." This week's says "stress can make it hard to stay in range."
No. Fucking. Shit. Sherlock.
The problem is, my stress doesn't appear to be going anywhere. And I don't know what to do about it.
posted by Mitzi Green at 9:36 AM
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