With my oldest son not living in my home, it is like there is a void. I want him to fill that void, but when he tries it is like he doesn't fit anymore. Sometimes I forget that he has aged beyond 11 1/2 years old. I try to do things with him that he once loved. He gets frustrated at my weak attempts to entertain him. He yells at me that he isn't some little kid anymore. I am crushed. I know he isn't. But I have missed out on so much of his growing into this angry teenager that he now is.
Gone is my outgoing bubbly little boy. The little boy with shiny blonde hair that talked incessantly and drove me batty all while being the center of my universe. We had a lot of bad days. They started when he was born and continued right up until the day he was moved to his Dad's house. That was a tragedy all in itself. One that took months to recover from. That is where the first shaking up of my faith started.
My son doesn't feel like he fits. He yells at me that he doesn't belong. I yell back. When he comes it is constant turmoil. There is a lot of crying as he picks on the younger brother and sister. Pillows thrown into their faces, blankets thrown over them, toys put up high out of reach. Angry words telling them to move or they are stupid or ignorant.
I hear him say he hates this or that or this person or that person. I am lost. I do not know how to help him or even if he would let me. I did this. I let him go, and let him down and broke his little boy heart. I left him to follow a husband and raise two more small kids. I often live too far away. It is hard to talk to him on the phone, because his life and my life are so drastically different.
Routines that are necessary for my youngest son are the undoing of our visits with my oldest son. The quiet that I crave after a long day is gone. Trying so hard to please this stranger that comes to visit me.
I know he hates me. I know he resents me. I know his dad tries to poison his mind against me every day. I also know it is working. According to his dad, I am a recovered drug addict, was once a prostitute, I hate him, my new husband hates him, I love the younger kids more, and it goes on and on.
When my son tells me he wants to leave because I won't let him drink a gallon of milk in one setting I cringe and say lets go. He won't go, but I still offer. He hates how I try to keep him from binge eating which results in him being violently sick the rest of the night. He doesn't like it that I won't watch gore filled movies and that I monitor his video games that he brings. My rules are the worst. I am the enemy. Everything I do or say to him is wrong, except my cooking, I can do that very well for him.
I try to include him in the meal preparation. Its a good time to bond and a chance to pass on my knowledge to him. He refuses and often complies only after yelling and screaming and slamming everything around. It is not uncommon for us to have screaming matches filled with profanities the entire weekend that he is here.
All the while I am slowly dying on the inside. Pleading with God to step in to guide us to convict us to forgive us. It is unending the anger and angst and hurtful words. And then there is the racial nonsense that his dad was kind enough to drill into his head. The down talking of people with special needs. The refusal to acknowledge his little brother who has taken years to speak, instead yelling that he is a freak that needs to learn how to talk.
He tells me he drinks alcohol, I do not know if this is true, he has claimed abuse from family at his dad's house, I have no way to substantiate this. He says he doesn't have cooked meals. When I talk to his dad it is all sunshine and rainbows. Lie after lie. I know he hates me too. I know he hates my husband. I feel as if I am trapped in hell and there is no way out.
I envision fun filled weekends with laughter and good food. I get strife and racist slurs, anger, and hurt and profanity. There are no hugs and only an "I love you mom" after much resentment. I ask only for your prayers, and lots of them.
September 10 2016
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