I’ve been debating whether or not to write this. Shaun says I should because I have to get it out somehow. I feel more and more like the circle of people who understand what I’m going through is getting smaller and smaller. If I were a Venn diagram, I’d be the only one in the overlap.
People who can’t squeeze infants out of their crotch gets a circle.
People with auto-immune diseases and/or fibromyalgia get a circle.
People who have adopted a sibling group from foster care get a circle.
It’s like the events of my life have conspired to leave me alone. I hear from the kids’ therapists that the kids are worried about me. I hear from my family that I was crazy to adopt kids with issues. I hear from my mom that I violated God’s will by giving up on fertility treatments and having faith that I would squeeze out my own perfect little humans.
People my age are getting pregnant for the first and second times and I don’t want to be a buzz-kill. I don’t want to open myself up to hurt and I don’t want to be outside the circle of “everything is perfect and we’re going to breastfeed and co-sleep” and blah blah blah. My kids were fed meth and kool-aid as infants and they’re smarter and better looking than most every kid I’ve met.
Then again, I deal with issues other families will never encounter and never understand. Yesterday LJ, after finishing his breakfast, walked back by Chickpea who was still eating and gave her a lap dance. She looked as shocked as I felt. I told him to go back to bed while I tried to figure out what to do.
An hour later, I got him back up and asked him to write an apology to Chickpea for what he did. Then came the tantrums… the tantrums that have been getting more and more frequent. He’s 10 and a few times I’ve wondered if the neighbors were going to call the police because it sounds like someone hid a grenade under his pillow.
Yesterday, after 45 minutes of screaming at the top of his lungs, he crawled into the top bunk of his bed and walled off the rails with pillows. He shrunk down into himself and he looked like a homeless war vet that is reliving combat in his mind. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I was watching him just to make sure he didn’t try to hang himself with his bed sheets.
At the group home he used to stay at, churches would donate tickets to Six Flags and all these other fun trips and places. No matter he didn’t have a family and the other boys and some of the staff used to regularly beat and rape him. He’s mad that he doesn’t get the fun stuff here. He’s mad that we don’t trust him to get on the internet or have his own cell phone or provide him with numerous violent video games.
We don’t get donations and Shaun’s been having to take off of work to help me through this medication change. We’re a lower middle class family living paycheck to paycheck but we love each other and we have stability.
But it’s my fault. If I weren’t sick, Shaun wouldn’t have to take the time off. If I were able to go back to work we would have more money but we’d never see each other. If I were more of a people person and not so fucking needy, life would be easier on all of us. If I could keep my mouth shut, we may be able to find a church home.
I’m terrified of being alone. I’m terrified of hospitals and I hate specialists. I think everyone thinks I’m pretty much crazy and that I exaggerate everything. How can I look like I’m doing so well and things be this bad? My life exists of pills, crying, and trying not to throw up.
Where is my sense of humor? Why are some topics suddenly taboo in my mind? Why do the longer I live the less I believe in God but believe more in the fact that things happen the way they are meant to happen? Why can’t I get the bad things out of my head? Why do I feel like I won’t live to see 50?