Krissie: As Ye Reap So Shall Ye Sow

Photo on 5-28-13 at 9.15 AM #2 I can’t complain. The things we do in life have consequences. The way we were raised can cause deep scars, and those scars affect how we turn around and raise our own kids.
With distance I’m recognizing my mother’s mental illness. Funny how that got lost along the way. She was relatively sane and as happy as she could be for the last almost forty years of her life, once my father died. Add remembering my father’s alcoholism, plus my brother’s, and it’s easy to forget the constant, screaming rages. Locking myself in the bathroom while she tried to batter it down with a firepoker. Chasing my sister into the neighbor’s kitchen with a knife. Her times in mental hospitals. The period, when I was sent away to live with my aunt and uncle (my extremely bi-polar aunt) when she had daily shock treatments. I visited her in the hospital once and she had scorch marks on her temples. My father was in the same hospital … oh, shit, you don’t need the deets. But I’d forgotten how sick she was. It puts things in perspective.
But it made me a lousy mother. I did everything I could to protect my kids, to rescue them, to save them, to bail them out, to rationalize what they did, to go with the flow. On top of that my baby boy was wounded. He has severe learning differences, though they don’t show, and a lifelong series of abandonments. And I kept wanting to fix things.
All the other little boys in my life died. Obviously I was the little mother in my family, and my father was my little boy. So was my brother. So was my nephew, while my sister, his mother, went through all her messes. And they all died. Young.
Which made me even more protective.
I didn’t lose it till this December, when something snapped. And he’s been so much better. Or had been. But he can’t find a job, he has no money, no car, no place to go. And yet he makes my life a living hell. Richie’s too. Richie’s heart was racing on Sunday night, he was so anxious. And it’s our fault. We made him the way he is. We kicked him out once, and it was the most painful thing I’ve ever done. I can’t do it again. Not when I was abandoned on every single level.
But if I won’t do what’s right I can’t complain. So I’m not going to whine, or give you details, or fuss. We’ll figure it out. I’m hiding out in the bedroom, working. But if he starts berating Richie again I’m going to have to do something. Because I won’t let him kill Richie from the stress of dealing with him.
But I digress.
Because I can complain about the snow. Most definitely. Latest snow on record up here, and certain areas got a whopper. They had to close the road to Smuggler’s Notch, big fat flakes came down all day, and it was still on the ground on Sunday when Richie and I went shopping.
IMG_0853 Note the apple blossoms.
It got into the 50s yesterday, with some sunshine.
Damn, I need the weather to get better. I need things with my son to get better. I need to close my eyes and listen to “Co-Dependent No More” except I don’t like Melody Beattie’s writing (I feel guilty that I don’t — how’s that for co-depency?).
I think I gotta concentrate on one day at a time. I can’t look ahead to the end of the week with dread — I’ll probably enjoy it. Or shudder at the thought of that long drive so soon after making it. Or angst about the work I want to be doing. Or the fact that I don’t feel I have a home any more.
We’ll talk about that tomorrow.
In the meantime,  I said I couldn’t complain but I actually did. Mea culpa. Oh, my god, mea maxima culpa. I didn’t think guilt was my thing. But I’d rather feel guilty than think my son is a total shit.
Okay, enough. I got books to write, worlds to save. I’ll get it right eventually.