Rather than the psycho-babble I tend to fling out, I thought I’d switch to more personal writing, and last week provided an opportunity and a challenge.
A phone call from my son, Sam, requesting my husband and I send lots of money to someone we barely know and haven’t seen in years, resulted in a string of cruel name calling when we answered no. In addition, his logic was, well, illogical, which added to my grief. If I had a gun in my house, I’d have shot myself in the head because I am burned out from his MI. I know it’s not his fault, but my ability to cope has dropped to sink-hole level since I’m dealing with my own depression.
I tried therapy again, but gave up on my third session when I walked out early, having nothing to say—at least nothing new to say. I find going over the same issues a bore, even if the pain is unremitting.
This current week Sam’s been phoning on a regular basis, which is very unusual. While there’s no more nasty words transmitted through the wire, he sounds manicky, and I’m getting red flags regarding his medications. He is court ordered to take them, but the word of “God” will cause him to stop. I don’t want to get involved in his personal business again, but he wants to come for Thanksgiving and while I want him to come, I hope we can get through it without any incidents; family gatherings are tricky business as I’m sure many of you know.
In closing, to all my fellow bloggers out there, those with mental illnesses and those who are desperately trying to make life better for their loved ones who do: Happy pig-out harvest festival y’all!