I wasn’t going to write today. I’ve driven to Glasgow from our rural home as I do most Sundays. I am at our family flat and I’m alone. My son leaves today to visit his dad in England for 2 weeks. I won’t see him for 2 weeks. I wasn’t going to write today because I’m extremely anxious. Some part of me feels ashamed of the anxiety I feel. I don’t want to write every day about my negative feelings. I’m not ‘that’ person. Only, I am. Currently, I am ‘that’ person. As I don’t recognise my son, I’m having a hard time hanging on to me.
At home, I hate being around my son a lot of the time. I hate seeing him stoned. I hate watching his awkwardness. I hate listening to him shout through his headphones on his bloody Xbox. I hate it every time the door slams shut and knowing where he’s headed. I hate every little detail that reminds me he’s not okay. But I can, at least, help to keep him safe.
Today he goes to his dad’s. Things are different there. He smokes alongside his dad. He drinks alongside his dad. Amongst other things. There have never been boundaries for him there. And I know, from our therapy sessions together, that he hasn’t always been safe there. But he is 19 now and he wants to go, so he’s going. And my anxiety levels are at fever pitch.
I also feel guilty. Guilty because he will be out of sight. Out of sight and out of mind. Not entirely of course. But I am, in a curious anxious way, looking forward to a rest. I’m in a strange paradoxical place. Anxious because of the risks associated with his absence. And relieved because it won’t be in my face for a couple of weeks.
Today is testing my ability to let go of the things we can’t control.
This has felt very much like a desperate emotional vomit on a blog (vulgar, I know, but that’s how it feels). I suppose I’m writing now so I can look back at some point and say……phew, look how far we’ve come. I’m not at all religious, but oh my, I’m praying that day comes.
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