Hard

So Jacob is home.  

Has been for a while.  

It started out okay.  

But here we are.   Back to the same.

Same shit.  Different Day.   Story of our life.

It's hard.

I am so thankful that my children are healthy.   They have never seen the inside of a hospital other than their own births and that week my mom had the heart attack (which, gratefully, they don't seem to remember and Elizabeth was protected by the womb there).   They are so very rarely ill that we didn't realize they'd moved the pediatrician office until we needed a well-check for Boy Scout trip.  They aren't rocket scientist smart but have no learning disabilities that hinder their education.  

For those things, we are blessed.

We look like a normal family.    

We look all happy and shit.    Who knew?

Who knew we'd have to call the police to find our child?  Who knew our child would shout nasty swear words at the neighbors waiting at the bus stop with their good children?  Who knew our child would tell his Sunday School teacher to "go to hell"?   Who knew our child would kick me square in the chest and tell me he hoped I'd die quickly and horribly and he would one day do it?

Yeah…..certainly wasn't what I was expecting.

Then.

If I thought it was hard having a baby scream bloody murder 15 hours a day, well, I was sorely mistaken.

I'd love to get that back.    I feel badly bitching about it now.   Why couldn't I see how easy I had it then?

It's hard when people look at you with contempt because they think your rude, ugly child is all your doing.   It's even harder when people look at you with pity because your child is wandering aimlessly, unmedicated, talking to himself, and acting like a three year old.  A fourteen year old three year old.   A fourteen year old three year old who cusses, masturbates, and attempts to hurt you.

It's hard.

Something bad is wrong with my kid.   He's getting worse.   Exponentially worse.    His body is aging but his brain is still emotionally and socially in preschool.  

I don't even know what to do anymore.

My husband and parents won't even entertain the idea of taking him to that behavioral hospital.    He'll grow out of it, they say.   If you'd just let him be, they say.   You're too hard on him, they say.    Just don't bother him, they say.    He's emotional, they say.   Don't stir the pot, they say.   He wouldn't walk down the street giving you the finger if you hadn't set him off, they say.  

Maybe I should get some help.   Learn how to deal with him.

Silly me.   I thought I'd done that when I got that degree in BEHAVIOR DISORDERS.   But, what do I know?

Maybe I could deal with him better if I weren't the only one really dealing with him, but I digress.

I wake up every morning and think maybe this is the day it changes.   Maybe this is the day he starts to get better.   Maybe this is the day he starts to care, want to be something,  want to do something, want to be a happy part of our family.   It never happens.   After all this time, you'd think I'd get that.   Fourteen years thinking this is the day, this is the day, this is the day.  

Not today.

It's hard.