Tomes of Guilt and Pain
I spent the day reading through the entries of journals I kept from December 1997 to some month in 2004. Doesn't really matter which month in 2004 because by June of that month, Juneyour, the subject of this entry, had turned 20. Right, not a full-fledged, alcohol purchasing adult, true, but close enough for government work. Close enough to take responsibility for his own behavior too. According to documentation, he moved out under not such good circumstances that year in June. By then his bullying and mistreatment of the kinder, gentler and (okay, I'll just say it) weaker people in his life had hit an all time high. By then he'd used up even their tolerance. No one could stand him. Not even his own mother. Very interesting, very depressing, very exhausting, those entries. What did I discover during my perusing? Things that it would do me well to remember for the rest of my (or his), unfortunately.
It's hard. No mother wants to believe that their only son is mentally ill. But I can't come up with any other explanation for his stinking behavior. No matter how hard I try, no matter what angle I look at it (him) from, it ends up the same He's either unbalance or I am. The only other possible explanation is that he's the spawn of the devil & I don't want to believe that he's that powerful. He IS that sinister (unfortunately). Don't laugh. I'm a nice person. I'm good hearted! Hell, I'm good natured, even after all of this. I come from a good family. I've worked (successfully) with hundreds of people with all kinds of setbacks and problems and disabilities. I have a knack for it. I understand them. They like me. I'm able to gain their trust and confidence with minimal effort. It pains me to admit that I can't deal with my own son. It's not from lack of trying, believe me. I FORGET that I've tried. I forget that for the past 11 years (add a few, probably) I've felt bad for him. I've felt guilty and sorry that I wasn't the mother that he deserved, the mother that he needed, the mother that he wanted. (I guess I AM unbalanced!) Oh, it wasn't just all about what I wasn't that caused me to feel that I'd failed him, I felt horrible too, about the person I'd chosen to father him. Spineless, wordless, spiritless. A terrific role model. How could I ever think that he could rear a child? I've forgotten that I've tried to reason with him. I've tried to set a good example, that I've tried to help him, that I've tried to love him. I've forgotten that I've forgiven him again and again for not respecting me, my feelings, my property.
Reading today brought back all of the hell. In retrospect, I never should have put up with it. I should have drawn a big, black, heavy, thick line and told him, "Don't you cross it." He was 17 years old. Old enough to know better. By then even, he was in the habit of pushing his abuse around. He probably wasn't that way so much around his father's side of the family but for sure they never encouraged him to treat anyone, especially a woman, with respect. Who knows maybe it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.
He was almost 16 years old (May 30, 2000) when he "staged" a suicide attempt. I was living in a 1 bedroom apartment (the only thing I could afford... and I afforded that just barely) after the divorce. I was working 2 jobs and had (some) weekend visits with him. To this day, I don't know what prompted the episode (aside from not being able to deal with reality). I wrote that he was angry because his sisters (and one of their friends) lived there with me and he didn't understand why he couldn't live there too. I tried to explain it to him. I'd left a 4 bedroom home to his father and our 3 kids... I thought I had anyhow. Juneyour had, by then, been arrested for stealing a neighbor's 4 wheeler and was on house arrest. Things never do turn out quite as planned and of course, his father could never pull his own head out of his own issues long enough to assure Juneyour that his mother loved him but 4 women, 2 cats, 1 dog and a bird was plenty enough body-age in that 1 bedroom apartment. I was working with a blind girl when he (Juneyour) called me. It was a rant. I didn't call it that then but that's what it was. Figuring the blind girl couldn't see anyway, I took her and drove to the apartment where I found Juneyour on the floor, the dog leash around his neck and a tipped chair to his right. He looked dusky. A gasp of pain left my body when I saw his. I rushed to his side, very prepared to take medical action. I watched for breathing, seeing none I grabbed his wrist and he laughed. It was a big joke. I should have recognized his capabilities back then.
I realized today, after a conversation with one of his sisters (who he no longer talks to) that I will never be able to see my granddaughter (his daughter) again. Not as long as he has anything to do with it. Because as long as he has anything to do with it, I won't be able to trust it. His sister says, "Knowing him he'll let you see her and he'll set you up, accuse you of doing something to her." He's already accused us of trying to get her taken away from him. He claims that he's told her that we're trying to take her away from him. Wonder how that affects a 4 year old. My heart goes out to her. I pray to God that she is somehow, miraculously able to escape his perverse grasp.
It's hard. No mother wants to believe that their only son is mentally ill. But I can't come up with any other explanation for his stinking behavior. No matter how hard I try, no matter what angle I look at it (him) from, it ends up the same He's either unbalance or I am. The only other possible explanation is that he's the spawn of the devil & I don't want to believe that he's that powerful. He IS that sinister (unfortunately). Don't laugh. I'm a nice person. I'm good hearted! Hell, I'm good natured, even after all of this. I come from a good family. I've worked (successfully) with hundreds of people with all kinds of setbacks and problems and disabilities. I have a knack for it. I understand them. They like me. I'm able to gain their trust and confidence with minimal effort. It pains me to admit that I can't deal with my own son. It's not from lack of trying, believe me. I FORGET that I've tried. I forget that for the past 11 years (add a few, probably) I've felt bad for him. I've felt guilty and sorry that I wasn't the mother that he deserved, the mother that he needed, the mother that he wanted. (I guess I AM unbalanced!) Oh, it wasn't just all about what I wasn't that caused me to feel that I'd failed him, I felt horrible too, about the person I'd chosen to father him. Spineless, wordless, spiritless. A terrific role model. How could I ever think that he could rear a child? I've forgotten that I've tried to reason with him. I've tried to set a good example, that I've tried to help him, that I've tried to love him. I've forgotten that I've forgiven him again and again for not respecting me, my feelings, my property.
Reading today brought back all of the hell. In retrospect, I never should have put up with it. I should have drawn a big, black, heavy, thick line and told him, "Don't you cross it." He was 17 years old. Old enough to know better. By then even, he was in the habit of pushing his abuse around. He probably wasn't that way so much around his father's side of the family but for sure they never encouraged him to treat anyone, especially a woman, with respect. Who knows maybe it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.
He was almost 16 years old (May 30, 2000) when he "staged" a suicide attempt. I was living in a 1 bedroom apartment (the only thing I could afford... and I afforded that just barely) after the divorce. I was working 2 jobs and had (some) weekend visits with him. To this day, I don't know what prompted the episode (aside from not being able to deal with reality). I wrote that he was angry because his sisters (and one of their friends) lived there with me and he didn't understand why he couldn't live there too. I tried to explain it to him. I'd left a 4 bedroom home to his father and our 3 kids... I thought I had anyhow. Juneyour had, by then, been arrested for stealing a neighbor's 4 wheeler and was on house arrest. Things never do turn out quite as planned and of course, his father could never pull his own head out of his own issues long enough to assure Juneyour that his mother loved him but 4 women, 2 cats, 1 dog and a bird was plenty enough body-age in that 1 bedroom apartment. I was working with a blind girl when he (Juneyour) called me. It was a rant. I didn't call it that then but that's what it was. Figuring the blind girl couldn't see anyway, I took her and drove to the apartment where I found Juneyour on the floor, the dog leash around his neck and a tipped chair to his right. He looked dusky. A gasp of pain left my body when I saw his. I rushed to his side, very prepared to take medical action. I watched for breathing, seeing none I grabbed his wrist and he laughed. It was a big joke. I should have recognized his capabilities back then.
I realized today, after a conversation with one of his sisters (who he no longer talks to) that I will never be able to see my granddaughter (his daughter) again. Not as long as he has anything to do with it. Because as long as he has anything to do with it, I won't be able to trust it. His sister says, "Knowing him he'll let you see her and he'll set you up, accuse you of doing something to her." He's already accused us of trying to get her taken away from him. He claims that he's told her that we're trying to take her away from him. Wonder how that affects a 4 year old. My heart goes out to her. I pray to God that she is somehow, miraculously able to escape his perverse grasp.