Welp, the dinner party is off. And Cry #1 of 5 has commenced.
I had to cancel an hour beforehand because Takkin is a monster. I am sitting at my grandmother’s house shaking as I write these words because I just got two remote controls thrown at my head and was yelled at for 10 minutes: “Fuck you, you stupid sister,” “Bitch, get the hell out of here,” “You’re just a fucking asshole.” “Get the hell out, leave.” He told me to cancel the dinner party so I did, and I left, as soon as I pulled the baked brownies out of the oven, which I am certain he will eat the entirety of by the time I get back. I offered him an Ativan and he threw it in my face. I was told by the people who experience this daily that leaving is the thing to do.
So, here I am at my grandmother’s house as she rattles off ridiculous ideas about taking him out or her coming over, thinking these attempts to give him what he wants will soothe him in some way.
News flash: the kid doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.
And therein lies the problem. He doesn’t want to be home because he’s bored. He doesn’t want to be out because he’s scared. He goes out anyways sometimes for hours with his tutors just driving around and going to get sodas and then comes home and is immediately bored again. He doesn’t want to play cards, or help me bake brownies, or watch tv, or play Xbox. He just wants to bitch and grumble and moan about his MOTHERFUCKING PHONES. I can’t, I just can’t, I can’t do this. I am cracking.
And the worst part is that he’s not a monster. If I could hate him, everything would be easier. But I opposite of hate him–the farthest end of the spectrum from hate. Which is why I cry, which is why I always go back, which is why 20 minutes from now I will be sitting on the couch playing blackjack with him as though nothing happened. Because he has already forgotten, even though I will never forget because each incident chips away at you until you are a cracked shell of yourself with nothing left to give. He has drained the life out of me and I am a prisoner these 10 days.
I knew we wouldn’t get along incident-free my entire stay, I anticipated this exact situation, but it is jarring still. He has no way of tempering himself or his moods. And he is too low IQ to learn. I might be fucked for 10 days, but I am not the tragedy. I’d rather have a million remotes thrown at my head than to be living inside his.
Pray for us both, friends. But keep your hands folded and your head bent over a lot longer for him.