His words are beginning to take a toll on me. I never thought I would be a victim of verbal and mental abuse at the age of 43, but there it is.
I often have difficulty with walking, get dizzy frequently, and sometimes fall down. Behind me is the laughter of my son. “It’s funny when you fall.”
When I call him out on it, he gets defensive. Says that he would be happier to be in a facility rather than here.
He says so many other things, each is designed to cut to the quick.
His favorite taunt is “are you ready to hit me?”
Tonight he had a fit about his pills. He needs water, as ever, and wasn’t pleased because “I can’t find any clean cups”. Of course the reason we are out of cups is because he constantly takes a new glass every time he gets a drink. I could live with that, but then it boiled down to me trying to give him his meds, and him refusing to take them. He did end up taking them, but not until after we threatened to restrain him and give them to him instead of letting him take them on his own.
I am tired. I can’t leave him alone long enough to do dishes or laundry. I can only ask the boys to come out of hiding so often in order to help with the dishes. In truth, I want them to feel safe, and part of that is the security in their bedrooms.
In the end, it comes down to safety. David needs to feel safe, and the whole family needs to feel the same way. Sadly, that can’t happen for anyone as long as he is home.
Before you tell me to man up, want to borrow my son for a while?
Oh, I don’t expect the new facility to cure him. I just can’t help but feel that there is no cure for this. I expect them to help him learn how to control it.