This is what I looked like while I was praying/pleading with the universe for some patience and also understanding. Except there was more crying and not as much of a pretty glow.
The past two days have been rough. Like, rough.
I swear when I was sobbing and pleading for help on the bedroom floor earlier I was not all the way crazy. I mean, I knew I was down there doing that. I felt like I could cry my very heart out. Like I wanted to cry it out. “Just get out, heart,” I would say. “All this caring and hurting and living is so hard. Please, just go away.”
I thought about when I drank while I was laying there. I thought about that when the going got rough I got drunk. Now I just get on the floor and cry. I’m sure the children don’t understand either way, but at least after my cry I gave them baths and then we cuddled up on the couch and watched TV for a bit before bed.
So I did surrender and listen to Jack’s teacher. He is a kind young man who feels a kinship with Jack. He thinks up things for Jack to do when he finishes ahead of everyone else. He and Jack have a journal they write back and forth in. Jack’s problem is not behaving at recess. They have a whole enrichment thing for that: a Personal Empowerment Program (PEP) (what the hell? Isn’t he, um, eight?) that Jack will complete since he gets overwhelmed by Four-Square. My husband actually said, with no trace of sarcasm, “You’re telling me my kid can’t behave at recess?”
But the head banging is cause for concern, and also Jack’s holier than thou attitude. He alienates himself because he thinks he’s smarter and better than everyone else. And he puts so much pressure on himself to be the best, and first. And the best. And first.
The whole thing was surrealish and good but weird. And we all lived.
I did three asking for help things today. Help for Jack- finding a counselor for him to talk to about why he’s so hard on himself and dealing with his anger and sense of entitlement and injustice. Help for me- my women’s group ends Monday. I won’t be joining the other group that meets on Tuesdays, and we can’t afford for me to see my current therapist. So another counselor for me. And more help for me- an appointment with a new GP who does acupuncture and nutrition therapy. Someone who can help with my foot, and my hormones. Word. Word.
What really sucked was when the nice woman who was helping me figure out what I wanted in a counselor asked me what I was looking for I had to say, “I’m a recovering alcoholic. That part is more important than the holistic part. That’s the most important part.” Saying it out loud, to a stranger, over the phone seems like it could be a piece of cake. Except it isn’t. Telling her that Jack’s counselor needs to know that about me too doesn’t make anyone feel like mother of the year.
Then I got off the phone and cried a little and whimpered to my husband, “It’s hard to ask for help.”
Because, God. It really is.