Everyone has a breaking point. Sounds obvious but it was something I needed to be reminded of by a good friend yesterday. It’s because I have been dangerously close to mine the last couple weeks. It has happened before several times over the last 10 years but the difference now is that I am aware of it, I am taking ownership of it, and I am trying to be more up front about it.
A variety of factors have taken me to the edge this time. First these renovations. These godforsaken, never-fucking-ending renovations. They have been nothing short of an utter nightmare. Extremely delayed and way over budget. And, while we are close to the finish line, the hits just keep coming. There are some really good humans involved in this clusterfuck of a renovation project that are aware of our situation and have absorbed a substantial amount of the skyrocketing costs that have largely been the result of doing a major renovation project in the middle of a global pandemic.
I am grateful for their humanity, but still pissed off because no one has been hit harder than us. We have forked over a substantial amount of money for these renovations because we like where we live, wanted to stay but happen to have a child with severe disabilities in a wheelchair that needs these additional accommodations. It is utter bullshit that we live in a world that provides almost no assistance for families like us who, in addition to working through the trauma, mind-numbing anxiety and levels of stress that are sometimes beyond comprehension, also have to deal with seemingly impossible financial obligations.
And that’s why I’ve spent the last 10 years working various jobs that have been well paying and full of lucky breaks where I get to work for and with truly great people but doing things that are utterly misaligned with what I perceive to be my passion and purpose in this shit show we all find ourselves in. It’s why I am still in the Marine Corps, an organization I have always had the utmost respect for, have come to love despite my chronic imposter syndrome, but one that I am only affiliated with now because I need the health insurance and eventual retirement benefits. That’s bullshit, it’s not fair to the Marine Corps, and it’s not fair to me.
Then there are the seizures. These motherfucking, bane-of-our-existence seizures. I have a lot of “fuck you’s” to give, but I reserve the most vigorous ones for you, seizures. As if the trauma of his birth and his one month stay in the NICU wasn’t enough, he was discharged and hopped up on all manner of anticonvulsants, purportedly to keep you at bay. Then we had to squirt that garbage in his mouth three times a day, leading to his decision to reject anything his mouth at all, no bottles, no spoons, and most heartbreaking of all, even his mother’s breast, thus depriving both him and her of one of life’s most beautiful connections. Now, here we are 10 years later and we are still getting our asses kicked by you. We had to take him to the ER a couple of weeks ago. The seizures were out of control. Another medicine was added that doesn’t effectively control them and causes horrific side effects. Rinse. Repeat.
Yeah, I not only came really close to my breaking point the last two weeks. I was nearly broken. Things have only gotten harder and they will probably continue on that trajectory. But here’s
the thing. I’ve slowly learned to let the air out of the balloon. I’ve learned to stop sweeping shit under the rug, to stop being so damned critical of myself and invalidating the experience of real trauma and real pain by dismissing it as “whining” or admonishing myself to “get the fuck over it” or “be a fucking man.” No, that’s bullshit.
Instead, I have slowly but surely learned to be honest about it and just put it out there. I unload even on casual acquaintances that ask how I’m doing. And you know what? They listen. They care. Genuinely. You know why? Because humans, in general, really are good.
When I do these things, I’ve noticed that the universe can sometimes even shit out. This
has been a horrendous week. Absolutely miserable. But the moment I decided to let the air out of the balloon lest it pop, things started getting better. I started doing a daddy-daughter yoga/art class with Amelia every Friday afternoon that has turned out to be amazingly therapeutic. (Please make fun of me). Then I found out Kohl got “Student of the Week” at school for being a good thinker.
Once my cloud of depression, anxiety and profound anger lifts, Kohl’s mood lifts too. He may not be able to sit, stand, walk, talk or look me in the eye. But that little bitch is a thinker and he can immediately detect anger, sadness, and anxiety. And sure as hell doesn’t want to be a source of any of that shit for me. He’s a thinker, and he thinks that’s bullshit.
So if you’ve read this far, you must be really bored, but I appreciate you so much for listening. It helps more than you know.
