Brothers

Earlier, as we were leaving Dillion's.....

D: [pouting]
Me: What's wrong, buddy?
D: My heart doesn't feel good. I feel lonely.
A: You're not lonely, bro, because I'm here and I'm still your brother.

I smiled when I heard that, and I felt so proud of A. But then in that same moment I got scared because one day, that unconditional love A has for his big brother isn't going to be there. And it will be D's fault. 

While I hurt for D as he struggles and lives his life on the Spectrum, I mostly feel bad and sad for A. He has heard so much screaming and yelling, seen his brother meltdown numerous times, seen his parents physically restrain D, and also been physically hurt by him. There have been days that I have seen nothing but pure terror in A's eyes after doing something to D. (Don't get me wrong, A knows how to instigate, but he still doesn't deserve pure terror.)  He's heard his big brother threaten to kill himself and seen him pull a knife on me.  But A loves him. 

Maybe it's because I relate to A in a different way. I grew up seeing my parents scream and yell and throw things and inflict fear and pain on us kids. It kills me that A has to see all that happening. Granted, it's different (my parents were horrible, horrible people; D is on the Autism Spectrum), but I know how much it hurts to see things that you can't change--that you can't help. 

Then, on the flip side...A follows all of D's modeled behavior. Good AND bad. So he's started hitting himself, and saying, "I'm stupid, nobody loves me," and saying that he should be gone from the family. Earlier today he said, "Mom, just hurt me. I'm stupid."  He's been tested and he's not on the Spectrum; this is all just mimicry. Nonetheless, it sucks. And is why my 4-year-old goes to counseling. (Well, that and his dad being deployed.)

I don't know. My head's all over the place right now. I'm thinking it's a sugar crash. Also, I'm trying to get back into the habit of blogging so that's that. 

Reason #42 Why I Got Married

Neck zits.

Or really, any zit in a spot that I can't reach. But today's inspiration comes from a horrific zit I have on my neck.

It hurts! I can see it, I can touch it, but any time I try to squeeze it (you know, to remove it) the pain I feel makes me stop and weep like an infant. And then it just grows bigger, redder, and angrier. The huge whitehead in the middle starts mocking me. It has become almost comical--like an over-exaggerated zit you'd see on a TV or movie character. You know the kind. And all I want to do is pop it.

This is where I miss my husband. Because he would pop it for me. It would hurt, and I would cry, but then it would be gone. Because, yes, my husband pops my zits. And I return the favor. We're humans....WE'RE PRIMATES! This is what we're hard-wired to do. And honestly, there are few things on this earth as satisfying as popping something off of your own body, or the body of your significant other.

So now I will clean my house with my neck throbbing and be silently judged by you all reading this who want to pretend you have never popped a zit, and that you don't know just how good it feels sometimes. Good day.

Twenty percent down...

Today, I miss him. Don't get me wrong, I've missed him since he left but today I REALLY miss him. I feel his absence so much today, more than other days and possibly less than others. But today, I miss him.

I need him here, next to me, holding me, making me laugh. I need him to hug me and tell me everything's going to be okay. That I'm doing a good job. That he misses me as much as I miss him. (Which, if he were here there wouldn't be any missing but that's just semantics.)

I miss his arms. I miss being held, and touched, and grabbed. I miss the unexpected butt-smack. I miss holding his and and feeling his thumb rub mine. I miss pre-sleep snuggles, three kisses, then rolling over to our respective sides (for we are NOT cuddly sleepers). I miss the stubble. I miss when the smile reaches his eyes and for a brief moment I swear they twinkle. I miss him.

I miss him. Today, most of all.


...Eighty percent left.