Day
number three (after the suicide threat incident) did not get any better.
The
first thing he did when he got up late that morning was demand to use the computer. We were holding fast to the rule that he couldn’t
use the computer unless he was not smoking pot or using anything else.
“I want to play
Starcraft.”
“You
can’t play StarCraft until you can produce a clean drug test.”
“Drug test me, then.”
The
drug test showed an error. I usually don’t
flush the urine until after I do the test (just in case I need it), but this
time I did. He refused to give me another
urine sample and insisted that he was going to play StarCraft no matter what I
said.
“This is B.S. I did my part. It is not my fault that you screwed up the
test.”
So
I locked the door to the office and he yelled at me and swore at me as if that
would make me change my mind.
Since
he couldn’t use the computer, he decided to play his acoustic guitar.
“Where are the guitar pics
that I left on the table?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Well, I didn’t move
them. You need to remember where you put
them and find them for me.”
“There
are two people in the house that don’t know where your guitar pics are and only
one of us going to look for them. And it
isn’t me.”
Of
course that didn’t go over very well with him.
While
being subjected to another one of his rants, I just wanted to go to my room,
lock the door, climb into bed, and hide from this insanity.
But,
of course I couldn’t do that. He would
have just yelled at me through the door, or punched holes in the walls or door,
or threatened to damage something just to get me to give in and do whatever he
wanted me to do.
The
next thing I knew, I was being informed that his friend called and told him
that the pawn shop payment of $14.00 for his pawned electric guitar was due
that day and if he didn’t pay it, the guitar would be put up for sale.
He
wanted me to give him $14.00 right then and there to give to his friend.
As
if anything that had gone on that day so far would
have made me gladly or willingly give him money. I
said, “I won’t give you $14.00. But, I
will go with you to the pawn shop. I'll pay to get the guitar back. Then, I
will bring it home, lock it in my room, and keep it until YOU PAY ME BACK the amount
of money that I give to the pawn shop. That
way, you won’t lose your guitar if you miss a payment.”
Instead
of being glad that I was willing to do that for him, he freaked out because I
wouldn’t give him $14.00. He went right
back to his position that I don’t trust him enough to give him money. Once again, I was yelled at, berated, and f-bombed.
This
was just pure insanity.
I
sent my husband a text message and asked him to call our son to see if he could
reason with him about this because I honestly felt that I just couldn’t take it
anymore. But my husband couldn’t break
through the crazy wall that our son had set up for himself on this issue either. I heard my son say, "There is no
way that I will let you pay off my loan. You'll have my guitar and then you will be sure to find some reason not to give it back to me, even if earn
enough money to pay you back and there is no way in hell that I am going to take that chance. I would rather have the chance of never getting it back from the pawn shop than trust you to give it back to me." Then, he hung up on his dad and
threw his phone at me.
His
Dad kept trying to call him back, but of course he couldn’t answer because I
had his phone. I sent a text message to
my husband to tell him what had happened and he started trying to call me, but
I couldn’t answer because my son was in my face demanding to have an adult
conversation with me.
My son had the nerve to say that I needed calm down and change my tone while we talked.
Seriously?
He just threw his cell phone at me and I
was the one who was being told to calm down?
I said, “Sorry, but that ship has sailed.
The agitated tone of my voice is the tone you are going to hear based on
the last three arguments of the day. I
am so upset and so sick of you treating me the way that you do that there is no
way I am not going to sound irritated.”
His
response to that was to call me a f-ing c*** again.
At
that point, the only thing that I wanted was to have him out of the house and
as far away from me as possible. I said,
“You need to get out of here right now and I don’t want you to come back
until your dad gets home.”
He decided that meant that I was kicking him out and resumed yelling and f-bombing me. He told me that I was a hypocrite for kicking
him out because he knew that I would call the cops on him as soon as he left
telling them that he ran away even though I was the one who kicked him out. He wouldn’t listen when I told him that I wasn’t
kicking him out, he just absolutely had to leave the house for the rest of the day.
He
started packing his backpack and said he was leaving forever and I would never
see him again. But, he wouldn’t shut his
mouth the whole time that he was packing, so I locked myself in the
office to try to get away from the abuse. When I heard the front door
slam, I looked out the window and saw him walking up the street with his
backpack stuffed as full as he could get it.
I felt as if I had just been beaten down.
I
was so tired and hurt by all of it.
You
would think that after being homeless, he would have been as happy as could be
to be able to have a place to stay again and would have tried a lot harder to
get along with me.
But
instead he seemed to feel exactly the opposite and just wanted to fight me
about everything.
For the next few days every time my phone rang, or I heard a text
alert, left the house, or came back home, I experienced a feeling of terror
that it was going to be my son on the phone or that he would be waiting outside
the house for me.
It’s
not fair to be afraid of your own child.
Not
fair at all.
