House of Zathras

Two full bags of trash.  Eight full bags of clothes.  Excavated near-jailbird Buck’s room today, in anticipation of Eraserhead’s coming down for the summer.  I had asked, begged, and pleaded for Buck to do it himself, but knew he wouldn’t.  Earlier tonight he accused me of always getting him to his events ‘late’ (as I am taxiing his ass to his awards banquet 30 FUCKING MINUTES EARLY!!!!!).  Later found out he meant two things:  1) I didn’t get him there at the time HE wanted to; and 2) got him to Young Marines 2 or 3 minutes late (we came from almost an hour away across state lines EARLY on fucking Saturday mornings!).  But the thing is, Buck has it in his mind that *I*, the one effin’ person who took him to all his ‘special’ events and gave him high-and-tights at 11:00PM the night before when he all of a sudden remembered it and God knows what all the fuck else, …he thinks I ‘ALWAYS’ (his word) got him there late.  Me…the Queen of Punctuality.  The woman who would rather be one hour early instead of one minute late.  Me…ruining his life because I couldn’t get him anywhere on time.  I also apparently made him fail Anatomy last year because I said he would fail…and yes,  I did tell him he would fail…if he didn’t do his assignments and study.  Even set up a study plan for him…but it’s my fault he failed. 

Earlier this week, he left a whole bag’s worth of clothes, sheets, shoes, and DVDs on the living room floor (along with a spoon stuck to the carpet).  I simply bagged it all up and waited to see what he would do about the missing items.  He never looked for his shoes (the two pairs he had left and I had bagged).  Instead he just got pissed, and when I got up this morning, I found him angrily tearing long strips of scotch tape to ‘fix’ an old pair of shoes so he could get to school.  Seriously…scotch tape? So…of course I didn’t expect he would actually pick up all his clothes this week…I just started the clean-up when I got home today.   Bagged all the clothes that were on the floor and put them in the back of the Suburban where he can’t get them.  Bagged up all the trash.  Steam cleaned his foul mattress.  Steam-cleaned the carpet.

He came home from his awards banquet in the middle of my doing this.  Questioned him about the college cup of my daughter’s that I found in his room (he needed it for tea and couldn’t find another cup…he needed it so he took it…just the latest reason why the other people in this house have to have locks on their bedroom doors).   I presented him with a very baggy old pair of BR’s sweat pants and a two-sizes too small t-shirt to wear for night clothes.  Too bad so sad that other sleepwear is in a bag somewhere.  Gave him a sleeping bag to sleep on the couch or floor in the living room (his choice) since I wasn’t done cleaning his room.  And too bad so sad that running the vacuum cleaner and steamer made so much noise he couldn’t get to sleep.  He can get his clothes back.   Only one bag at a time.  And the items of each bag must be hung up, put on the shelf, put away properly, or thrown away.  When all the items are put in their proper places, then he can get the next bag.

I was actually crying earlier tonight after he told me about what I ‘always’ did to him.  I really was the one who got him to his extra-curricular activities, got him to doctors’ and counselors’ appointments, gave him haircuts, begged and pleaded with the parochial school principal when he was talking about sexual situations (we eventually had to withdraw him).  And sometime over the past two years, he and I have hit an emotional roadblock.  He takes no responsibility for anything, lies about anything  we catch him doing, and doesn’t appear to care.  He disdainfully pulls his earphones out of his ear if he MUST listen to anything.  All that sets me off, and we have a screaming match.   I’m trying really, really hard not to do that.  To be the adult.  To know that he has been abused, that he’s locked away so far that neither the family nor counselors can reach him.  That he may be on a path of destruction that can’t be stopped.  That I am only stressing myself and my husband over things that cannot the fuck be changed.

It makes me so, so terribly sad.  I have to let go.  He’s 17, and is hell-bent and determined to show that he doesn’t need anyone.  He has no care or respect for others, only using them for his own ego-stroking and self-gratification.  He has to learn remorse and sorrow, but shows no signs of those traits at all.    I have to give up, or else we’re both going down in flames.  I don’t want to give up, but there are some emotional problems that cannot be ‘cured’ unless and until the person wants to ‘fix’ them. 

Please pray for us.  I’ve about given up on that, too.

This entry was posted on Saturday, May 5th, 2012 at 1:27 am and is filed under Angst (mine, kids', whoever wants it, come and get it), kids, Things I Hate. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.