In the kitchen with my husband and son.
The anger, hurt, tired, and frustration of the past few weeks hit the breaking point.
I yelled. I screamed. I may have used some profanity. I slammed cabinet doors and shook my finger in my son's face.
He'd been home from college for just about three hours.
The good news is that I feel better, and they could take it. They seemed to understand on some level, and it doesn't upset them when I yell. Especially since it's not their fault. Actually my son laughs and tells me how to fix the problem, and my husband (a little more experienced with me and anger) cracks a wry grin and nods his head -- a lot.
Once I got past their amusement at my frustration, I found it was rather freeing to tell them how I was feeling. I was even able to laugh along with them at some of it.
We made a plan and clarified some confused communication. I reminded my son that, even though his brain works just like his dad's, my does not. I don't have their genetic make up. Plans must be clearly verbalized. (They are not unlike dealing with Spock on Star Trek. Logic is king.)
So this morning I have a list and a plan. And when that list is dealt with, I'm switching gears to do the things that are important to me. With no guilt.
Maybe the paranoia, exhaustion, and anger will take a break for awhile anyway.
Lord willing.
linking up with imperfect prose on thursdays
