‘Weary’ Is Just Another Word For…Oh…What’s That Word I’m Looking For…

I slept in until it was nearly noon today. I never do that. But I simply could not bear to face this day. Even now, I want to go back to my room and curl up in my comforter and sleep in the closed-door darkness. Pain levels are hideous today. But that’s only physical. Inner pain is beyond my threshold. No pill to help with that.

The source of this ungodly pain is my son. My youngest son is 24 years old. I’ve written a lot about him. He’s an alcoholic, but, thankfully, dope is in the rear view. Still, he’s creating situations in his life that I can do nothing about. He’s a grown man. He’s created grown man problems, in spite of having every help afforded him. As his mother, it kills me to watch. Even so, I have resigned myself to do just that. There is no amount of money one can throw at him, no advice or amount of love, that would cause him to change. Were that so, things would have long ago been set right, and he’d be sober today.

Exish and I will be going to the coast Sunday. We’ll be staying at Mother’s house. I cannot wait to have to explain to her why I’ve allowed the lights to be turned off at our old house, where Youngest is living. She’ll pat me on the back for refusing to finance his sickness. Then, after her second cup of coffee, she’ll look across the table at me and ask what ‘we’ can do to help. My answer is going to be short this time. One word: NOTHING. It’s going to bother her, and she will bring it up until I can take it no more. She’s soft hearted, like I am…like any mother is towards their own child, no matter how old they are. Still, my stance will remain the same. He has to help himself. I’ll save my concern…my sorrow…my tears…for the night, when I can sleep it all away.

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