Fuzzy died. It broke our family into pieces. It made me understand the adage, “the straw that broke the camel’s back.” I have existed on fumes since then because I feel I have nothing left in me.
I read something I wrote starting in January of 2014. Two sheets of paper scribbled down messily about my frustration. It had been a journal entry. Two pages I ripped out of a notebook. I placed these two pages in a small journal never to be found. It was a journal someone had bought me and I rarely wrote in it. The journal pages that had been messily written down and torn out were from another journal I recalled, meant for keeping notes on my son. I wanted to show them to a psychiatrist. I wanted to get my son help for his OCD breakdown. I never did.
The entry described the daily breakdown of my son with OCD. It described how he stopped showering in early November of 2013. The entries went on until my daughter’s birthday, and his breakdown over a book she was given, “All My Friends Are Dead,” for her birthday. It was supposed to be a joke book, but it destroyed him because the death of his beloved dog he had had for 14 years had died. He was broken.
My entries described how he would cry relentlessly and speak in low guttural angry voices, as if possessed. It described how he would maniacally scrub his clothes with Lysol wipes and then wash his hands and arms for one, two, and more hours frantically. I would hear him crying in the bathroom and speaking to himself in those low guttural voices. I didn’t know what to do with my son’s extreme breakdown. It described exactly what is happening today.
And then I found journal entries of me dating someone in March. That was it. Entries of a fling I had for two weeks, and then I had stopped writing.
That’s when I realized. I am broken. I am a horrible person. I watched on the sidelines as my family slowly broke into pieces for YEARS. I watched on the sidelines as my son broke into pieces.
If someone asked me what happened in the last four or more years, I honestly wouldn’t remember. I worked. I wrote meaningless things. I played my guitar. I had passing friendships, maybe. I don’t know.
I continued up until this point with Fuzzy’s death (The beautiful little puppy I have featured many times in my blog.) She died at a good age, 15, but much too soon for her. She was a very healthy dog, and she should have never died so soon.
I don’t know how to remedy all these horrible things and all the horrible ways I never acted. My inaction caused so many horrible things to happen.
I am broken.
There is so much more to say. So much more I have done to add to this broken state, but I am numb and so sad. I read those journal entries and wondered, “What have I been doing for my son and my family for all these years?”
I am broken. I am shattered into a million pieces and I deserve any misfortune that comes my way now.