Silence

Maybe you were wondering why I haven’t written for a while.  Maybe you weren’t.  I guess I was wondering how to tell the things that there are to tell.   Should one put a positive spin on some things?  Or should some things just be let to spin.

Right now, for instance, I’m listening for the sound of objects impacting the wall in Peter’s room.  I’m always listening for that lately.  Objects like glasses, dishes, his book case, his fist.  It isn’t a good situation to be in, listening for that.  A week ago today we called 911 and Peter spent a few hours at Fresno’s emergency place for kids with psychiatric emergencies.  But he calmly stated that he would not hurt himself or others to the staff there, and that’s when they send the kids home.

Right now I hear silence.  That’s good, though it’s an anxious silence.  I’m tired of feeling anxious.

I’m sure Peter is tired of exploding.  I’m sure he wants to be happy, or just peaceful.  It probably feels like when you’ve had a cough for a long time, and you’re just plain tired of coughing.  Your ribs are tired.  Your lungs are tired.  But you still have to cough.  Your muscles just do it, involuntarily.  It’s exhausting.  Maybe that’s how Peter feels.  He can’t keep himself from exploding.

On Wednesday we head for Oregon.  Yes, yes, I know going on a long driving trip with an exploding 16-year-old (and various other issues) doesn’t sound wise.  Oh well.  You’ve got to live.  And 911 works in Oregon too.  Plus, Peter likes car trips.  And he likes Portland.  Maybe if we just drove around all the time, like Gypsies, that would solve everything.  I play lots of instruments.  We could just put out a hat.  Maybe we could teach our dog to wear a cute skirt and dance . . .

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