I was up Sunday night in the wee hours.  I seem to be having trouble sleeping.  It isn’t that I’m not tired; it’s that I can’t turn it off.  Head falls down on the lovely down pillow, on the fabulous 800-thread cotton sheets, on the perfect and new Stearns and Foster mattress, and then the deadly deeds begin to role.  It’s the way he said it, the moronic decision, could have kicked the shit out of them, should be held accountable, best interests of the child, you are failing, failing, failing, dammit pick up after yourself, hate the push and shove on the train, bad behavior begets bad behavior, wild and wicked thoughts about getting back, get back, get the fuck back from me.  I’m dangerous right now.  Don’t be a victim.

Heaven help anyone that crosses me at or my staff on the job—heaven help them.  I have ripped into several people lately.  I am beginning to cash in on all of the goodwill that I earned when I wasn’t so angry.  It is done with the greatest discretion and skill.  There are no expletives, nothing particularly petty or mean-spirited.  I am blasting nonetheless, without mercy.  And it’s all deserved, very well deserved. 

I’m not sure if it is therapeutic or whether I am becoming the worst version of me.  I suspect that anyone reading this, including my dear partner might suggest gently to me, that it is not good.  I suppose I should not let what’s happening to my foster son and to my family take me to the angry place.  They would suggest that I not let the idiocrascy that is the foster care system, the perpetual parade of inept case workers, their supervisors and administrators, influence me in such a way.  I’m not sure what they might suggest as an alternative—yoga, therapy, herbal tea?  I suspect that I am just being left alone right now.  The prevalent opinion might be that at some point I will just snap out of it.

There is freedom in knowing that our foster son is leaving.  I don’t foresee retaliation against us for being vocal foster parents.  There is freedom to speak my mind, freedom to advocate for him and for us in ways that I might not have before.  And most importantly, freedom to rip into unsuspecting workers who cross my path.  Recently, one such person, a worker that we only deal with only every few months, stumbled badly before falling soundly in my way.  I unloaded on her and then did the same to her supervisor when she tried to intervene.  It was well-deserved and the two of them spent ten minutes back pedaling and doing some serious apologizing.  I don’t seem to feel anything about the situation right now.  I’m no longer angry but also don’t feel better having released my anger on them.

I wish I understood what I was going inside of me right now.  It just isn’t me, or at least not the me that I’m used to.  I believe that this anger has everything to do with the pain that I’m in.  But I haven’t been able to take it apart and look at its ugly core.  I have always been more self-aware, more capable of self-discovery than I am right now.  Right now I can’t see much of anything except my bad behavior.  And the weird thing is, I don’t feel particularly apologetic.  It’s like I’ve taken such a beating over the course of the last few years that it feels all very justified.  And there is a part of me that feels some level of satisfaction in lashing out.  Of course it’s momentary and superficial and at some point, knowing me, my day of reckoning will come and I will melt into an apologetic little puddle. 

But for now I am angry.  I yell too much at home.  I am too coarse with the people I love.  So, if you come across me and I don’t seem myself; if there is a little edge to me that is unfamiliar, please don’t take it personally and please don’t hold It against me.  I am losing my son—and I don’t know how to deal with it.

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