“Hey look – we’re going to kill ourselves!”
This is what brought me, at a full run, from my few minutes of quiet and dark in my room, following the ear-piercing carpool ride home from school today.
In Isaac’s hand? The butcher knife. Unsheathed. He and Erica were hovering around Cambria at the computer with it, gleefully proclaiming their intent to kill themselves.
Of course I took the knife. And put it away. And tried, in my calmest angry mommy voice, to explain to them that this was NOT acceptable, in any way, shape, or form. And proceeded to choke on the vomit threatening me – the physical reaction to the emotional jolt I had just experienced.
They thought it was funny. They had this huge knife out, and were messing around with it like it was no big deal. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even yell. Spoke sternly, yes, but hopefully in a way that didn’t make them shut me out.
Dear universe, must I now remove all knives from my home? In addition to putting locks on all my upstairs windows because of the repeated threats (and half-attempts) to jump out or push someone else out the window? And hover around my children at all times to keep them from hurting themselves or each other so much that one of them actually dies???
I feel ill. And highly anxious and stressed. There is no silver lining to this experience. No wonderful lesson learned or beautiful revelation. Only anxiety and frustration and a furthering of the depression I find myself sinking deeper into, day after day.