Shoulding Myself

Rough morning with hubs. I texted that I was not finding my focus here and was wanting to head back to the Urban Homestead in hopes of piecing together our first Christmas together. This does feel like our first to me. Did. . . Now it feels like the same ol' dance, different year. When we first came together, December was my most PTSD amnesia stricken month. My only Christmas memories were adult memories from the Army and college life. His December was his most parentally dominated month. After decades of therapy for me and the death of his parents, I was cautiously hopeful that we could begin to create a family collaboration. It hasn't been going well. All seem interested but. . . I wonder if the head nurse who has been acting as the family matriarch for the last 5 years has places set for us at her nativity scene. Just showing up might be all we are capable of.

His response to my text was a complete subject change. He informed me of executive action on the grant explorations I had been speaking of whenever it felt safe in the midst of his executor functions. Back to the bleachers for me? I challenged him and he confessed to executive ball-hogging again and promised to keep working on it.

It got ugly from there, all the way to the non-sequiter of eldest son (36) totaling his car last night. The car we gave him and will probably be expected to replace. Third generation family tradition on hubby's branch. Still unheard of on my branch of the family tree. The estranged branch. . .

His last text was lashing out about the echoes in his head from his dead parents. He still hasn't shared those echoes with me. I texted back that it might be easier for me to be considerate of his needs if he did share those echoes with me. No answer yet. Not holding my breath while I wait.

Don't know where to go from here. Going nowhere for now and praying for direction.