8.07.2018

patience thins

Patience thins as my boy has more mild, short, insidious seizures—four yesterday and at least one this morning. One eye is red—mine; there is something in it I can't seem to get. Did I forget my child hit it? My fine hair has been ripped off and out by my boy's clammy grip.

It's oppressively hot and humid outside. Inside, the air is close. I sweat. Surfaces are sticky. My son is home from school again as I await his next fit. I hope the cannabis quells them into submission.

He pokes his eye and shrieks at times. He shakes his head back and forth crazily—drool flying—flailing his arms in a spastic frenzy. In my exasperation, I've a rare primal urge to slap him upside the head. I take a big breath instead. Earlier, I threw his shoe into the far corner of his bed. Pulled a muscle as I flung it. Felt no satisfaction as it punched the softness of his quilt. Pent-up yesterday, I mused on hurling opaline bowls into cement to mimic my heartshatter from the days' and weeks' and years' events.

Now my son swings and spins in his jumper. His jaw juts and clenches in the repulsive way that makes the "seizure dimple" I detest. His arms crimp, elbows up, claws inches from his face, fingers madly snapping. He's my son, but I don't recognize him, or perhaps I don't want to when he looks and acts like this.

It's not his fault, and yet.

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