Sunday, July 30, 2017

Managed out of IKEA

My son convinced me to take the internal way to the exit instead of going out the entrance to walk back to the car but even with internal shortcuts it's a hell of a long walk from the front to the back of IKEA—especially for someone who struggles to walk.

At one point, in pain and now unable to find the exit, I semi-lost my shit and yelled "I JUST WANT TO GET THE FUCK OUT OF IKEA!".

My son, who is less than 10, had to admonish me to lower my voice. He then had to lead me to the exit all the while dealing with me being bug-eyed and agitated. I could see the stress of my distress eating at him as we weaved our way through.

So we know better for next time not to go the internal way. But he was subdued in the car because he'd had to factor in the angry distress of a middle-aged man with work-inflicted PTSD. 

I cried, as quietly as I could, on the drive home at the childhood that has been robbed from him. He shouldn't have the burden of managing my symptoms but he does—and has to—because he's my son.

It is what it is—and many days it's just shitty.

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