Right Now

Max is home right now, which means that life is like hell. We brought him home early from his summer program; he had sounded unusually despondent and lonely, and something just made me feel like I needed to bring him home early. Sure enough, his school had completely ignored one of his medications. I'm not sure why, and they've come up with no explanation, but he hadn't gotten Abilify in about 3 weeks. He also told me that he'd gotten some other medication, not one of his. I have no idea where it came from, and again, his school isn't telling.
I never know how to explain life with Max at home. People ask me how Max is, and I say something meaningless, like, "well, you know". Because they don't know, and I don't know how to tell them without ruining their lives. Because if they knew that it's possible that Max will spit on me or punch me in the face if I say there are no more Cheez-Its, if I showed them the bruises from the events that led to 911 calls, I think they might actually have nightmares, or throw up. That's how I feel when I think about life with Max at home. I want to boot. It's the only reasonable response to living in fear of violence in my own home.
The violence is due to Max's rage and confusion...I think it can be painful for him to live in this world, where everything seems so random. And for me, to be a daily victim of his lashing out...I don't really have words. It's gotten bad, these last few days that he's been home. I've cried and screamed and protested...I used to not feel this so much, I used to lock it all down tight. Therapy has helped me to feel this pain, and to acknowledge my own needs. But that's not really helpful when my autistic/bipolar child says he'll kill me if I don't let him go out for Chinese food tomorrow night.
When things are bad, I say "I can't do this", and I weep, totally ashamed of my own weakness. But that doesn't mean anything, because no one is giving me a choice in this matter. I must do this, because this is my son.
The effects on me are considerable. It's hard for me to be a friend to anyone. I don't want to leave my house. I want to lock it all down tight, tie my emotions with bungee cords and bury them in the yard. I have difficulty tolerating the real violence in the world.
The violence in my life has led me, again, to pacifism. When I see fighting on television, I know how it feels and I want it gone from the world. I flash back to last August, when Max left bruises up and down my legs, bites on my wrists. I spent 40 long minutes restraining him in a parking lot, waiting for help to come. I was calm, steady, controlled, until the first EMT showed up, and then I let go, collapsing on pavement, letting it scrape my bruised legs, wondering how a person could live like this.
The answer is that no one can. Max heads back to boarding school September 2, and I am simply counting the days.