Vulnerable Righteousness

I realize there have been no posting in weeks.  I think about writing, think about finishing the drafts saved, while I continue to not post a thing.  I haven't even checked in for stats, which I typically do a little too excessively.  And not posting makes me feel GUILTY.  Ugh, what DOESN'T make me feel guilty? So then I avoid that one more task that haunts me annoyingly, as I do many tasks.
I've been angry this month. Lashing out, impatient, downright aggressive.  Have had multiple battles with multiple people.  At this point it feels like everyone thinks "Quinn, 'she's going through alot,' she's a loose cannon. Crazy lady. Loco."  Husband, friends, family, coworkers shrug their shoulders because it's me about a 10 on the Richter scale.
I know what it is.  One year anniversary baby.  February 11th was our first day at Children's in the Developmental Center.  And last week, we were right back there again, for our every-6-month check-in with his developmental doctor Dr. Rappaport. The now all too familiar drive in on the pike, the valets we know by sight and have our 'favorite,' the beautiful hospital, Owen excitedly running down halls, the receptionist with the strong accent that we can't understand.   
I got the doc's report in the mail a few days later.  Owen "cute and disheveled" has a "special relationship with his dad" and "progress is slow..."  Guess what words are haunting me? All of them.
Is this now my excuse? That this will now and for ever more 'my reason' for being a huge bitch? For isolating, or lashing out, or procrastinating.  Please excuse me, or, it's not you it's me.   In the days of Jerry Springer we ALL have excuses for doing stupid things, that's what makes it all OK, right?  It's OK to hurt or steal or lie.   It's not my fault  - my parents abused me/I'm a drug addict/My son has fragile X. 

It's a mix of painful vulnerability, I feel like you can see the open wound on my chest.  People say things and their words are like daggers, innocuous words that are immediately perceived as rude, thoughtless, hurtful...Every word feels to me like an insult or slight.  And internally there is an immediate "HOW DARE THEY??!!?? DON'T THEY KNOW WHAT I'M 'GOING THROUGH'?"  I'm righteous - show me some respect, I've had tragedy.  I can't feel anymore pain, and if I feel like you are hurting me I don't want you.   Extreme sensitivity combined with a smug sense of righteousness is not a good combo - that's what religious zealots and Republicans are made of.

So I am hating myself lots lately.  It feels like all the joy and happiness has been sucked out of life and has been replaced by worry, stress and grief.  And I can feel it - in my words, on my face, in my body.  Every minute of everyday it's there, in the back of my head, never leaving, a tiny hamster wheel in the back of my brain spinning and spinning saying "What about Owen? What about Owen? What about Owen?   ?   ?   ?"

Owen has been sick with colds/flus for what feels like forever but has probably been closer to 5 weeks.  And when toddler Owen is sick, he is MISERABLE.  All he wants to do is watch "Jack's Big Music Show," and if you don't turn it on he will bang his head, or bang the remote on his head and then throw it on the ground. He will follow you around and touch/pull/grab everything he knows he isn't supposed to grab.  He'll whine, not sleep well, wake in the middle of the night but not be able to be soothed.  On one hand, I know, many kids exhibit 'some' of those symptoms when they are sick.  So I tickle Owen to make him laugh, hug him, snuggle him, force kisses on him, anything to make him feel better.  And last night at bedtime, Bridget looked at me and asked "Mommy, why do you hug Owen more than you hug me?"  And my heart broke yet again and I cry now as I write that. 

"Everything happens for a reason."  Fuck you.