After two weeks, my children have returned home. It’s the longest they’ve been away. And today, I got into an argument with my eldest kid.
You know it’s going to happen. We are all different people. There will be disagreements. That knowledge, however, doesn’t keep it from hurting.
It’s just something else I chalk up as a failure on my part. I was never strict enough to instill in them a sense of respect. They don’t give my concerns or worries about them even the slightest care. To them, my concerns are not important. So, I hurt.
Even now, I’m stress eating again. I was doing so good while they were away. I reduced how much I was eating. I had full, healthy breakfasts. I even stopped snacking in bed. Now, it rushes back.
So, yes, I eat when I’m stressed, not just negative stress (distress) but positive stress (eustress) and everything in between: anxiety, worry, concern. It’s not the best coping mechanism, but we naturally enjoy food, it’s pleasurable, so I instinctively seek something to dull the edge.
I recently read a headline that went something like this: Scientists claim study shows diets increase depression. File that in the “well duh” category. Doesn’t make me feel better.
I still feel like a failure. What ever I do is never good enough, and my children will never respect me. I guess if they grow up to dislike me or avoid me, I’d deserve it; Karma coming back to give me my medicine.
I want to handle this better. I want to be a stronger parent. However, I care about them so much, they are my weakness. They can punch me straight to my soul and make me cry, and they never know, never care.
It’s two different worlds: me and them. Their world is not the same as mine was, and I’m hiding from the changes because it eventually becomes too much, too senseless, as if change for change sake not always for the better. But my opinion is worthless. My oldest has made that abundantly clear.
So I eat and cry, alone.
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