I Do Not Need Your Advice; A Meditation on Duty
I’m done.
I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.
I’m done with my son.
He’s 32 years old, never had a job, never had a place of his own, doesn’t have a car, doesn’t have a single friend, and never leaves the house.
He rarely leaves his bedroom.
The only time he leaves the house is when he finagles 20 bucks out of me and then he heads to Fairview City for a few hours to get his drug of choice.
He’s been here, in my house, in that bedroom, for two years straight.
The only time he’s left for the night is when I have kicked him out, for assaulting me, for busting out windows and breaking doors in half, punching holes in walls, and so on.
I have let him back each time.
This is on me.
You see, he has nowhere else to go. Not only does he not have a single friend, not a single couch he might surf on, he has estranged himself from his entire family.
He has spit and cursed and threatened his mother. He has posted on Facebook that his mother’s boyfriend sexually abused him. He has called his sister many nasty names and told her many times to: fuck off. He has sent abusive text messages to his grandparents.
