This is not the son I'm used to. His scorn hurts. And it makes me damned mad.
Yesterday, I made a reservation for a small cabin at the ARC Retreat Center in central Minnesota. I feel a visceral need to GET AWAY: from covid, from these four walls, from my teenager and husband and cat. I need time and space and privacy to care for myself, to be whatever I am without concern for how I affect those around me.
I also talked to my dearest friend by phone for more than an hour. We vented our rage at covid and teens and Trump and husbands and mothers, and somehow ended up laughing our heads off. I needed that, badly.
I hesitated to set up the retreat, worried that I might be trading one kind of loneliness for another. But as soon as I confirmed the reservation, I started a list of the food and books and art materials I would bring along--happy to dream of being on my own, somewhere else.