Fairly early this morning, I wasn’t a good son, in a way that, as I increasingly realize, I am often a bad son.  I have an unfortunate tendency to snap at or take things out on my mother when I am frustrated or afraid, and I did so today during a conversation about whether I should go to the doctor.  Her point was that based on one of my more alarming newly-developed symptoms, she was afraid that the ulcer we know I have might have started to bleed; my point was that even if it were, I couldn’t stay out of the bathroom long enough to tolerate a car trip to the doctor’s office, so it really didn’t matter unless it got so bad that we’d be justified in calling an ambulance … and anyway, a bleeding ulcer wasn’t consistent with my other symptoms (particularly the one keeping me in the bathroom).  I was very unpleasant to and impatient with her. 

I suppose I could excuse this by saying that prior to getting on the phone with her, I had been in so much pain that I actually passed out for a minute in my laundry room and hit the side of my face on the cupboard (no bruise so far, but if one pops up, I’m going to lie and say I was hit by some leather-and-chains motorcycle dude from whom I was rescuing a beleaguered maiden) but the truth is that I snap at her too much even when I don’t have an excuse.  I am trying to become more aware of this, and I think I’m doing better with it, but after she dropped off some medicine for me through my huge mail slot (I am terrified that I might be contagious, so I didn’t want her to come in) I couldn’t stop thinking about how horrible I’d been … not just today,  but every hurtful and thoughtless thing I’ve ever done or said to her. 

I called her to apologize, and of course she forgave me, but I don’t feel any better about it.  I feel as though I don’t know how to love her — I don’t know how to love anyone properly.  I fear I won’t figure it out until she’s gone, and it’s too late.  I’m afraid it will kill me then, to know how I failed her, how I could have been different, how my whole life could have been different if only somehow I understood how to feel things properly, and to act on those feelings.  I can’t remember ever being quite this overwrought; I can’t stop crying, I can’t stop feeling as though my time is running horribly short to figure out my life and I’m not making any progress; I can’t get out of the damned bathroom long enough to go to the doctor, and on top of everything else I’m almost out of cat food.

But other than that, I’m great.