Hell

I finally got my 4yr old Tot settled down after his breakdown and he was chatting away.  I think of what I'm dealing with and I know it's doubled in Tot.  I had to pull him out of daycare - a place he adored going to with all of his friends.  He was, and probably still is, mad at me.  I explained he would get the chance to see his friends, just not as often.  Being a contract physical therapist assistant means I do get a higher pay rate, but that also means I have to pay out-of-pocket for health insurance for the both of us.  I won't get into the logistics of my career, because that is not what this blog post is about.  It simply means I have to choose my battles wisely and make smarter financial choices. 

Back to the point.  Tot turned to me suddenly and asked me about "bad guys."  I answered some of his questions but tried to turn the conversation around; distract him to a new line of thinking.  He was having none of it. 

"The bad guys are coming, Mommy."

"Bubby.  No they're not.  You're safe here.  This is the place where bad guys disappear."

"No.  They are coming and I'm going to protect you when they do.  I'll fight them, Mommy."

I was silent for a bit.  Then I tried to discern where this was all coming from.  A movie? Some cartoon like Power Rangers? 

"Daddy said..."

I stopped listening for a half second.  My instincts roiling; wanting to scoop Tot up and run.  I don't know where.  Just somewhere far from here and a sociopathic narcissistic abusive ex husband. 

"Daddy said bad guys can get better."

That's how our conversation ended.  I now sit here wondering if this was something Tot saw on TV; am I blowing this out of proportion in my own mind?  Am I in danger?  Regardless, I am now in full-blown survival mode but wanting very hard to rationalize what Tot was saying to me tonight. 

The last thing my ex told me as I packed the car and drove away for good almost 5yrs ago, "I know a lot of people.  It doesn't even have to be me.  I can call a friend and you'll be sorry for everything.  You don't even know the meaning of sorry." 

It's a quarter after midnight and I should be in bed.  Migraine raging.  Knowing damn well there's not one thing anyone can do.  Not one.  Call  the police?  Tot was relaying a series of conversations he has been holding in for some time.  That's my gut instinct. 

PTSD symptoms whisper, "This is all a bad dream. Tot heard it wrong.  It was from a show he saw.  Surely...."