This evening, the Kid downloaded the latest of M Night Shyamalan's masterpieces, Split, for us to watch together.
I won't disclose the storyline for anyone who might happen upon my journal, however for me personally, it contained scenes which left me unable to hide my anxiety and discomfort in front of my son.
I haven't experienced this level of involuntary shaking and panic for a long time. It totally caught me out.
When he came home, I attempted to briefly explain that I was struggling to Big and immediately regretted my decision.
He is entirely closed to communicating about this particular subject. It is totally off limits. Although I understand his reasons, it is something that hurts and angers me in equal measure.
So, I took myself off, threw myself into some reps with my dumbells, hoping to focus my mind and make muscles hurt instead of being cornered by the hideous fear and feelings of vulnerability.
Big has gone out again now.
The Kid is in bed.
I'm typing, with a cup of tea and the snooker on the tv. The commentary is surprisingly soothing.
Normal service is resumed.