Teppy, this is terrifying and heartbreaking and I'm so sorry.
This should not be happening, you do not deserve it, and overwhelming anxiety is a pretty reasonable response.
I think, perhaps, Mr. Rogers is a sound source of wisdom on this - when you're overwhelmed with the scary things in the world look for the helpers... There are always people trying to help... Wally is a stand-up guy and I would personally like to send him flowers. Your brother is healthy and strong, even has appropriate training, and is coming as fast as he can. Your husband loves you and supports you and is proceeding with warranted caution. You've got an in-law with gun safe ready and waiting. You've got ativan.
If cleaning the house is good busy-work that will keep you occupied have at it. If its another stress just throw out anything food, wipe down the bathroom, and do the dishes - dust? papers? laundry? FUGEDABOUDIT.
You've got good people and a good plan and soon this will be past.
My house is really a gross mess, though. I can't do any of this. I can't.
Ok.
Get a cold glass of water.
Sit down and drink it.
That's all you have to to right now.
Steph, your bro knows what you're going through right now, *and* is a therapist. He understands and will not judge you if you are unable to deal with all the crap on the dining room table or whatever. Take care of yourself. One breath at a time if necessary. We love you and believe in you.
You don't have to do it alone. You have Tim and your brother. You have us.
What they said, Teppy. Take as long as you need to take care of yourself. You are the most important thing right now. House doesn't matter.
Both my sisters have absurdly gross messy houses, but I couldn't care less. I go to see them. I just pick up a pile of crap from the couch and move it over and plant my butt. Whatevs.
The panic has eased up (still super overwhelmed, though; just not full-on hyperventilating and sobbing), and now I'm so, so, so, SO fucking angry. I want to sort this out, get Dad's guns safely out of there, and then I want to never, ever speak to him again.
I'm not sure how much I mean that. It feels like I mean it a lot, right now. I'll probably mean it less, later. Probably.
My brother's plan is to tell Dad that he got an unexpected break in his schedule and decided to fly home for a quick visit, and find out when is a good time to visit with Dad. That way Dad knows that we're coming, and expects us, so he shouldn't be sitting there with a gun behind the door.* My brother is 6'2" and whatever a proportionate weight is for that height. Not skinny, is what I'm saying. And my dad is like 5'8" and 140 lbs and 79 years old. So as long as Dad doesn't have any firearms in the living room, my brother's plan is to sit down for a conversation and tell Dad that he has to turn over his guns. If Dad would object to the point where he gets physical (I seriously doubt that he would, but then I don't know what state of mind he's in), Jeff is certainly strong enough to physically wrangle Dad. (Honestly, I would be able to do it. I can sit on him if worse comes to worst, and gravity is a harsh mistress.)
It also happens to be my brother's 45th birthday tomorrow (nothing is more fitting for our family than to celebrate a birthday dealing with our fucked-up parents, and that's not in any way a joke; childhood birthdays were not always awesome with a couple of alcoholic narcissists for parents). But my point is, my mom texted and said "When you're finished with your Dad on Sunday, maybe we [Mom, Stepdad, Jeff, Tim, and I] can get carryout to celebrate your brother's birthday!" (She knows the entire situation, so it's safe to say that her suggestion was tone-deaf as always, and 100% UNsurprising.)
This is just the most perfect microcosm of how fucked up my parents are. Jesus Christ. (Like, of course Dad's situation is not in any way Mom's responsibility to manage. However, she's gotta know her adult kids are going to be super stressed about dealing with this and may not want to party.) (On the other hand, I'm not going to want to cook, and I could eat a shitload of Indian food to decompress.)
*(And yet it's super surreal to be having a logistical discussion about What To Do If Dad Has Guns In The Living Room. What even is my goddamn life.)
And I should have said this first: THANK YOU, everyone, for your support. Y'all are the goddamn BEST.
I'm so glad to hear the panic has subsided to merely pissed off, frightened, and sad.
I want to sort this out, get Dad's guns safely out of there, and then I want to never, ever speak to him again.
Go ahead and feel that way! Its not a blood-oath and its not an entirely terrible idea. Go ahead and feel that way and let your brain sort through it as it will.
You're processing this. You're moving through this. You're doing a good job. Hang in there.
