The boys still haven't made up, so we're keeping them in separate rooms, which is wrong, apparently. You're supposed to let them get all their aggression out as you hold them back until they tire themselves out. At some point, they'll have to realize that the aggression is not worth it. They have to sit together, exhausted, and that's supposed to resolve everything.
We tried this the other day and found out that it's going to take a long fucking time until Bobby calms down. He's the aggressor. Pancho gets so stressed out that he sheds profusely. It feels like we're torturing him. But we have to be stern, and I have a lot of trouble with that. My instinct is to soothe and protect.
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I feel very disjointed today. Everything I do feels like putting a salve on a deep gash. It seems that I've been distracting myself so well that all my thoughts have gone muddy, like they're bleeding into each other. And it's very easy to mistake this "non-coloring" for smooth sailing.
The worst part is that all of this is familiar. I always find myself here, at this point where I see that something has to be done, and I don't know what it is. I think this is what Caroline meant by "perpetual novice." You're just always, always at square one.
I have to get back to work. I've had a hard time concentrating this week. I'm currently into glass, and I'm looking for useless things that can shatter to fill my room with. I'm also thinking about getting a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf for an odd, dead space in my room.
I said I would never buy a physical book ever again, but here we are. I'm just really scared right now because I don't feel anything. Well, I guess there's fear.