Over the last few days I’ve been fighting despair. I don’t often write about the days that knock me down because who wants to read about that, really.
Writing when you feel sad or depressed means acknowledging the source of your sadness. It means pulling up a chair in the middle of your own pity party. It means owning the feelings, sitting with them, sometimes thanking them. You run the risk of feeling worse before you feel better.
Write, press Publish, release. The good. The bad. The fully-formed thought, the more nebulous one. I imagine my words hanging here in cyberspace and they alight on your screen — are they little stings of familiarity, are they met with incredulity or do you have days like this too?
Sometimes I feel my mission is to paint a happy face on it. Twins. Autism. La-di-da, big whoop.
Sometimes I go weeks, months, without posting because I can’t find the happy and I can’t bear to sit with the alternative.
Sometimes autism is much bigger than me. Sometimes I back down and let it call the shots.
Sometimes I don’t think I can do this one minute longer. Sometimes I burst into tears from the frustration, the exhaustion, John’s lack of communication. Sometimes I feel that autism is blotting me out.
Sometimes all I can think about is how John will always always always need me, even when I’m walking with a cane, even when I’m senile and can no longer see.
Do you see? I must be superwoman. I must live forever. It’s exhausting.