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Posts Tagged ‘special needs’

I knew it was sitting there.

I could feel its weight pressing down on my brain. I could feel it as if it were fire.  I was not touching it, but I could still sense the weight of it in my purse.  There was a little over $4 thousand dollars, right there in my purse.  Blood money, free money, will money, payment for 39 years of being moms “perfect child”, her “sweet baby”.

The stress is getting worse.  The kids are compounding everything I feel.  Just like a crushed tomato tied back together with string, I still ooz and bleed with every touch, jab, word. Ready to fall apart, easier than before.

The weight of depression, hopelessness, growing faster than a storm cloud in my mind. “Why can’t we just have one day of peace? Why can’t I have just a moment to think? Why can’t we just spend a day together without the fighting, the anger, the competition for my affections and favoritism?”

I am exhausted. Just thinking of a simple task like cleaning house or making the bed seem to weigh 500 pounds on my bruised brain.  I want to hide. I want to run away and hide.

The money, it’s right there.  It’s ready to burn my hand the moment I touch it.  I’m supposed to use it for bills, Christmas.. the kids, not me… not for myself, the kids.  Don’t touch it.

I slowly pull myself up in the bed.  I glance at the alarm clock, 2:30p.m.  I had fallen here just moments ago.  My bed a rescue raft, floating in my room for me to grab onto and wail into my pillows until the hopelessness and suicidal thoughts pass on by.  My raft is still shaking, threatening to sink.  I’m screaming inside, “It’s not going to get better! It is NEVER going to get any better!”   The kids will never get “well”.  Neither one has any illness that can be cured.  I will just be stuck in this life for the remainder of mine.  The same violence, the same temper tantrums, the same emotional drainage of mom day after day.  It. Will. Never. Get. Better….

I slowly drag my aching heavy limbs out of the bed and start pulling on clothes.  The argument that had just occurred between my children and I still ravaging my brain like it’s on repeat. The same depressing mantra on repeat:  “Its happened before, it will happen again, again, again, it will happen again.”

I look around the house. It’s a disaster. You would think that my teenage daughter, seeing her mother is drowning, would at least help with the housework.  I start pulling together dirty clothes, I make separate piles of colors and observe how they look like piles of dead leaves.  I will do the laundry, I can at least do that.

I quickly start to come out of the fog, suddenly I’m on fast forward.  Laundry, sweeping, dishes, clutter… each task tackled in a mindless rush. I can at least get these things done. I can at least leave a clean house.

The kids are in the background, sighing, stomping, slamming, sniffling… each, in their own passive aggressive way, are driving the nails into my back.  “You deserted me!”  “You took her side”, “you took his side”, “It’s not my fault!” “It’s all his fault/Her fault/YOUR fault!!” Each silent accusation a dart going into my skin. I ignore each dart with a disinterest, a tear slipping out silently instead.  “Don’t treat me like that”, I cry inside.  “I’m the one that loves you more than life!” “I’m the only one that understands you, but I’m tired!! Don’t yell at me, don’t hurt me! It hurts to be used like an emotional punching bag” “it hurts, It hurts, I HURT!!!”

Instead, I just keep cleaning, tears running down my face.  I want to run and hide, back onto my raft, back into my cave, I want to cling to the safety of the bed and hide. I keep doing the dishes.  I look out the window into the backyard.  Birds, a dog, a squirrel… things that usually make me smile instead make me feel the exhaustion of my own inner darkness.  There is such an anger in being depressed, like, how dare the sun shine when I feel such pain? Does it not care that I can only feel, can only see darkness?

Dishes, concentrate on the dishes.  Concentrate on the work.  Feed the bird, feed the dog, mop the floor, change out the laundry, feel the weight of the money in my mind, count it.. weigh it… smell it.. finish the dishes.  Finish the Dishes.

Freedom is in the weight of that money.  Freedom from everything weighing me down in this house, in this life.  It will never get better, so why stick around?  Why should I stay here and watch it all fall apart?  Why should I be the one to always have to fix, mend, tape, glue, wipe, heal… Why should I be the abused one? I can’t think, I can’t heal, I am supposed to be “momma’s STRONG girl” but my strength was obviously buried along with my mother.  It’s holding her hand in the cold darkness, it is certainly not holding my hand as I struggle to stay afloat.

I finish the dishes, I continue to stand at the sink, the moment has come.  The moment that entered my thoughts as soon as the money hit my hands.  Turn around, walk out the door, fill up the car and just go… just GO…. Walk out the door… WALK OUT THE DOOR…

I can’t seem to move.  Whats the problem?!?! Why am I not doing what I should, what I want, What I know will keep my children safe.  I am the problem, I am the reason their life is so chaotic and horrible.. I should leave, let them move on, let someone more stable and healthy deal with their needs.. I Should Just Leave.

I slowly turn around, away from the sink, away from my old life, away from the accusations and the pain. I turn, I turn away and find myself looking at the alarm clock, the alarm clock beside my bed… 2:35 p.m.

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There is a character on the cartoon Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, that has ALWAYS made me think of my son.

The Scribbles.kendall_scribble(try putting clothes on that!!!)

This morning was no different.

How in the world did I come to allow this tiny army sargent, that is my 9-year-old son, into my home and continually allow him to run amuck in my life?

I am constantly aware of his Autism.  CONSTANTLY.  I am hypervigilint to his ever waking need for reassurance, peace and stability.  I am always policing his food intake (gluten-free diet, folks) and his video game, You Tube and Television consumption.  His homework takes several hours each night due to his inability to stay on task.  He rages if it’s bedtime and he is in the middle of a 45 minute You Tube video. He yells if I tell him to “stop talking and eat”, he is sensitive to every look, word, sound, texture and smell that you can think of…  I am always the calm, passive, rug.  Just someone for him to roll all over when he needs a soft place to fall.  I take the punches, the yelling, the rage and I don’t react.  I AM a punching bag…. on the outside.

I sometimes think about what I would LIKE to do.  Yell back, scream in his face, shake him, smack his mouth for talking to me that way. Spank him. Leave him alone to rage in his room without my audience. But those things can’t be done, not to someone with Aspergers.

If you have never witnessed a true Aspie “melt down”, well then… Bless Your Face.. You are lucky!

It is not unusual for him to scream and rage like a wild animal, slapping and punching himself in the face and stomach, face contorting into something that resembles the Incredible Hulk, suicidal threats rolling off his slobbery lips.  Snot, tears, anger, pain, frustration all pouring out of him like a river.  It’s terrifying, and once you have seen one a parent will do what ever they can to never see another one.

So, we become passive.  We become defenseless.  We allow this other human being to do things to us that we would be running to the shelter to avoid if it was a grown man doing them.

I never thought I would allow another person to speak to me the way my ex-husband used to.  But yet, that’s exactly what I did this morning.  I sat there silently in the car while my son ranted and raved about how bad he feels, and screamed at me for his nose being stuffed up, and berated me for ever taking him to school. Just last night he informed me I was the “best mom ever, and his very best friend” this morning I was his worst enemy, disgusting and stupid.

All in a days work, son… All in a days work.

I guess I hang on for those days that things are good, really good.  I hang on to the memories of  the calm, happy, precious boy who was making me laugh just an hour ago.  The boy who has such a wicked sense of humor I sometimes forget he is only 9.

The boy that loves his Mom more than life.  The boy who cuddles and hugs better than any human on earth.  I have to hold on to that.  I have to belive and trust that, no matter how big he grows to be, he will never lash out and hurt me. Not physically, anyways. I hope.

I just figure it’s my own fault for allowing him to hurt me emotionally and mentally right now.  I know he doesn’t even recall half of the actions and words he spews forth during one of his rages.  So I just have to live off of the sweet precious moments, and pray his rage never bends me further back than I can ever bend… I pray I never snap in half… I pray my back just keeps bending and never breaks.  I have to hold on to that… I have to hang on.

 

 

 

 

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Meltdowns, rages, anxiety, depression, diet restrictions, sleep disorders, social phobias, misunderstanding, OCD, fear….. and all this goes on my little 8 year-old sons shoulders. 😦

I am emotionally exhausted this morning after a full blown rage that lasted over 30 minutes, last night.  It finally subsided when he pulled himself into a fetal position and covered his head, then proceeded to bash himself mentally.  Crying that he wants to die, wishes he were normal, and wants to sleep for years so he doesn’t hurt anyone else.  😦  I am so sad, I am so sad for him, me, our pets…. our future.

God please grant me the wisdom and strength  to get him though this.  And please send the right people into his life to help us get answers and help.

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