I’m stymied. I’ve been trying to write for days, but it all comes out as a rant, or a whine, or a whimper. I’ve been too angry and sad and wiped out to say anything that anyone would want to read. I don’t even want to read it.
I feel this compulsion to write about the special needs parenting experience, like it’s my responsibility or my calling or something, but the reality this week is that the special needs parenting experience is kicking my trash.
I don’t have anything lovely to say about it. I don’t have the energy to muse about the lessons I’m learning or the ways we are growing. In the rare moments when everyone is asleep, writing guilt creeps up my spine and sits heavily on my shoulders, hunched and hideous like a gargoyle. Write an article, it says to my annoyance. Better yet, a book. “Shut up,” I think.
I can only put in my earbuds and cradle my iPad as I climb into a figurative canoe of sorts, floating and drifting easily on the sea of Dish on Demand. Dutch tells me I don’t need to feel guilty for being in survival mode.
But I do anyway.