One of these is generally true at any given moment. But, it’s moments like these, moments …nay DAYS like THESE… that cause the problem – days when I am both.
Since this seems to have been a continuing theme for the better part of at least a couple of weeks (is that in ADD-time? a month? 3 days? who the hell knows…), I finally decided to try to do something about it today, on my day off, and upped my sorry ass dose of Adderall today (truly, people, I’ve been taking only 1/4 of my prescribed dose for quite a while now, so let’s not get all bogged down in the “OH MY GOD” of having adjusted my own meds, shall we?). The end result for today?
I’m restless, listless, … and jumpy….and irritable, short-tempered, and downright pissy.
Now could be a good time to talk about things that don’t work well with having an 8-year-old aspie in the house. Why? Because his normal state is as follows: demand, demand, demand, demand, bitch, moan, complain, grump grump grump grump grump grump grump (repeat).
And so you see the contraindication to anyone else in the house being allowed their fair share of pissy days. This is a problem, especially when your family is just completely on your own (can’t just send him over to Grandma’s for the evening because she’s a few states away — not that it would matter if you could because getting spoiled at the grandparents’ house only ramps up the pissy when he comes home – for days – but I digress-ish).
I’m sure that if SuperMom stumbles across my blog, I’ll get an earful about what it means to be a parent and what a wretch I am for be such a whiner that I have to be the mother and not the child in today’s equation, but here’s the straight poop there, SM:
I can count on one hand the number of spontaneous hugs AND kisses it has ever received from said child, let alone any other spoils of so-called “normal” motherhood (pictures colored and drawn for you, cold cereal on a tray on Mother’s Day, blah blah blah). I have never been called, “Mommy,” because the AS was full-freakin-blown by the time he learned to speak, which meant the more formal “Mom” was the order of the day. I don’t get to sit on the bleachers at the ball field, cheering on my son and his buddies because (a) a ball field is a place of loud noises and (b) buddies? I don’t get to vent and relate my frustrations to the other moms while we drink our Starbucks and then talk about Desperate Housewives; instead, I barely have any friends because they either run away in fear of what they can’t possibly understand or I end up giving them up because they can’t possibly understand – and I don’t have that kind of time because I spend every waking moment attempting to educate my child so that he can better understand one more complicated nuance of the world that has absolutely no interest in trying to understand him.
So, yes, every once in a while, I find that I have been sucked completely dry. I find that I’ve forgotten how to be myself, a woman, a partner, a person – how to even just be. Most parents, whether they realize it or not, occasionally actively get something back from their kids. A kiss, a hug, an excited to see you millisecond – something that is a deposit of goodwill, faith, hope, joy – a reward, if you will – a token, a tiny payoff for your blood, sweat, and tears as a parent. Most parents have no idea what it is like to live without that, virtually entirely without that, from their children.
I love my son. There are no words for how much I love my son, and there are no words for what I’ve gone through in order to love him that much.
I have a right to my broken heart.