Paper Cuts and Jalapeno Juice

Yeah, baby... that's me and youuuuuuuu...

Good grief. You know, sometimes it just takes a trip back through the ol' memory lane to have things slap you in the damned face. Hindsight is 20/20, etc.

How did we make it this long?

We just did, I guess. We lived for more than ourselves. We had a child. We didn't yell at each other or scream at each other or beat the shit out of each other, but I cried more than I'd like to admit, and he shut himself off more than I'd like to admit, and I guess after a while, what I determined "comfortable" was just co-existing.

Is it wrong that I don't want to get along? That I don't want to be friends or even civil right now? I'm making myself be civil, because I know it is the responsible, adult thing to do, but it doesn't feel like it's the right thing to do. It feels like I'm giving permission to let him live as selfishly as he wants to. I certainly don't do this for me, but for Quinn, who fortunately, will never know the difference. While his daddy is out tomcatting and galavanting around, his mama is busting her ass trying to make ends meet. He'll never be able to understand to appreciate that, but I do.

I guess I can't be mad at him forever - he gave me my greatest gift, my adorable, infuriating, sweet, frustrating, amazing, difficult, autistic boy. Who loves me unconditionally. Wholeheartedly. Without bias or judgment. Completely. He's truly all I need.

Well, him, and the occasional babysitter. And some good wine. Cheap good wine. To go with my ramen.

Finding the meaning in the struggle.

The fuck. What meaning is there in my current struggle?

There is none.

Well, that I can find.

The last few days have been on the difficult side of fucking miserable, and all there is to do is ride out this wave. Not only is Shortpants on a sleep strike, he has just been unable to be content with anything for more than a couple of minutes. Hence, we're all on a tight leash at Casa de Autism to come up with ways to not keep him happy, just keep him chilled the fuck out.

How does one do that with a non-verbal child? Well, approximately 749 tries after the initial one, he'll decide the first DVD/snack/shirt/game/puzzle/whatever-the-fuck is just fine, and then I go and bounce my head off the concrete for a few minutes. You'd think I'd learn to maybe only offer, oh, something logical like three choices? No, I go balls-to-the-wall and overwhelm the kid when he's already overwhelmed/overstimulated/pissed off/whatever to begin with. I haz a smartz.

Someday, I'll get it. Maybe someday I'll also get what made me so disposable in the eyes of my soon-to-be-ex-husband. WHO, by the way, NEEDED ME today.... to pay his fucking water bill, because he "forgot". That's $27.85 on your tab, buddy.

At least he'll be unreachable by phone for the next 30 days while he's in training. No stupid texts of stupid requests or ignorant statements, just silence. No hearing the Imperial March (that's his ringtone, appropro, no?). Silver lining? Anyway.

Meaning in the struggle? To the author of that sage advice - fuck you, too. YOU find the meaning for me, because I sure as hell can't. At least not today.

Now, to go find something deep fried.

Home Not-Quite-Finished Home

While it was a productive one (well, sort of... not too many things got knocked off the to-do list, but the most time-consuming one of them all is finished - thank you, baby Jesus!), I'm still not in my house. Getting closer, though. All that's left to do is finish the quarter-round in the kitchen/utility area, install the shower curtain rod (it's AWESOME, not only is it curved, it's a double rod, so you have somewhere to hang your towel), put up a toilet paper roll holder and a hand towel ring, clean the shit out of it, and bring my meager belongings over. The plan is to sleep there for the first time Friday night.

Is it lame to say I'm scared to move in? Because I am. Knowing I don't have back up in my folks (who I can wake up as a last resort since I'm living with them STILL because my house STILL isn't done, which I guess really doesn't matter since I'm afraid to move out - what a fucking quandary) is nerve-wracking, to say the least.

Quinn has been fighting sleep like a matador, and in essence, fighting me. I finally brought him to bed with me last night, knowing he'd be all over the place, but praying he'd conk out. Well, both happened, hallelujah, and I finally got him in his bed at 1130. Due to complete exhaustion and feeling like I'm going to throw up every 30 seconds, I'm at home today. And so is he. I wasn't going to unleash that demon on preschool. (You're welcome, Rachel.)

He's finally quieting down, so I'm going to see if he'll take an early nap, and I will too. After I make a list of all the shit I still need to buy for the house that I have no money for. But alas, I also have no money to travel to Tennessee to get all of my shit, nor do I want to - it's just stuff. However, stuff like a pizza cutter is necessary for survival in this house, so it's time to count the change in the couch cushions and stock up on ramen.

Shit's getting real, yo.

Fucking fuck.

I swear to God, if you ask me to do something, knowing that my life is full to the brim with my own shit and trying to parent and trying to work and trying to figure out what I DID SO GODDAMNED WRONG for you to leave me, I am willing to bet you can SCHEDULE YOUR OWN FUCKING CAR PAYMENT and then when I forget because SWEET JESUS I AM FUCKING BROKEN AND REMEMBERING TO EAT IS HARD ENOUGH you feel it is appropriate for you to YELL AT ME BECAUSE YOU GOT A PHONECALL FROM THE BANK?

FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU.

Oh, one more thing.

FUCK YOU.

Dear Lord, make the next 2+ months fly by so I can have a piece of paper in my hands that says I don't have to take his shit anymore.

Amen.

Living.

Is that what I had actually been doing? I don't think so. I think I had so much to do, so much I thought I had to do, that I convinced myself that I would be just fine.

Bullshit.

You can't raise healthy kids or foster healthy relationships if you don't take care of yourself.

Self-care is important, dammit! Bla..bla..bla...

As cliched as it sounds, it's true. I was taking care of everyone, whether they needed it or not - well, everyone but me. I let myself go, and not in the good way like that George Strait song where she goes to the beach and shit.

Mmmm... George Strait.... oh. Shit. Where was I?

Anyway, it's been only a few days that I've reframed my life to include making myself a priority, and I already feel better. I think that it really the idea that I am worth doing the things that I love in combination with the day-to-day requirements of being a responsible adult. I don't know how I transitioned into that person who didn't think that was possible.

I want to live. I mean, LIVE. I want to be able to sit on the front porch in my old age and think back to this time in my life and be able to recall fondly and proudly of the choices I made to enhance my own quality of life. I want memories of experiences, not memories of regret. I want to give everything I have got to Quinn and then some - his disability will no longer keep us from doing things I once thought impossible because of MY insecurities.

Now, that does not mean I'm going to bungee jump or skydive, I may not even leave the comfort of my living room. But it does mean that I am going to make thoughtful choices about what is good for him and I and us.

I truly can't wait.

Strengthening the ol' faith.

Just when I think I have things figured out, it becomes more evident that I don't. Case in point - Husband wants a divorce. Yet, Husband continues to text and shit like he's down the road and our marriage didn't just go down the shitter. Whatever. I have more important things to think about rather than what's going on in his seemingly addled brain.

A positive to this whole mess is that I have been having quite lengthy conversations with the man upstairs. One of my resolutions this year is to strengthen my faith through Bible studies and getting back to church more frequently. With Quinn, it makes life a little difficult, as he can't sit through a service, but I'll figure something out.

I've spent too many years of my life being mad at God for "allowing" things to happen rather than give up the control and realize that He is the one who has written my plan. It's hard for me to let go and just be like water, adapting to life in that way, but it really is for the best. And putting it in His hands has been such a relief. Knowing and believing that He gave me this life because He knew I was strong enough to live it is a phenomenal feeling - someone definitely thinks I'm stronger than I do.

Now... if He would just allow Quinn to sleep more than five hours a night, I'd be set.

I think this might be what clarity feels like.

Over this weekend, I had some time to sit and think and reflect on the past year. Of course I had time, the one time I plan something, we get 8 inches of snow. Not that there's anything wrong with ringing in the new year in your jammies, but I do that every night, so I was really looking forward to seeing everyone. Being safe at home over being on treacherous roads wins every time, right?

I just had this overwhelming sense of excitement about what is to come for me and Shortpants. To only be responsible for his well-being and my own is pretty darned liberating. I've got projects planned and get togethers planned, lots of wine planned, and lots of doing whatever the fuck I want planned... it's going to be glorious.

Well, as glorious as the life of a single mom of a three year old can be.

It just hit me that I'd been stifling myself. Losing myself. Forgetting who I was and what I loved to do and that's just not okay, no matter how you spin it. The roles I play do not define me - I DEFINE ME. I am more than that, and I really think rediscovering this evolved version of who I used to be is going to be well worth the work.

The only permission I need is my own. How delicious is that?