I recognize that a small part of my hesitation in sharing these less-positive parts of my life come from the feeling that it’s like a horrible car accident people are driving by. MY car accident. I’m on the side of the road, my underwear shat in, my car is totaled, and no one driving by can tell if it’s my fault or not. My hair looks awful and everyone around is crying hysterically as papers, dirty laundry, and other belongings thrown from the wreck hang all out for passersby to see. It’s ugly, and it’s personal; I am on fire.
You can’t help but slow down to about 2 MPH and get a good look at the gong show as you drive by with your own little traveling circus, because mine is so rich with it’s own unique awfulness. That’s for the people whose lives have never been routinely and in-depth affected by a person with an emotional and developmental disability. “Wow. I had no idea that’s what [it] looks like.” Meanwhile, I’m still kind of trying to pretend that I know what I’m doing, and living a normal life.
That’s what blogging about my life and my shit feels like, in some ways. It’s extremely humbling. Yet I don’t want pity. And even though I don’t want anyone to talk to me about it, I’m dying of isolation – I want people to talk to me about it. All the time. I can’t win.
And for the people that read and do have some idea of the different levels of hell I deal with on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis [they have their own road-side car accident, and are on fire, too] I fear judgment. I fear that my hell is WAY better than their hell. I feel that no one can really understand, and so sometimes the idea that someone thinks they might understand is annoying and frustrating. It makes no sense. None of it.
When it comes to my family, same thing. I wish that they really knew what I was going through. What life with Emma was really like. The insanity of her sweetness combined with the hysterical demon-self that ravages our lives. Yet, when they really understand – I DON’T LIKE IT. I want them kept in ignorance: maybe things are okay. Maybe Daleth is okay. It’s almost as if I need my family to have that hopeful inkling that things will turn out ‘normal’ someday and keep that thought alive FOR ME, because there is no way that I can personally keep that hope alive right now. And if I fill them in about my life, they might lose that hope too — and then who will keep that torch burning?
One of the reasons I’ve avoided blogging and talking too much about my life with Emma is because I’ve worried it will affect my career. (insert laughter here, please.) Well, my career has been ended, at least for the moment, because of Emma’s needs. Another reason is because I worry that friends, family, and co-workers will pass judgment on my ability to function and be present for them. That they will …kind of… find the strange parenting life that I have and my stresses as too much of a delineation. That perhaps we just don’t have enough in common [because of my life with Emma]. This is probably an irrational fear, stemming from an experience as a pregnant teenager dealing with losing my high-school friends. I recognize. I process as I write this. That’s why I’m doing this.
It’s like, if people see how broken my home life and mental state with my daughter really is, they will think that I MUST be as broken as she is, and treat me like I am disabled too.
Well, this week, I feel a little bit that way. Ask my husband and my two sisters. I’ve been living in a war zone. I’m feeling damaged.
I promise that future posts might possibly have more of a point, and content, and something to be gained from reading. Thanks for being here.