It's been a windshield-breaking, phone cracking, kitchen fire setting, meltdown-having, Prednisone-filled, PMS-fueled week, on top of the 6 weeks I've already been sick with symptoms no one can really explain. Avery has been up since 5:45 this morning, talking absolutely non-stop. I'm not looking for rainbows and unicorns, I'm looking for my bed. Worst of all, my oldest is being bullied to the point at which he's talking about "taking their advice" concerning suicide. How exactly is one supposed to respond to that? Not just to the bullying, but to the immediate fear of letting your child out of your sight ever again?
Yeah, I'm not handling stress all that well this week.
To say I'm a little extra sensitive to things this week would be an understatement. I'm tired, I'm worn, I'm angry for my son, I can't get through five minutes of the day without bursting into tears over one thing or another. I am on overload. I am RAW.
I went to work this morning--my safe place. The center has always been my haven. ALWAYS. Daily, life-involved crap is not allowed there. There is a peace that envelopes me as I walk through the door, inhale the scent of the pantry (it smells like my grandmother's--don't give me a hard time), and just kind of take in everything God has to offer me, and the rest of us, there. There, we are about one another, and those God brings to us to care for, and even when nothing is right, everything is okay.
Today, things crashed a little bit. Today, my haven wasn't the haven it usually is. Today, it was the straw that broke the camel's back. Today, I actually had to remove myself from a situation while there.
Remember I said I'm already feeling pretty sensitive? Well, when people are insensitive, when they proclaim to know a lot about something (nothing), and then continue to babble incessantly on that topic in which they are ignorant--I fume. I silently beg that person to JUST. SHUT. UP.
And, knowing me as well as you do by now, I'm sure you also know the term 'autistic' sets me off. My son HAS autism, he is NOT autism--do you see the different when you call him, and others with autism, 'autistic?' Autism is not what makes Noah Noah, it's part of him. Some call it nitpicky, some say I'm arguing semantics. To me, it would be the same as calling a child who is overweight, a 'fatty.' It's a label, not a diagnosis. I don't like labels, because then we forget about the person inside. GET. IT. RIGHT.
Today, those two factors--ignorant people, and incorrect terminology--came crashing into my already on-edge, oversensitive, bruised mommy self esteem. There was a woman going on, and on, and on--about autistic kids. I've never met this woman before, but she claimed to be a teacher's aide who--ding ding--worked with "those poor autistic kids." She went on and on about how hard they try, they just have so much against them, life is just so hard for them, it's so frustrating working with them--I cringed. I wanted to hide under the table. I tried to tune her out, I really did. I swear I did. I wanted to turn around and stare at her, hoping lasers would somehow shoot out of my eyes. Our admin noticed I was wearing my shoulders as earrings at that point; she put her hand on my one of my new earrings, both of us realizing I just needed to move to a different room.
I did--change rooms--but not before I screamed at her, in my head of course, that my child kicks autism's ass every single day of his life. He not only does that, but he ROCKS it. He is not autism's bitch, autism is HIS bitch. My child is not autism, he is NOAH. I will not allow my child to be a victim of autism (or anything else)--he will be a survivor and thrive in life. Did you get that this time?
I really wish I had a great message to end this post with--something snazzy like, "Think before you speak." Or "Educate yourself"-- or, "You never know who is listening when you're being stupid and ignorant so please just keep your mouth shut"--but really, after spending the last 4 hours in tears, breaking down in Target just trying to choose a pair of ear buds, looking at my cracked windshield, staring at my burnt up kitchen wall and cabinets, and realizing I still have another week of prednisone, and at least that long before my PMS will end, and my kid has another 5 years in school with the brats who bully him--I'm spent. There's no message here this time, just me: An angry, frustrated, tired, raw, worn out mommy who is in desperate need of a little bit of nice.
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