There’s a sting I feel when that word is said. A jump in the blood in my veins. Because, for me, that word carries a weight. It reminds me of my children. It shows that even still, this world is not considerate of them, and what’s more, can be downright cruel. Retarded. The word used… Continue reading Retarded.
It’s a big deal. I haven’t been to the gym in years. I hate the gym. It’s full of people. Fit people. Fit people talking about fit-ness. It was cheaper to get a family pass than to just get the kids a YMCA pass (for the pool. oh my gosh. for the pool. so much… Continue reading Hey guys, I went to the gym!
Sirens. The sound that once made all the muscles in between my shoulder blades tighten had, over the last year, worked their way to just small twitches and spasms, barely noticeable under normal circumstances. These weren’t normal. I heard the sirens from far away. All of the muscles in my back had seized and the… Continue reading Sirens
That title seems trite. I mean, it’s true. But it should say, “Gather around my wonderful children, we have some news for you. Your mother, whom we just adore, is mentally ill.” Yeah, that doesn’t sound much better, does it? I went to the doctor the beginning of December and talked to her about my… Continue reading Gather ’round, kids. Mom is mentally ill.
Dear Kelli, I miss you. I miss seeing you pop up in my Facebook feed. I miss how much you love my Abby, I miss your encouragement in my writing, but most of all, I miss seeing you. I miss that smile as bright as your long blond hair. I miss your hope and enthusiasm… Continue reading My letter to Kelli Stapleton, my friend.
I was scrolling through my brain of what has brought me to where I am in my life now. I tried to find a way to string together the commonality between the biggest bouts of growth I’ve had as person. I find myself today a different person than I was just a couple of years… Continue reading I hope you’re wrong.
The autism is hard. His words. Not mine. There, laying at the foot of the stairs, his head on his arm, his legs squirming as if trying to pull free from his body he again moaned, “The autism. The autism is hard. Why am I so much afraid all of the time?” I have always… Continue reading The autism is hard.
