Seeing Your Words on a Computer Screen

12924577_1297285863615204_7815923785730277894_nI wrote a post a few weeks ago about depression. I didn’t really share it around. I kept it kinda private. It’s very hard to be honest in real life about depression. Even today as I read my repost on Breaking the Parenting Mold I struggle to believe I really wrote those words.

They are pretty raw. And vulnerable. I am almost embarrassed by them. And worried that people are going to judge me.

But, sigh, they are the truth. And I worry about sharing them.

Here is the post: The Stigma of Being s Special Needs Mom with Depression

Grief is a very large part of my life. I spend much of my day managing grief. Pretending it’s not real. Accepting it. Justifying it. Burying it deep down inside.

I had a pretty great conversation the other day about ‘choosing joy‘ above all things. Waking up and deciding to be happy. I want to do that every single day. I strive for that my friends.

This week I am doing great. Last week was pretty good too. Cooper is healthy. The appointments are down. We survived conferences and therapy and his last round with the GI doctor. We survived a broken kindle and Halloween. He is sleeping in until 6 am these days. He is eating. He is giving more and more hugs these days.

Today I am OK.

But the depression is always there. Brewing under the surface. I can feel it at all times. It’s a weight on my back.

As I drove into work today I was chuckling thinking about my two sons trick-or-treating last night. They were each a riot in their own way. And I will tell Cooper’s Halloween story here when I have time.It’s pretty great.

My mind started to wander as I thought about winter approaching. And Cooper’s birthday. He is going to be 6.

Cooper’s birthday is a very low time for me. He is a December baby. Add in two holidays and the stress of autism and expectations and you have the perfect combination of parent depression.

December is bad for me.

Age 6 and no words. I will start repeating it and analyzing it. I’ll do it for miles while driving. I remember thinking that at age 2, 3, 4 and 5 that soon he would be talking. Everybody talks. Everybody speaks.

What does 6 and nonverbal look like? What does 10 look like? And I’ll keep going. A teenage and nonverbal. A man and nonverbal.

It will cycle through his life. Flashes and glimpses of his future. Until I put a stop to it. And fight to stop thinking about sad things.

Today I am OK.


Follow me on Instagram to see a glimpse into life with a nonverbal ASD child.



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