Complete and utter fiction. That’s what it is. I never feel lonely when I write. It’s the best time of my day, of my life even. Each word, each page is a companion to me. Yeah, I admit, I’ve become a little solitary, but it’s been a relief up till now, and writing isn’t what makes me feel alone.
That’s the single parenting. It’s the three AM sessions with my autistic son who could bench press me. It’s the little tragedies like car wrecks, and viruses, and growth spurts that turn into big F-ing deals for us. So, I have Rhapsody turned on a new age station and the living room dark so I can pray this kid settles down and the meds kick in soon.
Writing is my cure for this life, honestly. It’s how I stay together for him. That story on the page is the mental rest my mind requires, and, if I didn’t have it, I’d go mad as any lone wolf in the forest. I don’t know how the parents who don’t have some outlet cope.
Autism is different for every kid, but, for us, it’s periods of high humor punctuated by high stress crisis points of anxiety and fear. When you’re in the stress, like I am now, you wonder.
How long do I have? How long till something is too much? Any parent with a severely disabled child who says they’ve not had the moment, well, . . . that’s also a fiction. It’s mental strain and combat fatigue every moment you’re in it. It’s hyper vigilance and the long walk some nights into the Thunderdome. Two men enter. . .
I think that’s what’s making me more isolated. Few understand how it strains the mind and body to be the caregiver. There’s no energy to see the future some times, only enough juice to get through the day to its end. Today was that day. Much the same as any wolf in a snowy wood I can’t see much beyond tomorrow or the next day because the moment we have to survive is the current one. Until we do that, tomorrow doesn’t matter.