Self-Loathing: I Assume It’s A Phase of Grief
I know, I know.
My heart shouldn’t be bleeding.
Tattooed with blood red ink.
I shouldn’t want to curl up into a ball and hide from the world.
My egocentric mind shouldn’t be wondering, “Why me?”
Malicious blows to my stomach aren’t real.
My head is not in a vise.
This is not my
mind locked in itself.
On my knees in the dirt. I feel that way.
I know, I know. It’s not me with Autism
Ava doesn’t question. She doesn’t complain.
Of course, she can’t talk, but that’s beside the point.
She will be the one unable to ask for a glass of water.
She will be the one wearing diapers for far too long.
She will be the one who can’t sleep at night.
She will be the one who doesn’t open birthday presents.
Her dreams are disrupted; not mine.
Weak and pitiful me.
Am I mourning for her or me?
Why can’t I be a Mom with a capital M?
Raising money, spreading awareness, even discovering a cure?
Autism is the new rage. Why can’t I wear it fashionably?
I am a disappointment, even to myself.
I have dark circles, yellow skin, split ends.
Unkempt. Uncared for. Unenthusiastic. Unbearable.
Oh, I want to be so much more.
I hate to question God, but what was he thinking?
Maybe he’s not infallible. Bad selection.
I’m trying to get over myself and get on with life.
Just keep swimming, you know.
My gorgeous girl deserves so much more than me,
And yet she hugs me and I know she loves me.
Don’t worry. I will rise. Brush the dirt off.
Keep on keeping on.