This is me. Well, it's me with help from PhotoShop.
Eleven years of coping with my son's regression and subsequent behavior challenges
has made me stressed-out and weary. I am, quite frankly, exhausted.
I'm 42 years old, but feel 80. Sometimes, anyway.
More than I'd like.
To cope, I drink Pinot Noir and eat stinky cheese. And write this blog.
All three are yummy.
My husband and I used to go out all the time. But now it's really hard to find
a babysitter that can manage Conor on their own.
And this autism thing is expensive. So we stay in a lot.
(I keep telling him to cut his hair, but he likes it longer.)
I know I should exercise more, that it would help relieve stress and tension.
Maybe it would even make me feel younger.
But I hate exercise. I read athletically instead.
Because you can drink wine and eat cheese while you read a good book,
but it's really hard to do those things on a spin bike. I wouldn't recommend it.
Some days, I'm so mad at autism, I just want to scream at it to bloody sod off
and leave me and my son and my family alone.
I often do, I suppose. Scream, that is.
But mostly, I just try to hang on and make the best of it. Because if you
don't laugh, you'll just cry.
And what fun would THAT be?