Welcome! In case you’re new here, I write about my journey as a mother to two boys, one of whom has non-speaking autism, through the lens of the Christian gospel. You might’ve stumbled across my newsletter after reading my recent poems in the Rabbit Room Poetry Substack or Jarfly Magazine. This month’s newsletter is about caregiving amid depression.
The fog of depression rose up, thick; I drew the curtains and lay in bed, knowing intellectually that the feeling would pass. I’ve gotten through this before, I thought. It always seems to happen in December — the worst possible time, in my mind. Amid the heat of summer, I began to anticipate dark mornings curled up by the Christmas tree, the reflection of twinkle lights in black coffee — then, the stars dimmed.
I get through it — one morning at a time, shuffling over hardwood floors in house slippers. One dark night at a time, shutting my eyes and exhaling, believing that morning light will bring some measure of hope. I go through the motions of homeschooling my children. I read a Robert Frost poem aloud, sans my usual enthusiasm. I blink rapidly, studying my ten-year-old’s long division problem. I find the memory of long division stored in the veins of my wrist; it is only when the pencil is in my hand and I begin working the problem that I remember how to do it. I add a new sticky note to our world map — Martin Luther nails his 95 Theses to the door of Wittenberg church. My fingers tremble; Scotch tape sticks to my skin.
I get through it, sitting in the minivan — waiting on my younger son to finish his guitar lesson. I get through it, shivering because I forgot my winter coat. The ladies at the stone shop ask if I’ve considered gemstone therapy for my autistic son. They fill my hands with blue lace agate. I get through it as I hand the stones back. In the car, I tell my children the truth: that stones won’t help a non-speaking boy say Mama. That the most important stone is the stone that was rolled away.
I get through it, dropping off a large return at the postal store. I wrestle an overstuffed box with peeling tape, another unwanted thing, and hold out my phone for the cashier to scan. It is something I thought I wanted, something to solve a problem in my life. Instead, it has become a problem — taking up precious space, blocking my view. I get through it, willing the bare-branch trees to stay motionless a little longer. I am not ready for this hibernation to end. I get through it, streaming episodes of black-and-white sitcoms with my children. (A visual therapist told me that black-and-white television might be easier for my autistic son to visually process than fast-paced shows with an uncountable number of colors flashing every few milliseconds.)
I get through it one dinner at a time, layering gluten-free noodles and ground beef for lasagna. I realize I’m holding my breath and I wonder how long I’ve been doing it. I exhale. I get through it, showing my younger son how to load a dishwasher so that every part of a dish gets clean. I get through it, sitting with my husband over cups of peppermint tea — laughing about the little girl who cried that our “house was too small” when her parents dropped off a meal after Milo was born. (Our home, then, was 1,300 square feet and this girl cried actual tears because she spent half an hour in it.)
Tonight, I sit at my breakfast nook, sip my French-press coffee, and wonder why I always end up in this place. But I already know the answer: I end up in this place because, time and again, I choose this place. And I choose this place because the world is an open mouth, waiting to swallow my son whole. My son puts up a fight everyday just to exist. He lives in a body he doesn’t understand — in a world that views disability as dimmer personhood. Atheists talk of sentience (and whether a disabled person is sentient enough to “count”); preachers talk of demons (and whether a disability is evidence of otherworldly darkness). Meanwhile, the world is a geisha — lifting a fan to hide her face from all of it. I stand unmoving, my heart in my throat.
“Open your mouth for the mute,
for the rights of all who are destitute.
Open your mouth, judge righteously,
defend the rights of the poor and needy.”
(Proverbs 31:8-9)
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The part about the “gemstone therapy” wow that must have been so frustrating to listen to. Very much relate to this post. You feel like an outsider in the world that doesn’t understand.
Beautifully written.