Life is a Wool Sweater

Wool is itchy and uncomfortable. I hate it, I can’t wear it, but it makes the perfect metaphor for life. Life is uncomfortable. The difference? You can take off a wool sweater, but you cannot escape life. The world will not change and be any less uncomfortable. You can choose to not do certain things in your life because of how uncomfortable you are with them, but a lot of things are going to be unavoidable. We have to learn to deal with being uncomfortable. Otherwise, something will get in the way of your success and your dreams if you let them.


The wool sweater that almost got me was pregnancy. I’m thinking it can be linked to my Asperger’s, my hatred of pregnancy.

Some women genuinely enjoy it. I don’t understand these women. I hate just about everything about it. I hate being uncomfortable. Hate it. And just about everything in and around pregnancy is uncomfortable. The morning sickness, the nausea, the stretching and itching skin, the punches and kicks to my stomach and ribs and lungs and bladder, not being able to bend down or reach things, etc.

People on the autism spectrum very often have a hard time putting up with any level of discomfort. From a very young age, I could not wear specific types of fabrics because they were stiff or itchy or rough. As soon as I could, I would undress myself if something was bothering my sensitive skin. I think my mother described it best in the guest post she did a few years back Glow in the Dark Sticks:

‘When the family is all dressed and ready to go, loaded in the van, arriving in the church parking lot, you get out and open the slider door to unload the kids and discover your 18 month old is now completely naked AND still strapped into her car seat, so you ask, “What…why?  You’re naked…why are you naked?”  To which she replies, “I don’t wike my socks!”  You say, “But, you took it all off, Houdini!  Why?”  And she states, “Itchy!” as she pulls her hair out of the tidy little pig-tails you had so precisely done half an hour ago.’

Things have only changed a little. I learned, with age, to tolerate certain fabrics and fix things that aren’t aligned. I’m no nudist, but I still prefer less or more comfortable clothing. It’s very rare that I will wear high heels or makeup. Uncomfortable just isn’t my style.

And pregnancy, well, this is my second go at it and I still hate it. It is the epitome of uncomfortable. You can take off a wool sweater, but you can’t take off pregnancy. It is there, uncomfortable all day, every day for forty weeks.

As I write this, I feel a large amount of pressure on my lower belly. Mateo is settling low. He likes to press his head and shoulders into my right hip and kick my ribs. Marc just liked to stick his feet in my ribs and keep them there. I haven’t decided which is worse.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t change a thing. I love the moment when they hand me my baby and it’s all over. It is more than worth everything in that moment when my baby looks back at me for the first time. I will gladly do this for every baby I will have. Hahahaha. I just won’t enjoy it! Ever. I will hate being pregnant every single time.

I guess it also goes to show how misunderstood people on the spectrum are. It is often assumed that, because they have a hard time expressing emotions, they are unfeeling. It is assumed that, because they pull away when things get intense, that they are uncaring. It is assumed that, because they are unable to express it, they lack empathy. It may also be assumed that I, or other people on the spectrum, don’t want kids because of the discomfort of pregnancy or infancy or the terrible twos. It’s just the opposite. I want more. It actually hurts my heart every time I question whether or not I want to do this again. I want more kids than I could possibly stand being pregnant for. My heart is made to love and care for so many kids, but I considered stopping after Marc because I hated pregnancy so much. I came so close to allowing my AS to put a damper on my dream.

Even if it’s hard, even if it’s uncomfortable, even if it may seem unbearable, we cannot allow ASD or HFA to keep us from the lives, the dreams, the careers that we deserve. You must determine to reach your dreams no matter what. You must tough it out when things get hard or uncomfortable. You must keep striving for the life you deserve. ASD and HFA are just hurtles. They are not immovable mountains, incapable of being triumphed over. You can do it. I do it every day.



The Wilting Flower


One of my beautiful, wonderful, thoughtful cousins sent flowers to my husband and I on Marc’s birthday. I know how to take care of flowers. But, much like the flowers we received immediately following Marc’s death, I have neglected these.

Things are different now.

The last time, I neglected the flowers on purpose. I wanted to slowly watch them die. They were beautiful, as my life had been with my smiling boy. They were wilting and looking more and more brown, more and more dead with every day that passed. They looked how I felt. I was dying more every day. It was fitting, the day that I threw those flowers away. They were shriveled. Their leaves and petals had fallen off. They had lost their beauty just like me. I hated them and I was happy they were dead. The pain was still so fresh and raw.

Things are different now.

The neglect of these flowers was unintentional. I’ve been so busy trying to stay okay. I’ve been so busy trying not to think about the time of year it is. I forget every other day to water them. The flowers are a reminder of everything. Not that that’s a bad thing. It’s a wonderful thing. It warmed my heart so much that someone thought my baby’s birthday was worth sending flowers. Once again, though, the flowers reflect my current state. I am trying to keep them alive as longs as I can. I’m trying to keep them beautiful as long as I can. They are beautiful, alive, but still wilting. It’s slower this time. My life is beautiful. I have a life growing inside of me. But I am still wilting.

There are days, like today, where I feel gloomy, droopy, and wilted. Days where even the thought of getting up off the couch is just too hard. There are days, like yesterday, where I feel wonderful and I can happily sweep and mop my entire house without a second thought. The days are unpredictable and random. Such is to be expected. I am a wilting flower. I have just enough water to stay alive, to stay beautiful.




A Very Un-Merry Birthday (and news!)



It’s been a while again since my last post. I’m sure you understand. It’s been a rough eight months since Marc died.

Moises and I have been through hell and back. Everything has been a giant rollercoaster of emotion. Heck, our relationship has been a rollercoaster. Loss can often take a gargantuan toll on a marriage. I got lucky. Moises and I are there for each other and closer than ever.

I got a tattoo for him. It’s a bunny because his favorite toy was his bunny.


We got a new dog. Her name is Amy. She is a sweet girl and my personal bodyguard. She fits in perfectly with our crazy little family. She might pee a little when she’s scared, but she makes up for it with how fiercely loyal she is to us!


We received some big news a while ago. I would have shared, but I didn’t have the heart to write a post before now. We are pregnant again. It’s another boy! His name will be Mateo.


Some days, it makes me happier than I thought was possible after losing Marc. Other days, it’s a giant reminder of all I’ve lost. Some days, his kicks calm me and remind me of all I have to live for. Other days, it’s my own special hell. How is it possible that I am the mom of two beautiful boys, but neither one is in my arms? How is it possible to hold so, so much love in my heart for my babies, but have no tiny faces to kiss and cuddle? How is it possible to feel such a heavy pain and such an uplifting joy at the same time?

Mateo is our little dancer. He is already so very different. Where Marc was still and attention seeking, Mateo is active and a little shy. For all of Marc’s ultrasounds, he barely moved unless it was so we could get a better picture of him. For all of Mateo’s ultrasounds, he moved so much, it was hard to get measurements. We’re just lucky that we could get a clear picture of gender! He tried to hide from the wand and kick it out of the way. I love him so much. He is truly a Godsend. That’s what his name means: ‘gift of God’. I don’t know if I would have made it through these last seven months without knowing that my rainbow is coming. That will probably be the tattoo that I get for Mateo-a rainbow.

One thing that has significantly helped me has been the move. We moved out of the house we were living in when Marc died. We moved into a new house. Since moving in, I have noticed a significant change in my attitude and mood. I feel more motivated to do things around the house. I have been more on top of our finances. I have been happier. I think it was depressing me and killing me slowly to keep living in the old house. I still slept in the same room where I found Marc not breathing. I still sat and watched TV in the same room where Moises did CPR. I still cooked and did dishes in the same kitchen where Marc would dance to music with me while I was doing things. His room, where his stuff had been remained untouched. It is nearly impossible to move on from such a traumatic event when you stay in the same place. It has not, however, helped Moises. It was hard for him to let go of the only place that he lived and took care of Marc. Sure, it was the site of the memories I listed above, but there were other memories. The wall in the hallway was where Moises leaned when he gave Marc a bottle for the first time. The shower in our room is where he gave Marc a bath for the first time. The living room was the place that he heard Marc laugh for the first time and where he saw Marc smile every time he came home from work. I have good memories of Marc that are housed in other places, but Moises doesn’t. And I understand how difficult it was for him to put my need to get out before his own need to stay close to the memories of our son. I am eternally grateful to him for that. In time, he will come to see this new house as home too. New house, new baby, new start. Not that we could ever forget our sweet, perfect Marc. It’s just good to aid in our lives moving forward.

The last few weeks have been so hard. One by one, my friend’s babies have turned one. Marc would have too, but…he won’t ever. My first-born will never smash up a cake for his first birthday. It’s like a special kind of torture. I am so happy for my friends. Their babies are adorable and it’s wonderful that they reached the one-year milestone. It just hurts to see my friends experiencing things with their babies that I will never get with Marc. The cute birthday party, the face full of cake, and the clumsy almost-opening of presents will forever be just a fantasy in my head for Marc.

One year ago today, I finally gave birth to my precious little angel. One year ago, I never imagined that it would be possible to suffer so much and be blessed so much in such a short period of time. One year ago, I never would have imagined that this would be my life.

Happy birthday baby boy. Mommy loves you forever and always.


Moving Forward,


This entry was posted on March 3, 2017. 3 Comments

I Wish I Didn’t Have To…

The last time I wrote to you, I was bragging about my son being born. This time, I have to tell you about his death. I wish I didn’t have to, but I do.

Marc was big, happy, healthy, and smart. He was in the 99th percentile for weight. He doubled his birth weight in just 4 months! The cause of death, though we still do not have the official death certificate, is SIDS (Sudden Infant Death Syndrome).

The day he died was actually a great day. July 9th. We played together when he woke up. He was so talkative. We all relaxed for a while. I took him to the Commissary with me to get some groceries. He loved shopping, ya know. He would just look around at all the different things and bright colors. He would look at all the people. Each time we went, he would see things more clearly. He was always fascinated. This time, he placed his sweet little hands on the shopping cart as if to say “Here, Mom. Let me help you push the cart.”

As you know, I had an oversupply of milk. I donated it to a family. The little boy was only 8 months old, but the mom was pregnant and no longer had milk. We would go over for play dates when I dropped milk off. Marc never really paid much attention to the other little boy, but this time was different. This time, when I took him over, he was interacting with the other baby. He was laughing with and trying to play with another baby for the first time! It really was a magical day!

Marc needed a nap, so we left. We picked Moises and his friend up on the way home. When we got home, I got him ready for a nap. I undressed him, changed his diaper, and swaddled him (he would move his arms and wake himself up if we didn’t swaddle him). I propped him up on some blankets on my bed and nursed him. He fell asleep, so I left him there and left the door open a crack so that I could peek in on him. I know it may seem odd that I left him propped up, but he was always fine when I had him propped up on the couch with me. He was a very strong baby.

When I went to check on him, I couldn’t see him through the crack in the door. I opened the door and saw him face down in the bed. My heart dropped. I still have no clue how he ended up like that. I rushed to pick him up. It looked like he was asleep. I calmed down a little as I tapped him to wake him up. But he didn’t wake up. I didn’t get it. He was warm. He looked asleep. I bounced him to try and wake him up. I talked to him. Then I noticed he felt different. Holding him felt different. I noticed he wasn’t breathing. I yelled for Moises. I yelled for him. I went to the living room telling him that Marc wasn’t breathing. Moises looked for a heartbeat, looked for his breathing, but couldn’t find anything. Moises started doing CPR. Our friend that was there called 911. I just stood there, watching him do CPR on Marc. I couldn’t breathe. I knew he was gone, but I hoped he wasn’t. I prayed that he would start crying, that he would wake up, anything! I ran around, I called my mom, I watched more. People arrived at the house, they took over, I rode to the hospital in a police car, praying for my baby to come back. They worked on him all the way to the hospital. They worked on him after he got there. We just sat and watched. We watched them continue CPR. We watched the monitors for any change, any sign of hope. We sat there, helpless, as it settled in. The longer they worked on his tiny little body, the further away hope was. They called time of death just before midnight that day. Everyone cleared out of the room so that we could hold him. This time, he was cold. I now have a very literal experience of holding “dead weight”.

We both spoke to a detective and gave her our statements. I thought it was my fault. I thought he had suffocated. I thought my baby was dead because of something I did. It took me an entire day to realize that that wasn’t it at all. My baby was strong! My baby had strong neck muscles! He could lift his head and turn it to the side. I’d seen him do it. Even in his sleep, he turned his head to the side. He couldn’t possibly have suffocated. Still, I refused to tell anyone that it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. Of course, when I called the detective after the autopsy was done, she told me it was SIDS.

Of course I would never, ever do anything to Marc or let anything happen to him. Anyone that ever knew me or saw me with my son would know that. I love that little boy with all my heart. I would speak using past-tense, but the love for him didn’t just go when he did. All that love, all the maternal instincts are still there. It’s like a painful aching in my chest. The love for my son is overflowing with no outlet. It’s a different kind of love. The love for a child. It is equally intense as the love I have for Moises. It’s just different. It is the most amazing, pure, beautiful thing I’ve ever experienced.


People say that I am coping so well; that I am handling everything so well. I’ve been taking care of everyone. I’ve been sensitive to everyone’s needs. Everyone seems to be worried about how I’m doing. Taking care of people is how I cope with things. It’s how I heal. I say I’m doing okay. I’m not comfortable telling everyone these things. It’s hard to talk about it. It’s hard to listen to people. I don’t even cry around people. I’m not comfortable with it. There are only a few people that I can really talk to and cry with. Writing here is easier than talking to people.

I honestly have no clue where I am in my mourning. I’m afraid of everything. I hate everything. I am angry about everything.

I am afraid of doing things and going places. I’m afraid to go to the mall or to the Commissary. I’m afraid to go because those are the places Marc and I went most often. I’m afraid for the memories that might hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m afraid to be there when there are so many babies all around. I’m okay with babies as long as I can interact with them. But I can’t interact with every baby I see. I can’t avoid the tiny people with their parents. I can’t avoid hearing them cry and call their moms “Mama”. I can’t avoid the tears that come to my eyes because my little Marc will never cry again or call me “Mama”. I’m his mommy and I won’t get those things. I’m afraid of everything.

I hate myself. I hate my body. I can’t look at myself. I can’t look at my stomach. My body shows the signs of having had a baby. I have stretch marks, so many stretch marks. I didn’t care when I had Marc. I thought they were beautiful. Moises still thinks they’re beautiful. But all I see when I see them now is failure. My body went through this; I went through this. I’m supposed to be holding my baby. I’m supposed to have my baby. All I’m left with are empty feelings, empty arms, and stretch marks. What’s worse than the stretch marks are my breasts. When Marc died, they didn’t just stop producing milk. They kept producing and kept producing and kept producing. It was excruciating. It was miserable. I had to pump to relieve the pain. It broke my heart all over again every time I had to pump. I hoped and prayed it would stop soon. I wanted to dry up. And now that it has, it feels wrong. I’m sure it feels differently when you make the choice and wean a baby off of breastfeeding. I’m sure that feels rewarding. This does not. This feels wrong. This feels empty, like everything else. I don’t hate, but I hate people having babies and people that get to keep their babies. I don’t hate them. I just hate that they get what I don’t. I hate everything.

I am angry, so angry about everything. I only got 4 months with Marc. Only 4 months. Moises only got 2 ½ months. That’s not enough time! He was loved. He wanted nothing. He was perfect. He was amazing. He was taken from us. He was stolen from us. We were robbed! I deserved to watch him grow. I deserved to take him to his first day of school. I deserved to watch him graduate high school. I deserved to cry at his wedding. I deserved to hold his children and be their grandma. I deserved it all, but I’ve been robbed of all those moments. It makes me angry. I am angry about everything.


I guess that’s where I am.




This entry was posted on August 10, 2016. 4 Comments

It’s a boy!

(Warning, some pictures in this post show a bit of skin and could be considered more private. I have no problem sharing, but view them at your own risk.)

I have been so preoccupied by life that I have not written in a long time. My life has been so busy and unpredictable. So, let me start off by apologizing for being absent again.


Pregnancy is miserable. I hate it. I theorize that some of it has to do with having Asperger’s Syndrome. I was constantly uncomfortable and could do nothing about it. Pregnancy isn’t some itchy sweater that you can take off if it’s bugging you. It’s constant, 24/7, and unavoidable. The hormones, the extra weight, the changes to the body, the constant peeing, the aching back, the exhaustion. It sucks. I have no clue how some women enjoy it! Several times, I considered never doing it again. I had to carefully consider whether or not I, in fact, wanted more than one child. I do want more, but the number that I want has decreased. There is a finite number of times that I am willing to put myself through that.


Big ol’ belly at 40 weeks.

I moved back in with my parents for the last trimester and birth of our baby since Moises was being stationed at a new duty station and the move dates were much too close to my due date. It was better for me to be in a stable home and not on the road when I went into labor. It was better to have a home to bring my baby back to instead of some unknown situation. It was a hard decision to make, but that is the life of an adult and parent. Sacrifices need to be made for our child’s welfare.

Labor was long. I was in labor for a total of 50 hours. I was at my OB appointment at 40 weeks 1 day gestation, the doctor said that I was 2 cm dilated, and the doctor manually stripped my membranes again (he had previously done so two weeks beforehand). It was two hours later, while I was having sushi with my mom, that labor started. I was determined to not be the cliché first time mom that goes to be admitted to only find out it was false labor, so we went walking around stores and did shopping for almost 5 hours before I went to the hospital. I made sure that the contractions were less than 10 minutes apart and had been constant and increasing in intensity. When we got there, I was checked and told to walk around some more to see if it would speed up the labor. (For first time moms, it is standard that they not be admitted until they are 5 to 6 cm dilated and that their contractions meet a certain standard.) When I was checked again, I was only 4 cm dilated and they sent me home to labor until something changed. The staff kept insinuating that I was in false labor. I didn’t sleep that night. The contractions gave no reprieve. I did everything I could to relax and nothing worked. Day #2 of being in labor, I labored all day at home and went to the hospital again that night. The contractions were closer together and more intense than the day before. To our dismay, I was still only 4 cm dilated. They suggested that I walk more to try and speed the labor up, but my muscles were too tired. I couldn’t do much walking. I didn’t dilate any further. We asked about getting something for the pain so that I could sleep, since they were sending me home again. They gave me a morphine sleeper and sent me home again, still insinuating that I was not in “real” labor. I got no sleep that night. The contractions gave no reprieve. Day #3 of labor, all my movements were slow and jerky. I was in so much pain; I could barely speak. I was closing in on being in active labor for 40 hours with no sleep and no break from the pain. My body was working against itself. It was laboring to widen and prepare my body for birth, but it had been laboring so long that my muscles couldn’t dilate any further. My mom packed me into the car and took me to the hospital a third time. She had to get a wheel chair to bring me into the labor and delivery wing because I couldn’t make it there myself. She did all the talking for me because I couldn’t. She did something that I affectionately call “going momma bear”. I was being treated the same way I had the previous nights and they were going to send me home again. Mom stepped in and basically told them that they were going to admit me and help me with the pain and she would talk to whoever she needed to talk to to make that happen. They finally admitted me and gave me an epidural. Thank God for epidurals!! I finally got a short nap before they said I was dilated enough to start pushing. I had my mother-in-law on one side, my little sister (traveled from Oregon to be with me) on the other side, and my mom right by my head. Moises, who was on the road between El Paso and his new duty station, was watching from Skype. I pushed for less than two hours and our son was finally here. They handed him to me and I was in love and in shock. He was huge! He was 9 pounds 13 ounces and 21 ¾ inches. That’s an almost 10-pound baby, ya’ll. And thus ended the 50 hours of labor. Sheesh! All the pain, discomfort, and miserable feelings resulted in the best gift I’ve ever received. His name is Marc and he is an amazing and beautiful little boy.


I spent the next six weeks with my parents, tip-toeing into the new territory of having a newborn. The feeding, dressing, diaper changing, and cuddling were all easy! I’ve done so much babysitting that I didn’t even blink an eye at it. What I had a harder time with was figuring out how he ticks. I had to cut all dairy products from my diet because he is lactose sensitive. Not to be confused with lactose intolerance. Intolerance means that he will never be able to comfortably consume lactose. Sensitivity means that it is uncomfortable for him for now. Luckily, he is only lactose sensitive. It’s already gotten better and I’ve been able to add whey and yogurt back into my diet. (YAY!) Other than that, he was a calm, quiet baby. He was easy! My parents helped me in figuring things out and my little sisters were great with him when I needed to take a shower! Hahahaha. I’m eternally grateful to my family for helping me out so much! I don’t know what I would have done without them.

Breastfeeding. I had no problem with it. Marc had no problem with it. We were a dangerous pair with how well things were going. At first, that is. I waited two weeks before trying the pump to make sure there weren’t any problems that needed to be addressed first. The pump worked great until it didn’t. My nipples started chaffing and dried out. I kept using the nipple cream, but it didn’t seem to help at all. Nursing became super painful. I might even venture out to say that it was more painful than labor. I ended up crying every time I fed Marc, and that was no good. But! I determined to muscle through it and keep breastfeeding. Until I started bleeding, that is. He wasn’t eating enough and he was spitting up my blood. I was fine putting myself in pain for my son’s health, but it became urgent the moment that it started hurting my son. I guess that’s just instinctual. I ended up making my own formula for him using goat’s milk. He ate that for a week until I was healed. It took a little longer to heal because I was allergic to the nipple cream. Once I was healed, I started nursing again. I still had to supplement with the goat milk formula for a while until my supply caught up with him. Now we’re doing perfectly. In fact, I’m actually producing more than he eats, so my frozen storage is piling up.

As mentioned before, Moises watched the birth of our son over Skype. Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to make it to California for labor and delivery or for a visit afterwards. He’d only seen our son over Skype. I was missing my husband and he needed to hold his son. Obviously, I jumped at the soonest opportunity to make the move to Kansas and our new home! Some family friends were going on a road trip to their new home in Texas and Kansas was on their route. It was a long three days, traveling with an infant. I, of course, fibbed about where we were so that I could surprise Moises. I worked things out with one of his coworkers and the look on his face when he saw me standing there with Marc was exactly what I hoped it would be. He was so excited!

Here’s where I’m going to end this post. I’ll save how adjusting to things in Kansas has been for my next post! Thank you for reading.




This entry was posted on June 4, 2016. 2 Comments

The Baby Crazy

Things are going back to normal. I want to spend time with my friends again! I’m cooking again!

Speaking of, that smells good. I should probably go stir it!

Sloppy Joes tonight!

Food is amazing. I can eat my favorite snacks and meals. There are a few exceptions and some foods I can’t eat, of course. The baby really doesn’t like chicken. Cravings currently consist of fruits, cheeses, Totino’s pizza, lunchables, and pasta. The ability to pick up one of my passions again is even more amazing. Cooking makes me so happy. My happiness makes the baby happy too.

We found out the gender. We are having a baby boy! His name will be Marc.

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He gets bigger every day and so do I. I feel huge! I’m only 5 ½ months pregnant, but I look like I could be further along. Sitting up is hard. Getting out of bed is hard. Bending over is hard. Basically any activity having to do with my lower body is out of the question. You want me to put on shoes? Nope. I’m wearing slippers because they don’t have laces for me to tie.


Kicks and movements are bigger and more frequent. Moises can feel him moving now. It’s a mix of magical and uncomfortable, feeling a tiny person moving inside of me. He kicks when I eat, drink tea, take baths, cook, and lay down to go to sleep. He moves a lot when Moises is around and when I’m Skyping with family.

I don’t spend much time outside of our apartment, so I haven’t experienced strangers touching my belly. I’m still unsure how I’m going to handle that. As is, even my friends have asked for permission before touching my belly. I don’t mind that. It’s an amazing thing, life growing inside of another person and being able to feel it. I don’t blame them for wanting to feel him move. I constantly have my hand in place, just in case he moves.

I haven’t been very good about tying my posts to AS recently. My posts have mostly been about keeping my readers updated. A more Aspie-significant post will hopefully be underway soon. Thank you for staying with me.



Pregnancy and Meltdowns

The pregnancy is much better now. I’m starting to get a belly and I can eat again! My next ultrasound is this week and we should be finding out the gender. I feel the baby moving a lot. It’s kind of amazing. Exciting!


But with the extra hormones come extra sensitivity. I don’t like being touched anymore. If I don’t give you permission to touch me, I don’t want you to touch me. Don’t touch my belly. I don’t remember a day in my life that I have been so anti-touch. It’s an odd thing for me. But wait! There’s more! For the first time, that I can remember, I don’t want to spend any time with my friends. Not any at all. It’s too stressful. I’d rather just be home alone. If I spend time with them, I have to pay attention to their problems, give them advice, and deal with their emotions. It’s exhausting. I have to work harder to be a good friend and pretend that I want their company. It’s a terrible thing to fake. I hate it. It’s not their fault. It’s not that I don’t care for them or that I don’t like them. I’m just so much more easily overwhelmed right now. I’ve started having Meltdowns again. It’s not fun.

With one friend, there’s no avoiding it. She’s living with me right now. I can’t ignore phone calls and texts because she’s in my livingroom. I can’t fake sleeping all day because I don’t feel like being around anyone. I no longer have a box to retreat to. It’s stressing me out to no end. Not to mention that my husband has been gone, in the field, while most of this has been happening. (With him, it’s just different. He doesn’t overwhelm me. He doesn’t make me feel like hiding. He’s a part of me and it’s just not the same as with other people.) 

I feel like a horrible person and a terrible friend, but I honestly have zero control over how easily overwhelmed I am at the moment. Just yesterday, I curled up in Moises’ arms and told him “It’s gotten worse. My Asperger Syndrome has gotten worse.” I didn’t know that it could change so drastically. It took me a long time to get to where I’m at, and pregnancy hormones have dropped me down quite a few notches; overnight and without warning. As if everything else in my life weren’t enough to incapacitate me.

It’s hard and it’s hurting the people I care about. I guess pregnancy just isn’t easy on me, period.


This entry was posted on October 5, 2015. 3 Comments