When the outer world and my inner world are falling apart...

How much am I willing to share in this space?

I haven’t been writing and it shows in my body and my heart. I have been working on my novel, as much as I see my feelings and truths infusing themselves into it, it is not the same as writing here.

Writing openly and vulnerably about the state of my heart and humanness.

I have not wanted to write here, I am in a weird space. Stepping into this space to write feels like wearing someone else’s clothes that have tags and scratchy insides. It does not feel like mine anymore and I dream of burning it to the ground and starting anew (a creative theme of mine since childhood, sometimes literally involving fire).

Except, I do not have the energy or patience. I am deep in the throws of autistic burnout. Which unlike what we hear about the other kind of burnout (I am not sure what that even is), it is characterized by a loss of skills, increased sensory sensitivity, and extreme exhaustion.

Check, check and check.

As if my burnout was not enough of a challenge to our family life, my kiddo is also in burnout and I (we, my partner is very much apart of this) are navigating a whole new diagnosis for him.

This diagnosis plus burnout has turned our lives inside out and upside down. We are completely shifting the way we approach our parenting, our days look nothing like they thought I would and I feel nothing most of the time.

I am so fucking numb.

And partially it is because I am trying to recover.

Partially because I am overwhelmed with emotions.

Grief primarily, then comes sadness and anger.

I don’t know what to share when I think about writing and I am haunted by a realization.

I think part of why I feel such a disconnect with this space I created is because I was always experiencing a different kind of hard in motherhood. I was trying to name it with my words but for so long, I do not know why it was hard for me.

I will always stand by the sentiment that motherhood is hard no matter what. Seeing someone through their growth into a full fledged human being while also growing along side them and trying to do your best is hard work.

But I am in a different land of hard. That is not an attempt at comparison. Hard is hard, but maybe I hurt myself by not acknowledging the differences I face on a day to day basis. I think I was burying my truth under the assumption all mothers are in this hard journey together. But not every mother is experiencing what I am.

I think writing in this space helped me to understand my brand of hard is unique. Motherhood is hard for me because of the truth about my brain and body, and the truth about my kid’s brain and body.

This space has helped me see that I am different. Motherhood feels different because of my neurodivergence, and my kids neurodivergence.

Nothing about my experience of motherhood is normal. Nothing about how my kid acts is normal. Nothing I ever tried to do for him that everyone else has sworn by in parenthood has ever worked. And what the fuck is normal anyway?

I feel lost in how much to share about him and our lives. I also feel confused about my role as a mother in this season and I don’t want to write about it. I also feel horrible writing anything at all.

I cannot seem to get over the sense the world is burning to the ground. People’s children are dying in all out genocide and I am going to write to you about how hard it is to raise my neurodivergent child? This may be the definition of privilege.

Writing about my life feels entitled and wrong. So, I have curled up and written very little. But gosh (I have dropped multiple fucks but I cannot bring myself to say the G word, laugh with me), the words need to come out.

I have let myself go numb, not necessarily to the pain of the world that creeps in all on its own. But to everything else in my life. I bury myself in books, work, and writing my novel because I am terrified to feel it all.

What happened to the version of me who could feel her feelings?

What happened to the version of me who could be with what was?

I feel like a fraud, another reason I won’t write, because the basis of this space is not how I have been living my life.

Those versions of me burnt out.

I have been going too hard, too fast for too long. I have pushed through everything I have faced in my life. And for once, I am trying to do it differently.

For once, I am trying to restructure my life based on who I am, what I need, and who my kid is and what he needs. Not who I think we should be and what we should be capable of.

Those versions of me are dead.

I hope I can create something more beautiful in their wake. Because past versions of me did not know how to take care of myself as I was. They knew what they thought I should need or should want. But I was rarely dealing with myself as I was in the moment. I was rarely dealing my kid as he was in the moment.

I was hoping they were all phases we would grow out of instead of accepting the struggle was rooted in how our brains and nervous systems are wired.

There is no denying the truth now.

I am at a place in my recovery where I want to feel things.

I do not want to be numb anymore.

I am curious about wanting to feel better, but I am not sure I have the capacity to sustain my ideas for feeling better.

Part of me wants to get back into this writing with more regularity, part of me knows it probably is not sustainable quite yet.

But my heart is aching to be seen, share my words, and connect in this space. I have been passively consuming a lot in my recovery and now, I want to share.

Maybe not about my life, maybe not about our diagnoses, but about what I feel.

But first, I have to be willing to feel again.

As someone with cPTSD, I used to think disassociate was my enemy, a bad thing my body did to me. But since understanding myself as autistic, I see the protective and beautiful process for what it is: necessary when activated.

I can track my days or weeks of feeling disassociated to too much happening, too much needing my attention, too much stimulation. I see my body is trying to protect me from the onslaught of what I took in.

I notice doing too much right now, which sometimes is just running an errand, takes everything from the tank. The next day, I am exhausted.

Yesterday was one of those days, for both me and my son. It was my husband’s birthday and we all agreed to bite of more than we could chew. By the time we got home, I could feel the entire house and the people in it buzzing, in need of their own special interests and alone time.

Today, as I write this, we rest. I dove into a new book. Starting reading some pieces on Substack and became overcome with a profound sadness. I was tired of reading other people’s words without writing my own.

Yes, the world is on fire, but I have something to say.

And even if I didn’t, I am noticing how keeping my words inside is only allowing the numbness to stick around.

I need to write again.

I need to type the words, write them on a page, scream them into the infinite void. I just need to get it all out of my body and out there somewhere, because holding it in is becoming too much to carry.

I release the need to be eloquent.

I release the need to be politically correct.

I release the need to be perfect.

I just want to be real.

I just want to be here.

When I feel better, I have a vision of rebirthing this space into something new, something that will more adequately hold the person I am becoming. Or maybe it is the person I am unbecoming, I am not sure yet. But I have an idea I want to bring forth rooted in our shared humanness and desire to feel alive.

This is where I start.

I can feel the relief inside my body, I start by not hiding and telling the truth.

And trusting those who need my words will find them on their journey of life. (In the name of being honest, my engagement has taken a hit. While, I am not in it just for the numbers, I am human. I like the feedback on my words. So, like this if you dare).

A few questions for you:

How do you feeling about writing in this weird moment of history?

Do you notice a difference in yourself if you don’t write?

And just for fun, what is something bringing you joy and aliveness right now?

Onward, because backwards isn’t a choice.

Emma

Welcome to Being in Motherhood, I’m a writer, artist, and mother constantly redefining myself. I write about being human while navigating motherhood, neurodivergence and living a full creative life. I believe reflection and compassion can change the world, the way we see things, and how we be here.

If you are looking for support in bringing your words to life, I invite you to join the Creative Circle. We gather monthly to talk about writing, share what we are working on, and give and receive gentle, supportive feedback. This time together fuels the creative revolution of women whose ideas, words, and self-expressions are birthed around the edges of motherhood.

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