I just can’t even respond to this properly, and I’m a mess.
I want to scream, “Why did you do it? WHY?”
But I can’t. Because I kind of know why. I mean, I think I do. Insofar as I understand mental illness, and I know what it feels like to lose one’s mind, and I comprehend the desperate plea one makes unto the world:
“Help. Somebody. Anybody. Please. Help.”
No exclamation marks.
Because there isn’t any energy left for that. It’s not a question or a command. It’s a simple, “I’m done here. Game over. Help.”
Because the rest of the sentence probably goes, “…or not. Whatever. I just can’t even care anymore.”
You’re probably wondering WTF I am even talking about.
I don’t know how to answer, because it’s not my story, and it’s not about me, and I’m just sitting here crying and all dramatic like somehow I’m allowed to be brokenhearted over this thing that happened to people I’ve never met.
I just can’t even begin to figure out a lucid response.
But I’ll try.
Something happened to a blogger I follow.
But maybe I’m not phrasing that correctly. A lot of critics have hollered that the blogger isn’t the victim. And in a way they’re right. Because she tried to kill her violently autistic daughter. So yeah. In that cold, logical perspective, the “something” that happened wasn’t directed at the blogger, but at her daughter. I get that.
But that’s not the whole story.
Because, while I don’t ever agree that you should attempt to murder anyone, particularly your own child, I can’t help but want to explain to the world, “There’s more to it than that!”
It’s not like this mom just woke up one morning and out of the blue decided that today would be a good day to get rid of her kid. There was a whole string of incidents leading up to this sad, sad affair.
And I’m left in a puddle of my own tears.
Because I’m torn. I know psychotic breakdown. I know emotional anguish. I know mental snaps. And I want to comfort this person. I want to tell her, “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
And then I want to tell everyone else, too. I just can’t even stop crying long enough to get this all straight on paper, though. And who cares? It’s not about me. I didn’t even know her. Sure, I read her blog and I followed her story. But I didn’t know her.
There has been a lot of nasty judgment.
People who never read this mom’s words think they know the whole story. And they’re going back and reading her words now, like it’s the same thing as reading them without already knowing the ending. And they know all these things.
- There’s no such thing as autism.
- There’s no such thing as losing your mind.
- There’s no such thing as heartache-rage-frustration-helplessness.
- There’s no such thing as anything ever anywhere what.
- There’s plenty of help for all the broken things.
- There’s plenty of money for lawyers and counselors and doctors and programs.
- There’s plenty of time.
- There’s plenty of patience.
All these experts.
One wonderful, bright star asked, “Where were you?” and I still want to know the answer to that question. All these experts, and I just can’t even remember them piping up with their overflowing founts of knowledge back when it would have been helpful.
And maybe they are right and maybe I have the whole thing wrong and maybe I’m biased because of my own background and maybe I’m predisposed to sympathize with this mom since I read her blog. Maybe. Maybe.
But even if they are the rightest right that ever righted…
I hate them. I hate their smug arrogance. I hate their tardy answers and belated advice. I hate their cruelty.
I hate them and I hate them and I hate them.
You can know everything and all of it and the rest of this and that, but it doesn’t mean a damn thing if you just sat and watched someone fall, slowly, down a hill.
I just can’t even get on track here.
I’m sorry. I’m going to try to start again. I’ve been up all night and I just can’t even for the life of me figure out what I’m trying to say. I’m just so goddamn angry, you guys. And sad. And angry.
My hubz says I feel things too deeply.
I FUCKING KNOW THAT. I know I feel things too deeply. That’s why I can’t stand to be around people. That’s why I can’t answer the phone or go see who’s knocking at the door. That’s why I want to stay home and hide under my desk.
I feel things too deeply and it makes me sad and angry.
Because — HEY! — maybe if everyone felt things so deeply, there would be more empathy, which just might lead to peace.
My hubz says he hopes this doesn’t sit on me.
Because this is the kind of thing that does sit on me. But, you guys, I think it should sit on you, too.
When you know that someone you like is in pain, you should ache for her. And when that pain pushes her over the edge of reason, you should feel conflicted about her actions — appalled at her actions, understanding of her actions, guilty that you understand her actions. And when you feel conflicted, your heart should explode and you should cry.
But right now? I just can’t even.
I’ve been crying all night. Now, today, I have to go shopping with my daughter’s step-mom. Because my daughter needs pants for the winter. And it just feels so unimportant, but later when the snows come, I know I’ll be glad I went.
I couldn’t write any more.
I wrote all that yesterday, and then let it sit as a draft. A day later, and still I just can’t even figure out what to say, but I have so many emotions at war, I feel like I have to say SOMETHING.
There were a lot of issues precipitating this event.
It was a horrible thing, arising out of a horrible situation, and defines our horrible lack of support for families in need.
And I am changed. Whether for the better, or for the worse, I just can’t even say.