Yesterday, I accompanied Tyoma on his field trip to Currier Orchards. It was a stressful event for both of us, really. Sometimes I wonder if I am not entirely right in the head. I was freaked out by the whole thing, despite the smiles and joking. I felt judged by the other mothers, many of whom were with their typical kids. I felt judged by the good teachers working with T, as if I was not able to manage his behavior as well. And, I judged myself, too. fortunately, there were some moments when I was able to shove all that out of my mind and enjoy the trip. I tell you, it was hard work.
Why am I suddenly complaining about all of these feelings? Honestly, I’ve always had them, but I have been so embarrassed and ashamed to share them. writing this confessional is liberating. by learning about tyoma’s atypical neurological wiring i am encountering page after page of material that applies to me as well. it is truly shocking to realize that there are other people out there who feel like i do i feel compelled to write this down in case some other person finds themselves as lost anxious and depressed as i have. i don’t even know you but i also don’t know the folks whose blogs i read. maybe this lends my like some sort of purpose outside of my usual mommy/housewife role. i find value in this role, but sometimes i feel sop tired and bored and completely without accomplishment i had such dreams as a young woman and with utter consistency imanaged to bail on all of them well, not all. here i am in a lovely home with a superlative husband and a probably profoundly gifted child. my health is good but i do need some extra something i am trying to find this in my art, painting, watercolor etc, but since the first sweet week on fontessa being here, all i can think to do is organize my art supplies or rip pages out of books for collage. it seems to me that i excell in collecting and organizing but that i am paralyzed by the actual creating i think that is what makes art hard while we have a guest in the house.
i know that fontessa is bored and that i am overwhelmed and this situation is not good for us. i don’t have any energy left for her i can’t even think in Russian let alone have a conversation all i wanted to do was to work on my project quietly in my little room, but she tracked me down, what are you doing, oh how nice, blah, blah blah, how do i explain that she’s not welcome? no one is welcome. i clench my fists and jaws walking in to may art room. i feel anxious picking up the paints and trying something and I almost begin and i have a visitor, no an intruder. i’m angry at both of us. i know that my reaction is not right, it must be incomprehensible. please no people, no comments don’t even look until i am ready to share. that’s what is is about– the control creating something is very private to me and i need my time to be with it and sharing is a choice. this is me trying to build an expression of myself withing a fortress of anxiety apprehension and self doubt and i want to need to be alone with it. so i really resent her presence. it seems as if i can go no where without her following me. she is seeking me out because she needs and thrives on contact. i am avoiding her because she is draining the tiny bit of resources i have to cope with tyoma and the house. i have taken to avoiding her in the extreme, pleading sickness and headaches and holing up in my room without paints looking at books and aching to create. i disgust myself. i don’t have the strength to confront her i don’t think she’ll understand i fear that I’ll hurt her feelings she’s my husband’s mother that’s golden. i loath myself for pretending sickness to escape it feels false and i am certain that she must know this but if she knows i need my space why can’t she give it? I encounter her in the hallway and we waltz. she edges closes and closer. there must be a cultural difference because she always looms inches from my face and it completely unnerves me. I’ve taken to walking around with a white melamine tray which i angle between us when we talk she will step right up to it and look straight in my fidgety eyes and continue talking at top speed. i can’t understand her does she realize this? doesn’t she know how fast she is talking? I’m going to crack one day and tell her i am too tired and cant understand her what I’m afraid of is that i will say this in such hysterical way that she will be mortally offended.