Do you ever wonder what a mom feels when her child is labeled? Maybe your child has been labeled. Or maybe you’ll know someone who could use your compassion and empathy. This is where I begin, sharing from my heart, what those words mean / meant to me.
I wrote this in an essay writing class last month. Our in-class prompt was to end with “what a joke.” I knew exactly what I wanted to write.
Because I am grieving.
First, came denial. (And a lot of weight gain and apathy.)
Many months and months later, just recently, came anger. Once I let myself feel, I was surprised at the anger. I expected to feel sadness, not anger.
Now, I’m more peaceful. I’m closer to acceptance of my new normal. But, when I wrote this, I had just started to deal with all the “stuff” that happened inside me when my kids were labeled. I wrote it to my old self. I wrote it to my demons.
It’s raw. I hope it won’t bother you too much. It was my truth in that moment.
. . .
Special needs. There I said it. My kid has special needs; well, both my kids do if you want to know the truth. Which I doubt you do.
Now you’ll try to shut me up and say, “Oh, I don’t know how you do it” or some other condescending remark to mean “thank God it’s not me” and look at me like you’re glad your karma got you two “normal” kids.
This label is like cement, pulling me into submersion with my nose barely sticking out of the liquid, gasping for air.
What a joke.