I’m sorry for this post

I have spent the better part of this snow day thinking. Mainly because Mia has reached the age where I am no longer welcome to sit by her side at all hours, waiting on her every move. So, because of this I try to busy myself, usually failing miserably. I tried to read a book, but was unsuccessful – too many thoughts. So, I sat down to write a few e-mails that I’d been putting off. I started them in my usual fashion, which is mainly to say I apologized profusely for bothering the recipient; I write this every time no matter how much I believe the receiver wishes to hear from me. I am always apologizing.

Hello, my name is Kimberly and I am chronically apologetic.

sorry meme

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So I Bluff

I haven’t posted anything in quite some time, although I still write incessantly. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I have been a bit dispirited lately and haven’t felt secure enough to advertise this. Again, I’m not sure why (about the dispirited part atleast). Life is good. Life is usually good. Life, lately, is unusually good. I’m finally chasing down dreams, and making them reality. I’m officially halfway through my journey in becoming a Dental Hygienist (and my teeth look better than they have in years! Ha!). Nonsuch Novelties has taken off and I have more orders than ever before – and a constant slew of compliments to go along with my work. Mia is flourishing, there truly isn’t a better word for how she is doing. And, yet, I can’t seem to shake away my own feelings of dejection. Sorrow. Incompetency even. Continue reading

A darker post, about darker days..

I’ve been cleaning out my house. More specifically, my closets. I do this every once in a while when it starts to get cluttered. Sometimes I’m not sure if it is the physical collection of items in my house I am trying to get rid of, or if, in reality, I am trying to rid myself of the chaos (and extra baggage) my mind starts to accumulate over time and the disposal of tangible items helps to give me a false sense of mental security. Either way, there I was organizing a load of crap in an obscure closet that I never open when I happened upon an old box of letters and journals. I knew what it was immediately. I know the box well. It’s plastic. And teal. And encroaching. It is far more intimidating than it looks. I hid it back there, under this pile of untouchables, purposely, hoping to never stumble upon it again, or at the very least, to find it when I was more stable, more emotionally sound, more at ease with my past and present. (Some days I wonder if that will ever happen).

The contents of this box… I could write a book on the contents of this box. It is filled with a range of items from my 17th, 18th, and 19th year of life. This box is home to hospital bracelets. Letters from family and friends. Cards of encouragement. And love, so much love and yearning. Tears, it’s full of tears. Lost opportunity. Damage. Pain. Regret. So much fucking regret. And journals.. Pages and pages of words. My words. Words written eloquently, or sometimes not. Words scribbled down so quickly, as if I couldn’t manage to get it all on paper quick enough. My thoughts and feelings just pouring off the pages. Sometimes it is hard for me to believe I was once this girl, other times it is hard for me to believe I am not still her. Sometimes it is hard for me to reconcile my 29 year old mother’s mind with the things I have done in my life – at that time. Other times, I look in the mirror and don’t see much of a difference.
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World Autism Awareness Day

Today is World Autism Awareness Day. I have read so many posts, from so many different places, complaining of the use of the word “awareness”. So many complaints on the idea of a day of autism awareness. I’ve read posts about how awful the wearing of the color blue is. How lighting up the world doesn’t do anything. How none of this is helping autistic people. “Wearing blue won’t help my child make a friend.”, “Wearing blue won’t help me to be accepted.”, “Lighting up the Eiffel tower with blue lights will not help to change the way the autistic children of France are treated.” And on… and on it goes.

Before I go further, I must confess, I used to be one of those people. Continue reading