Would I Lie To You?

by Cyn, that cynking feeling

I lie to him.

The doctor opens the door with a knock, greeting me with a smile and a question that I can’t hear. This, of course, is the reason I’m sitting in the examination room.

“Which ear?” he repeats.

“My right,” I respond. This is the truth.

“How long has it been bothering you.

“Oh, since last month,” I fib.

I add in a half-truth.

“It started when my son had a cold.”

It’s true that I first noticed the fullness and buzzing in my right ear when my son got sick–in September. I caught a cold at the same time as him and have been snuffling ever since, my ear aching and distorting all sounds that come in on my right side.

But this is a Friday afternoon at the quick clinic after all. And there is no quick explanation for why I’ve waited three months to seek treatment.

So, I don’t tell the nice doctor how, last fiscal year, I used all but one day’s worth of sick time and the few vacation days that I had in my new job for Philip. There was the wellness check that prompted the autism screening. There were all of the missed days of work to get an evaluation and admission to preschool, plus IEP meetings, conferences and other visits to observe in the class or meet with therapists. When July 1 rolled around, my vacation and sick leave were reset, but I’ve already used several days for things related to Philip. So when I started having problems with my ear, I didn’t want to use my limited paid time off for a doctor’s appointment. At least not for one that was for me.

I don’t tell the friendly doc that I knew I could come to the quick clinic without missing work, but that I was embarrassed. How was I going to explain why I had no primary care doctor? That the last time I actually scheduled a doctor’s appointment was for my post-natal visit? Oh, wait, the last time was actually with a shrink for the postpartum depression after I cried during the entire post-natal visit. Then my previous employer switched insurance companies. I made it a priority to find a pediatrician for Philip when it changed and again when we moved. But for myself?

So, I lie to the doctor. I tell him I’ve had the problem for several weeks instead of several months. I don’t want to explain to him why I waited.

And I don’t want to reveal to myself why I am now sitting here finally getting a diagnosis and treatment.

I could lie to myself and say I went because I had the time. I was excused early from work following the staff holiday party.

I could lie to myself and say that I went because the noise at the party had really bothered me. I felt like I couldn’t hear anything. I began to fear that if I put it off any longer, my hearing would be permanently altered.

I could lie to myself and say that I finally thought enough of myself to take care of myself. That I believe I deserve good health as much as my son does.

While there is a bit of truth in each of these lies, I know in my heart that I had planned this trip to the doctor the day before. That’s when I noticed that Philip seemed to have a stuffy nose. That’s when I decided I needed to get healthy not for me but because my untreated cold could make my son sick.

Honestly, I’m already feeling better.

Would I lie to you?
Would I lie to you honey?
Now would I say something that wasn’t true?
I’m asking you sugar, would I lie to you?

–Eurythmics

**********

I’m a working mom with a stay at home husband living in the midwest. I started blogging about my son on his first birthday, intending it as an electronic photo album. Our now 3 1/2 year old son was diagnosed with Autism Spectrum Disorder earlier this year. The blog still serves its original purpose while also helping me think, learn and adapt to life with autism.

This post was originally published HERE and used with permission.

My Way Back From Depression

by Kathy, kissing the frog

Last week, I was out of my little white happy pill.  The pharmacist had to call my doctor, and I knew they would play phone tag all week.  I’ve been out of my Lexapro before, and I knew what was going to happen…

One morning, I wake up feeling sad for no apparent reason.  A sadness that has nothing to do with any tragedy I’ve experienced.  I’m never sure why I am feeling sad, but I sink into it.  It lays over the top of me for a day or so, until it worms its way deep into my heart and mind, festering, slowly turning into anger and despair over every. little. thing.

Anger at all the things I can’t seem to control.

And then it resides there, refusing to leave, affecting my every thought, every action.

My patience with my sons quickly wears thin.  I snap at the smallest mistake, yell over the tiniest indiscretions.  I take out my anger and feelings of worthlessness on them, innocent victims incapable of fighting back.  I scream and yell and say regrettable things that I know I will never be able to reverse.  

I yell at my four year old to ‘Hurry up!!’ We are late for preschool again.  We are always late.  Why can’t I ever be on time for anything?

The baby is getting into everything, and I yank him away making him cry.

With every angry reaction I think,  ‘I’m a horrible mother.  This is how they will remember me.’ This plunges me further into my pit of self-pity and negativity.  I can’t believe how quickly I have descended this time.

When Hubby asks me about my day, I don’t even want to talk or even let him look at me and see the sadness and anger in my eyes.  I am ashamed of myself.

My head is jumbled.  I can’t think.  I can’t remember anything.  I can’t organize my thoughts.

I haven’t written my weekly post for Her View From Home, and I can’t think what to write.  I write sentences that make no sense and then delete them in a frustrated and angry tirade.  I know I should write a new blog post, too.  But why should I?  No one reads it anyway.  Every e-mail I get from other blogs I subscribe to makes me angry and depressed.  Why does this blog have so many followers?  Why did everyone comment on this post when no one comments on mine?  It defeats me.  I think, ‘I am stupid to think that I can write, that I have talent, that I have anything to say that anyone wants to hear.’  I resign to just give up writing altogether, thinking only of the pieces that have been rejected.

‘I am a miserable failure at everything.’

I don’t return phone calls, I ignore e-mails and texts and messages on Facebook.  I don’t feel like subjecting anyone to my negativity.  At my son’s soccer game, I set up my chair far away from all the other parents.  I can’t be social.  My friend Katie walks by and asks how my day is going.  Near tears, I tell her, ‘Not good,’  and when she gives me a tight hug, I bristle.  I’m angry with myself for letting people see me like this.  Seeing me weak and ungraceful.

At the next soccer game of the day, my friend Heather sets up camp next to me and babbles happily in her enviable way.   I wonder if she can tell; does she know how I am feeling?  She has said that she needs to run every day.  It is her sanity.  What is my sanity?  Why is my sanity a pill?

At baseball games later that day, I get a rush of joy seeing my six year old make a good hit and run to first base.  My heart warms watching my four year old play for the first time, seeing his short legs run the bases and follow directions and laugh happily.

On Sunday, Hubby asks me to help plant annuals in the flower garden.  The hard work satisfies me for an afternoon.  I’m unsure whether it is because I am learning more about something I’ve always wanted to know or that Hubby and I are working side-by-side on a project, but it brings me temporary reprieve.

But later, I want to be alone with my thoughts, away from everyone.  I know this is dangerous.  I’ve been alone with my thoughts too many times in my life.  Alone with the thoughts that tell me I am worthless, I’m a bad mother and a terrible wife.  I can’t cook or write or take care of my house or maintain friendships.  I’ll never be able to run a race or write a book or complete a goal.  These were the same thoughts that plunged me into a scary darkness three times in my life.

Once in high school when I was so paralyzed by feelings of inadequacy that I stayed in my room wallowing in misery, sure that I was so far beneath everyone else that perhaps I shouldn’t even exist.

Next, after I graduated from college and couldn’t find a job.  I hated substitute teaching, so I stopped answering the phone at all.  I stopped getting dressed in the morning and stayed on the couch all day.

And when I desperately wanted a baby after I was married, and everyone but me seemed to be getting pregnant.  I stopped talking to my friends and avoided social situations.  I remember crying to Hubby, begging him to let me stay home from his high school fund raiser because we would be seated at the same table as someone who was pregnant, and I didn’t want to stare at her swollen belly all night.

Hubby would often come home from work, and finding me in tears and on the couch would say to me, “You sat home and thought all day, didn’t you?”

It feels like the cartoon image of the devil on one shoulder and the angel on the other. It’s the classic battle between light and dark, which both reside in all of us.  But in someone who suffers from depression, the dark mostly wins.  That little devil tells me awful things about myself, and I believe him.

In my twenties, my doctor suggested I see a therapist.  I carried around the name and number for about a year before I threw it away.  It was just another thing that made me feel inadequate, that proved I was a failure.  I always thought it was something I had to live with.  It wasn’t that bad, was it?

But as I look back, it was.  It did paralyze me, it does keep me from doing the things I want to do – mainly loving my family and friends and pursuing my dreams.

Monday, I picked up the pills, and took two right away.  Slowly my head cleared, but I was still screaming at my sons and deleting every blog update from my e-mail.  I got back on my pattern of taking five milligrams every other day.  Any more makes me feel like a fuzzy-headed zombie; any less isn’t quite enough.

I have found time to use my treadmill a bit each day this week, and when I am tired, I have gone to bed before exhaustion hits.

This morning, I gave gentle reminders about backpacks and glasses and dressing for preschool and laughed when Baby E took the dirty clothes out of the washing machine.  I feel like my sanity is slowly returning and lightness and calm are winning once again over darkness and anger.  I feel like I am returning to the person I want to be, that I know I am in my heart and in my beautiful mind.

I have three, maybe four posts I want to write, and I am reading all my favorite blogs again for inspiration.  The words are forming themselves in my head, and I can’t type quickly enough.

I do hate that this sanity and clarity comes from a pill, but I thank God I can recognize this.  I thank God that I can recognize when my mind is jumbled and crazy and the darkness is winning.  I thank God for giving me a situation that forced the introduction of the medication.  I thank God that I will never be a Susan Smith-type mom who does the unthinkable to her children because she didn’t realize that she needed help or refused to seek it.

I vow to never let my prescription lapse again.  I vow to not care if society thinks I am weak or lazy for taking antidepressants.  I vow to never think that they are the only answer for these dark feelings.  I vow to take them for as long as I need them, for myself and for my family.

Most importantly, I vow to be honest about my use of them for other women who might think as I used to  – that they just have to deal with that devil character on their shoulder telling them awful things about themselves and believing it.  I vow to talk about it because if I had known anyone else felt this same way long ago, things might have been different.  Different as they are now.  Better.

All I have ever wanted was to be happy; but I have to fight for it, and I always will.  The more I fight, the more I learn.  The more I learn, the better I get.  If that means I need some medicinal assistance, then so be it. That little white pill and I will just keep knocking that devil right off my shoulder.

**********

Kathy is a former elementary school teacher who now stays home with her most important students, her four sons.  She began writing after she lost her oldest son at age six to cancer and as an outlet to dealing with another son’s ADHD and anxiety issues.  At her blog, kissing the frog, she writes about what really happens after all your dreams come true.  You can also find her weekly column at www.HerViewFromHome.com .

This post was originally published HERE and used with permission.

Dear Diary

by Karen, Confessions of An Asperger’s Mom

Warning: This Post is in exercise in self-pity.

I’ve been a really strange mood lately.  I want to be alone.  I don’t want anyone talking to me because I’m afraid I may bite their head off.  I don’t want anyone asking me any questions about what I’m doing…what I’ve been doing…what I’m supposed to be doing.
Yet, when I am alone I’m still not particularly happy.
I am full of thoughts of self-doubt –constantly questioning my parenting decisions.
I am feeling bad about what my kids are facing.
Feeling guilty that the latest medicines that we are trying with Blue -are not working the way that I hoped they would.

I am so happy with my blog and my facebook community.  I love the work that I am doing in helping others feel less alone.  But then I start looking at our financial situation and all of the things we can’t do because I don’t bring in an income, then I start with the guilt.  We are stuck in the small breaking-down, falling apart house, because we don’t have a second income.  I am driving the 10 year-old car with all of the funny noises, because I haven’t done anything to change that.  I am writing and doing what I love, but I can’t brush away the thoughts of feelings of, you need to get something published.
You need to be making an income.
What the hell happened to you?
You used to be so independent! 

I start thinking about my friendships.  I am blessed to have a lifetime of friends all across the miles, from West Virginia, to California.  My best friend lives a few hours away in Houston.  I love her.  She is my sanctuary. Literally, she provides respite for me every couple of months.  She is the one person that can say anything to, without fear of judgement and she can do the same.  We can talk and text message every day with our most hideous, most ridiculous thoughts and feelings and then laugh and make jokes about them. Then days can go by with no contact, but I never doubt our friendship.

I have extremely close friends in California where I grew up.  I have friends that I have known since I was in middle school, high school friends, friends from my early 20’s and so on.  I am proud of these friendships…how no matter how much time goes by without contact, when we do talk or see each other, it’s as if we just got together yesterday.  There is no animosity about the different directions our lives have taken and how little time we have to get together or call each other.  I love, value and treasure these friendships.

Most of my girlfriends from L.A. have at some point taken time out of their lives to come here and we have great visits together.  Or when I go there, we must see each other and our time together is just…like home, warm and familiar.

Then I have my virtual friends.  I have developed some great friendships through blogging and facebook.  People who think about me…send me special notes of love and support.  People who make me smile on an almost daily basis.  Women who get EXACTLY where I’m coming from because they too are parents of kids with special needs.  I can make quick contact with them when it is convenient for me from my laptop or phone.  In fact, this ability has made it so convenient that I seldom actually have conversations on the phone.  When I do talk on the phone, I am almost always interrupted by one of my kids, my mother, my husband or even by another phone call…like from the school.

I have somehow let my friendships with local friends dwindle down to next to nothing,  which I feel really guilty about.  I wonder if I’ve lost these friendships.  Living in Texas has been the only time in my life, where I have actually lost friendships and been disappointed by people who I believed were friends. Sometimes I wonder if it is connected to being a special needs parent.  Some people don’t get-it…don’t want to get it…get sick and tired of hearing about it.

I have a group of friends I used to entertain all the time here at the house.  We would eat, drink, laugh and talk into all hours of the night.  At some point Blue would become extremely stressed out and ask me,
“When are they leaving?  It’s time for everyone to go home so I can go to bed!”
At which point, I would say, “They aren’t in your bedroom.  Your bedroom is upstairs.  Just go to bed.”
“I can’t!”

So slowly the parties have slowed down.  The invitations have slowed down.  Lives have taken different directions.  Friends have had babies, which certainly changes the dynamic and trajectory of your life.  Others have been promoted on their jobs, family dynamics have changed where both spouses are now working outside the home, which means that time for friends and entertainment has changed.

But when I’m alone and in deep thought…I question myself.
Did I do something or say something? 
What happened to our friendship?
Why am I so paranoid?
I’m a good friend…when I have time to be one.

I am now taking care of my mother who is living with me.  Though she is only 72, and has relatively good health,  she still depends on me to help her take care of all personal business, take her to all of her appointments, both medical and otherwise, take her shopping and entertain her at least once a week.  Otherwise, she would never get out of the house.  This takes away from my time to get together with girlfriends.

I am no longer going to workout on a regular basis, which means I don’t see my Y -workout girlfriends as often.  We do get together every couple of months for lunch or coffee and catching up.  I joined another local recreation center, which is closer to home.  Yet, I can’t seem to make it over there with any sense of regularity.

The last time I had lunch with my workout girls, they asked me to come back to the Y to our Yoga and Zumba classes.  I really want to, but as summer approaches, I doubt seriously if I will have time to work out regularly.

So basically,  my life is totally out of balance and I have to figure out a way to somehow close some of these gaps and get my sh*t together.  All of this while the summer is approaching and I have to figure out ways to keep the boys busy and away from each other as much as possible.  I’m looking at camps,  therapists, social groups and vacations.
Oh yeah…and then there is the house and all of the many little projects that need to be done around here.
It all seems so impossible.
I guess I just have to make a list and try to do one-thing-at a time…
one-day at a time.
I wonder how many days I have left where I can say that?
Life is short and yet it seems to be going by so fast!
If only I wasn’t such a scatter-brained, unorganized, discombobulated mess.

**********

I am a full-time mother of 3 boys (4 if you include my husband).  The boys are ages 24, 16 and 13.  Both teens are on the spectrum. My 24 year-old is thankfully out of my house, but unfortunately, about to be deployed to Afghanistan.  I have been advocating for my sons, with doctors, schools and therapists since they were toddlers. I run an interactive Facebook community https://www.facebook.com/pages/Confessions-Of-An-Aspergers-Mom/113171498759099?ref=tn_tnmn, where those in the virtual autism/Asperger’s community can come to share information, laughter and vent with one another. On my blog I write honestly and openly, often using humor to share the reality of our life. I want the world to understand and accept autism, instead of judging it from a point of ignorance. If that means getting naked for the whole world to see…then so be it.  Hopefully…you won’t laugh too hard.

This post was originally published HERE and used with permission.

I Am An Autism Mom and I Am An Alcoholic

by Cheairs Graves, Redefining Typical

Drinking.

Wine.

So beautifully packaged.

Perfect.

Golden.

Pouring you into a cup so that I can breathe.

Waiting for that five o’clock hour so that you can help me.

Shhhh….nobody can know.

It is our little secret.

I will only bring you forth from your bottle when nobody is looking.

When he is with the kids I will sneak to the kitchen and grab you.

I will pour.

Don’t worry I won’t leave you alone for long.

I need you.

You help me.

I deserve you.

My son has autism.

Six letters no mother should ever have to hear.

Six letters that leave me on the cold kitchen floor.

Rocking.

Holding my knees.

Clinching my fists.

Crying.

My back hitting the wall.

And I am alone.

So very alone.

And my sweet boy rolls on the ground.

In a world that I do not know.

And my  precious girl. She needs me. Oh, how she needs me.

And I stand.

I walk to your most sacred place where you are kept.

I take hold of you.

My heart begins to slow because you…..my most beautiful wine…..you will help me.

And I pour you.

I take a sip.

Because you my friend -you help me to stand.

And the one glass of wine to take off the edge….. turns to two.

Two turns to three.

Three to four.

One bottle of wine turns to two bottles of wine.

And I yell at my children.

And when my husband  travels I drink more.

And when he is home I drink more.

Trips to the store to make sure I have enough of you.

Because I can’t do it.

I can’t do it without you.

My sweet, sweet friend.

My wine.

And then I pass out.

Leaving him.

Leaving them.

All alone.

I wake in the middle of the night.

Head pounding.

Face splotchy and red.

I can’t remember conversations with my husband.

My marriage-slipping away.

My daughter’s questions-“What are you drinking mommy?”

And more lies come from my lips as I laugh, “It is mommy juice.”

The planning.

The scheming.

To make sure I have enough of my new best friend.

My  beautiful-fun-wine.

But I am still there.

Curled up on the cold kitchen floor.

Hands around my knees.

Rocking.

And this best friend.

My wine.

This lovely liquid that I chose for my Oxygen Mask.

It is chocking me.

It is killing me.

And I will die.

But I can’t give up my best friend.

I am scared to give her up.

I don’t know how…..

What will I do without her?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been two years and ten months since I have had any alcohol.

It was on bended knee that I started seeing an amazing therapist whose grace, gift, and loving hands have helped guide me on this road of recovery.

It  was with great hope that I went to see my physician who started me on an antidepressant.

It was my husband who held me tight and whispered the words  “I love you. We will get through this.” when I told him that I did not know how to stop drinking.

It is with encouragement of family, friends, and you that I began to share my journey through my blog. To cry the tears in the written word and let others hold them and wipe them away.

I had to let go of that friend.

I had to say good-bye to my most precious wine.

Oh, she still calls my name.

But I won’t go back.

I can’t

Because…..

I can feel the pain.

I can feel the sad.

They won’t crush me.

I am not alone.

I have my husband.

My children.

My writing.

My therapist.

My exercise.

My friends.

My church.

They lift me when I can’t stand.

They hold me when I cry.

They rock with me when the pain feels like too much.

Yes, they are my oxygen mask.

My glorious and wonderful oxygen mask.

And they-yes they- help me to breathe.

Coyright Cheairs Graves March 22, 2012

Photo Credit to Susan Lowe at http://www.sflphotography.com

**********

Cheairs can be found at Redefining Typical. She writes about her most supportive and gentle spirited husband and their amazing, sweet, and fun-eight year old son Dawson who has autism and their ever moving, energetic, and peace loving six year old typically developing daughter Mae Mae.  She writes about their life: the joy, the sorrow, the triumphs, and everything in the middle. She is forever in the process of Redefining Typical.You can also find Cheairs at her Redefining Typical facebook page.

What The Whole Family Needed

by Amanda, Confessions From HouseholdSix

Something had to give. I wasn’t the only one running on fumes. Even though I’m the primary care giver for the boys, the one who coordinates all of the therapies and doctor appointments, I could see it was taking a toll on my husband too. I had to wonder if it wasn’t because he was actually home last summer. The first summer he’d been home in eight years. Yes, you read that right, eight years. You see, between deployment and ROTC duties, he had been gone those eight previous summers. The only reason he was home last summer is because it was thought he would be changing jobs and we could potentially be moving. We took our first family vacation – ever. It was respite we ALL needed.

By the end of the summer, I was losing my mind. I had found out that the Army affords us a respite care benefit. I about fainted. I needed it. WE needed it – on so many levels. So much of the last eighteen months at that point had been spent on autism, therapies, doctor appointments, and school. We’re still in that cycle, but everything is established, so we need a break. We are taking advantage of the respite care we are given.

My husband and I have been out together twice now. I’ve also had a day where I had a respite provider here to help me so I could get things done and just have an extra set of hands. It’s been just what the doctor ordered. My husband and I have been able to get out and reconnect as a couple. We’ve been able to talk about important issues without worrying about little ears hearing. We’ve been able to talk about our other interests as well. We’ve been able to go out and enjoy hot meals without worrying about cutting someone else’s food, breaking up fights, or playing tic tac toe. We’re rediscovering the area we live and new things to do both as a couple, and finding new things where we can later go back with the boys.

The boys have gotten respite in a way too. They’ve gotten a break from their mentally tired parents. They get someone who comes to the house ready to play and pretty much do their bidding for the duration of their stay (within reason). I’m OK with that. We’ve all been able to come back together as a family after our outings recharged and happier to see each other again. The boys are even asking when we’re leaving again.

**********

Amanda currently resides in Central PA with her husband, her 10 year old son, and 5 year old son. Between the boys’ multiple health needs and the Army, the family speaks fluent acronyms. Amanda attempts to maintain what sanity she has left by writing at http://confessionsfromhh6.com and contributing to various other publications both on and offline.

debt

by Jess, a diary of a mom

My friend Jeneil wrote a heart wrenchingly beautiful post this morning. It’s a post about love. It’s about what it means to find the grace within oneself to accept help when we need it. It’s about mercy and redemption.

It couldn’t have come at a better time.

Jeneil and I have known each other for a little less than two years. Despite the fact that we met as fully grown adults (c’mon now, no height jokes please, this is a serious post), mothers and even pretty evolved women, I would dare to say that we met during our ‘formative years’. I don’t think that Jeneil would argue if I said that she and I are both light years from where we were merely two years ago.

I have watched with sisterly pride as my fiercely independent friend has learned to accept help. I’ve watched her struggle to make peace with the fact that this CAN’T be done alone. I have watched her grow. And of course, I have watched her see clearly – as she always does – God’s presence in it all. I have learned so much from her. And I am grateful.

But I got stuck in the middle of her post. I got stuck on the word ‘indebted.’ I got stuck when she said, “I thought, My mess, my problem. Leave me alone to suffer. If you help me, I’ll be indebted and I don’t like that feeling.”

My life is dramatically different from my dear friend’s. Day to day, moment to moment – there are few similarities. But I too need help. I need it every damn day – whether I want to admit it or not. And every day, it is given. I don’t always see it, but only because I don’t always remember to look. Sometimes it’s buried deep in the farthest corners, but it’s always there.

It comes from my friends. It comes from my family – both blood and chosen. It comes from my children’s teachers, administrators, aides, therapists and doctors. It comes from the dance instructor who believes that everyone who wants to should dance. It comes from the researchers who toil in labs and from the waitress who finds us a quiet table in a busy restaurant. It comes from the mothers who bring our story to lawmakers on Capitol Hill and it comes from the woman in the market who doesn’t judge when my girl is having a hard time. It comes from Neuroscience professors who invite parents to speak to their classes and it comes from the man in Home Depot who finds a flower for my daughter when she just can’t handle any more. It comes from the mother at the pool who buys her a hot dog when I’ve forgotten to bring money. And of course, it comes from you.

Today – at this very minute – I need more than I probably ever have. Over the past week, I haven’t been shy about asking for it. I have literally made calls and simply said, “It’s Jess. I need your help.” And it’s been there. God, has it been there.

I’ve gotten better at making those calls. For better or worse, I’ve had some practice. Quite simply, I can’t do this alone. When I can, I give. And when I do, I give big. When I must, I take. I try like hell to do both with grace. I know I often fail. Giving is easy. It’s the taking that’s awkward. Pride is strong.

But what of indebtedness? What of Jeneil’s words I am indebted?

Do those who I love owe me for the times that I give them what I have? Do I owe them for the support that they give me in return? Is there some kind of cosmic scorecard?

With all the respect in the world for my dear friend, I just don’t buy it. I don’t think that debt has any place in her story – or mine or yours. I don’t believe that love – either the great love of God or the humblest love of a friend – keeps account of what it gives or what it receives.

There can be no debt in love.

Unlike any other resource we have, love’s supply can never be depleted – neither God’s nor man’s. Because the miraculous thing about love is that it replenishes itself through the very act of being given away. That’s a pretty amazing thing. What else works like that? As we give it away, it grows.

So to my dear Jeniel – to all of you – I say,

No debt. Just love.

And gratitude. Lots and lots of gratitude.

**********

Jess can be found at Diary of a Mom where she writes about life with her husband Luau* and their beautiful daughters – ten year old Katie*, an utterly fabulous typically a-typical fifth grader, and eight year old, Brooke*, a loving, talented, hilarious third grader who has autism.

She also runs the Diary of a Mom Facebook page, a warm and supportive community of parents, friends, adults on the autism spectrum and some random people in her life who cared enough to hit ‘Like’ and probably now wonder what they got themselves into.

This post was originally published HERE and used on our site with permission.