autism
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How is therapy going? I want to say good. I want to be excited. My reticence is somewhat suffocating. I would feel a lot more optimistic if I didn’t feel like I’ve said all this before. Like, we haven’t been trying our hardest for a decade. Lawrence said he feels like I’m just slowly realizing…
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I’m sure it’s natural to be scared your daughter will end up being a stripper. My girl has this… can’t-back-down. Defy expectations. She gets it from me. Pierced nipples. Pre-Fad blue hair. First to jump off a bridge or run through town naked. Damn twenties. It extends to this super boundaryless acceptance of people without…
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We used to sit and read together. Shitty poetry. Whatever. And he knows everything already. But he would ask me what I thought. Listen. Then he’d make connections and and talk on and on about people who had more to say about what I had to say. I had never met anyone like him. Then…
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“Have you figured out your grounds for annulment yet?” Excuse me? Grinning over a Rubbermaid salad. “I mean, have you planned your dissolution? Everybody does it at some point when you work here.” Juicy eyes. Cue: bright: playful: innocent: “No!?! We’re happily married. The stuff I read is so intense, I would feel… strange to…
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So my dad told me you asked if I was autistic._ _He said I should talk to you. “Yea, I asked your dad. He never got back to me.” I suppose that’s fair. He said [nodding YES] “no and…” [shaking NO] “yes…?” …Fair? I guess it took me this long to ask… “Are you? Were…
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Once I was married, I couldn’t write || my music just stopped || my voice vanished || I still wrote songs… for my students at school, or for the church, or little candid ditties for my babies. It was my profession. I can always deliver. But not… not my, uninhibited, devil-may-care, music. I used to…
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I play in a quartet with my mother-in-law. She banters her upcoming highlights while we set up. Her whole family is going to Panama to celebrate her (other) sons engagement. She starts listing. Please pause: my Lawrence? Yes. Your Lawrence. In four weeks. “Oh, I thought I told you.” You didn’t. Told me? It’s our…
Disillusion 