Wiped out

Always a tricky one this. What to do about writing when you’re running on fumes and how to write about it so it doesn’t sound like you’re whining.
As opposed to winning. I only sing when I’m winning.

The process of bringing up a disabled child sadly doesn’t change when you get a diagnosis, especially one as vanishingly rare as ours (12 in the world, 1 in the UK). They just get bigger and heavier (though, somehow, still remaining cute!) and the workload with them. But as a carer, you just ‘put your big girl pants on’* and get on with it. Which means less time to do any non-caring stuff and feeling less like a functioning real human person. And so on round we go. Add to that the autumn /winter months of carers, which I’m guessing everyone dreads, in their capacity to bring bugs and coughs to caregivers and their people.

And while you’re keeping the closest eye on your charges, you tend to keep a less close eye on your self-care, so winding up with a cold yourself. Gah!

I know it’s only a cold, but when you already can’t sleep through (due to management of said charges) being denied the chance to catnap due to the amounts of snot and coughing just seems like the tissue that broke the donkey’s back. If donkey’s used tissues.

Do I have any solutions? Half a one I guess. For me, just writing anything, no matter how short, helps. So I wrote some micro-fiction for my mailing list. It’s not ‘War and Peace’, but I sent it out today in the mailing letter and it feels good to have done it. I wrote what you’re reading today. I’ll write something else tomorrow (it might even be more micro-fiction for my lovely Sci-Fi mailing list lot!). Maybe I’ll use my words









*Or big boy pants in my case. Not that I can’t wear big girl pants, or you can’t wear big boy pants if you want to. But put *some* pants on, it’s getting chilly. Or not, whatevs, I’m not your mother…

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