Binge and Purge

I think I've alluded a few times to my new voracious reading of all the autism/special needs blogs I can find, but I have mentioned in the way one might mention, "Oh, I had a few snacks," when what I really should confess (in order to spur perhaps an intervention) is, "7-Eleven is empty because I inhaled every Dorito, bag of Whoppers, and Slim Jim in the place. And by the way, I'm craving more, so look out, Wawa." If special-needs-parenting blogs had caloric content, I'd need gastric bypass tomorrow.

It looks like this. Any time I am not at work, I have my husband's laptop, my kid's desktop, or my own iPhone open to Google Reader. There, I pull in about twenty-some blogs about autism (and about education). When I have read them all, I begin to read their blogrolls. When I have read all the blogs by the bloggers followed by the bloggers I follow, I Google for more.

What on earth is it I'm trying to find?

On the face of it, it's a mystery. After all, twenty-something blogs I read provide me a healthy diet of what I have needed, wanted, sought. I read the blogs of smart, caring, wise, intuitive moms who face daily challenges and serve as a good example to me. You'd think I could read them once, digest, feel satisfied, grow. I care deeply about so many kids I've never seen, and it's a huge blessing. I also gain tremendous friendship, camaraderie, community, and have no excuse for feeling lonely.

But beneath the surface, maybe I'm doing more than comfort binging?

Maybe I still think, okay, autism, but what else? What else are we dealing with in our Rooster? Okay, he's autistic, but he's also so freaking DARK. The darkness doesn't show up much in my reading. In fact, I read so much LIGHT. It can't just be that all parents BUT ME are able to see past the dark and write only about the goodness, can it? Am I that skewed? Maybe my blogmarathon means I'm trying to figure out if that is the situation, or maybe I'm trying to diagnose this darkness, or, forgive me if this offends you, cure it. The rooster is so angry all the time lately. He scares me. I scare me. What I see of me in him scares and depresses me. It's the rage. This rage. We all have bits of it in us, don't we? I have always thought of my bits as healthy bits, of expressions of not settling for less, of fuel I can use when I need to fight. I don't watch movies, don't like them, but a friend told me once that my occasional anger reminded him of the film Red Dawn, when one character says to another (something like): "You got a lot of hate in you, boy." And the ME character replies without missing a beat, "Keeps me warm." Maybe my own rage is more of a problem than I realize. Maybe it's bigger than I thought. But I'm more worried about his rage than mine. Lately the rooster is on fire. Just like when we first floated the autism question, I scoured the Internet for proof, found blogs, dove in, felt kind of at home. But the truth is, I never found the Rooster's rage described in the autism blogosphere. Doesn't mean he isn't autistic. Just means maybe there is more.

Yeah, I've started reading bipolar blogs, too.

I think soon my husband is going to snip our wireless router.

And, again, I don't like movies, but I remember bits of an old movie called What's Eating Gilbert Grape. I can't remember much about Gilbert except that he had special needs, but I can tell you this: I am feeling a lot like his mother these days. If I remember right, I think she ate so much and grew so large she couldn't leave her house. Sure I need to lose ten pounds, but I feel just like her on the inside lately. The way I remember it, Gilbert Grape's mom was looking for something she couldn't find.

Keeps me warm.