If I were to write a country song about myself it would probably be titled “Cake and Whiskey”. Why you ask? Because all I want to do sometimes is eat cake, drink whiskey, and forget that I ever had dreams.
This isn’t a whine about my problems (note: I don’t drink wine. I’m allergic to sulfates.). No, it’s one woman’s admission that as positive as I attempt to be, sometimes I just want to give the hell up. Yes, I swore, and I’m not sorry because in addition to wanting to drink my problems away, I have a tendency to profane. I don’t mean to. It’s just sometimes life kicks me so hard in the butt that my frustration slips out in four-letter words.
My autistic son has been more violent and demanding as of late. That happens when his father ditches visitation. His dad believes with his entire being that it is 100% a woman’s responsibility to raise the children. Dads are just guests who are free to show up (or not show up in his case) if they feel like it. Don’t ask me to explain how he came to believe this because he has brothers who parent their children. I did not discover he felt this way until I was pregnant and by then my fate was already sealed. While I waited until my son was two-years-old to leave, I knew when my then-husband abandoned me on Thanksgiving (while I was pregnant) that divorce was just a matter of time.
If my son didn’t suffer from Autism, ADHD, and Sensory Processing Disorder, there’s a good chance it wouldn’t irritate me so much that his dad refuses to parent. But my son has enough struggles for three kids and sometimes, I think I’m just going to lose it mentally. I could use help. My ex-husband knows this, gives me the finger, and tells me I should be “nicer to him”.
Insert profanity right here.
Okay, the ex-husband sucks. Being a single mom is rough. We get it. We’ve all heard it before. But here’s where life gets more complicated. I’m chasing a dream while working full-time, raising this blessed child, and commuting. My entire life (okay, since the age of 6) I have wanted to be a writer. I am a writer and my purpose is to entertain.
How can I do that when no one is buying my books? How can I continue to struggle balancing autism, a job, taking care of a house, and all the other responsibilities if there is no end to the struggle?
Do you know how many writers make a living by selling books? The odds are something like 1 in 300,000. I tell myself–that’s nothing. You’re alive, sober, and don’t have five children by five different fathers. If you can beat the odds as the daughter of a drug addict and a woman who killed herself, then you can make it as a writer, baby!
And yet, on days like today, I find myself wanting to buy cake and drink whiskey while forgetting I ever had a dream at all.