Broken Ribs, Homeless Boys, Police, and Self-Doubt

Monday, my dad slipped on the unsalted ice at our house and broke four ribs. Tuesday evening, my husband and I were winding down in the hot tub after a long day, and when we got out, we couldn’t find Grayson, our fifteen-year-old autistic son. As we were searching the house and property, our oldest daughter called. Her voice was hot and quivery.

“Are you missing anything?” she demanded to know, “Because the police found Grayson wandering around the Walmart parking lot—barefoot and in his bathrobe. He stowed away in my trunk, and now he’s pretending he doesn’t know me and saying he’s a homeless boy. I’m so embarrassed. Mom, what if that lady didn’t call? What if I never knew he was there and left him behind?”

Her quiet sniffles spoke louder than her words.

For once—Hallelujah!—Grayson didn’t run from the police and they didn’t chase him. The two officers were amazingly wonderful and allowed our daughter to assume the lead role. My husband and I jumped in our car and drove to Walmart, reasoning with Grayson over speaker phone the whole way. Eventually, I was able to talk him down, and he peaceably walked back to my daughter’s car to wait for our arrival. The situation was resolved easily enough without traumatizing restraints, arrests, or further catastrophes.

Yesterday, I got another call from the local police over a matter still ongoing and too personal to share. It left me reeling and struggling to breathe. That one will take a bit longer to get over. The issue was turned over to the Sheriff and Child Protective Services, and I found myself once again staring at my phone all day, waiting for “the call.”

All of that in just three days.

Now it’s 4:30 a.m. on Thursday, and I’m sitting down to work on my memoir for the first time this week. I’ve lost three days of writing and only have a short one today due to a “brainstorming meeting” at Grayson’s school. Thoughts swirl in my head alongside the chaos, making it impossible to hear my quiet inner voice.

How am I supposed to write about the previous mess of my life while still currently living in its midst?

Self-doubt swoops in and consumes my motivation. What were you thinking? Who do you think you are? You can’t write a book. It’s impossible. You suck. This is too much. A Kindergartner could write better than you!

I have no good answers today, and I lack the energy to engage. Maybe so, I say to my alter-ego, but quitting is not an option.

I write a quick blog to clear my mind, then open my memoir to plod ahead. Maybe it won’t be any good, maybe I’ll never get published. But I’ll certainly never know unless I try…