Finding the Me

I've never been a fan of the phrase "finding myself". It's always seemed self-indulgent to me. It doesn't resonate for me that you might need to "find" yourself via travel, or any other mechanism, really. I've always felt that if you can't find yourself where you are, then you're probably doing something wrong. After all, you're in there somewhere, so what's your fucking problem?
But this is what I'm feeling now. I've lost myself. Yesterday was a reasonable day for Max. He refused to leave the house all day, but was basically calm. He used the computer to watch Pokemon episodes, played hours of Lego Star Wars on his DS, and ate a lot. But that's it. We didn't really talk about anything...other than Pokemon or Star Wars, or what's next up for snack. Max and I didn't connect at all, really. Not because he was wild or out of control, and not because I was ignoring him. Just because he has autism, and connecting with me is a non-priority for him. So where was I?
Somewhere in my head, I guess. I feel lost in there. I should be grateful for the quiet, I guess (except for the music from Pokemon/Star Wars). I should be so grateful for a non-violent day that nothing else matters. But I don't feel grateful. There's a lot of nothingness in my relationship with Max. There's little to connect with, and even less to enjoy. Mostly what I feel is this on-going ambiguous loss.
I haven't lost a child, not really. But I've lost the idea of some regular kid, of living a regular life. Friends are researching sleep-away camps for next summer for their regular 8-year olds. They go visit, talk to their kids about them, make choices based on their priorities as a family. I love my friends, but I feel resentful, angry, and aggravated by their experiences.
I never had grand expectations or ideas for my kids. I never cared about "high achievement". I don't give a crap where they go to college or what they do with their lives. But I thought my kids would love me, occasionally listen to me, and go to regular schools. I never thought I'd feel nausea upon seeing a short bus, like Max used to ride. I didn't think I'd have a kid too disabled to ride the short bus.
I didn't think I'd send a seven year old to boarding school, and I never thought I'd wish my kid didn't live with me at all.
The ambiguous loss is complicated, persistent, fulminant. I didn't lose a child, not really, but I kind of did. He's here, but not here. Every time I make any sort of peace with it, something else comes and smacks me in the face. Like other parents saying, "I can't believe my baby is going away to camp!". It's a sucker punch for me. Their eight year old is going away to camp. Big deal. I flashback to Max's first psychiatric hospitalization. I have nothing in common with this parent.
Those of you who have known me for a long time know that I have never really fit in like a normal person. I just can't really seem to find it within my self to give a crap what other people think. I am arrogant, at best, and I'm just not all that interested in living my life the way other people live theirs. On some level, though, I wish that I fit in, just a little. And I really thought for a while, there, when I married David, that I could slide into normality, just a little. And until we had Max, I did. I was a nurse, a smart nurse, married to a smart doctor. We were cute, happy, normal-ish. And then came Max, and he stole it out from under me. I am not normal, I don't have normal kids or a normal life, and I can't understand the lives of normal people, even a little.
I fake it sometimes, when Max is away at school. I partition my "special needs" nonsense, and I just go about things like a mom with one typical kid. I go to PA meetings, and board meeting, and I smile, exercise, work on my Master's. But underneath is all this, that you all know about. It's like I'm a secret alcoholic, or maybe like a werewolf. Certain times of year (when Max is home) my life is bloody, chaotic; I hit rock-bottom and pace my house like an addict who can't get a fix. I am helpless, nauseated, brittle, and stuck.
And then Max goes back to New Hampshire, and I find myself here, alone in my house, relieved of this odd burden. It's mysterious; will I ever be able to merge these two lives into something that makes sense? How do I live an authentic life, when I'm paralyzed periodically by my needy child?