I swear, sometimes it feels like my brain is just… static. Like a TV channel that’s gone off the air, just that buzzing noise and a faint grey. Today, it was the sound of a plastic dinosaur being slammed into the wall for the fifth time, followed by the specific pitch of a toddler tantrum that only *my* kid can hit. And I just... snapped. Not outwardly, of course. We don't snap. We are the calm, patient, understanding parent. We are the anchor. We are everything. So I did what any sane person would do. I waited for him to finally settle down with his favorite sensory toys, then I quietly slipped into the pantry. And I just stood there, surrounded by cereal boxes and canned goods, and I cried. Silently. The kind of silent crying where your whole body shakes and your chest feels like it’s being squeezed, but no sound actually comes out. Because if a sound came out, someone might hear. And then what? Then I’d have to explain why I'm crying over spilled milk (literally, earlier) and a child who just wanted to play dinosaurs. It’s pathetic, honestly. The dark humor of it all is that I was thinking about how we, as humans, are supposed to be these incredibly complex, multifaceted beings. Like, we go to college, we have ambitions, we have these inner worlds bursting with thoughts and dreams. And then you end up in a pantry, crying into a bag of chips because you just needed five minutes of silence. It’s like all that complexity just… evaporates. Or maybe it’s still there, just buried under a mountain of laundry and occupational therapy appointments and the constant vigilance of keeping a child with autism happy and safe. I miss the me that wasn't just "mom." I miss the me that had plans for Friday night that didn't involve a weighted blanket and an early bedtime. And the guilt, oh god, the guilt. Every single time I feel this way, this desperate urge to just… not be here for a bit, it hits. Because he's an amazing kid. He's sweet and funny and smart, in his own way. And it's not his fault. None of it is his fault. But that doesn't stop the feeling of being trapped, of watching my own life just… shrink. Like I'm becoming smaller and smaller, until one day I'll just be a dust bunny under the couch, totally invisible. I eventually just wiped my face on a paper towel, fixed my hair, and went back out. He was humming to himself, building a tower of blocks. He looked up, smiled. And I smiled back. Because that’s what we do. We put on the brave face. We keep going. But I know, and now you know, that sometimes, in the quiet darkness of the pantry, we fall apart just a little bit. And then we pick up the pieces, and we do it all again tomorrow.