It starts with an angry murmur, barely audible over the TV and his tablet.

“Hey.”

Most of the words that follow are unintelligible, but I catch his drift, if not the underlying cause. His grip on the tablet tightens, fingernails digging into its rubber case. His body is tense and yet constantly in motion; I can almost see the waves of anxiety and anger battering him as he fights to stay still.

Sometimes, you can catch it at hey. There are moments where we can find the problem and make it right before it’s just too much for him to contain.

Today is not one of those days.


The tablet sails across the living room, punctuated by another hey. I’m on my feet at this point, coming close but not too close, and he’s already swinging.

He may not recognize every emotion that crosses my face, but he knows what pain looks like. So he targets my face, my sides, the tender skin of my upper arms.

“Ow!” he exclaims each time he lands a blow. When I retreat, he follows me.

Within seconds, we’re grappling on the couch like a bad episode of WWE. I have both of his wrists, trying to avoid his pinches and scratches without gripping too tightly.

He compensates with his powerful legs, driving his heels into my shins as he thrashes and tries to twist free. When I wrap my legs around his, he throws his head backward against my chest, then sinks his teeth into my hand.

Fending off violence from my own child is a surreal experience - one that has broken parts of me I may never repair. It’s like being swallowed up in this cacophony of fear, sadness, adrenaline, and even anger. Even so, I know it is only a dim echo of the emotions overwhelming him in those moments.

And I hate myself for doing it, but I don’t know how else to stop this. I shriek, “OW!” at the top of my lungs, my mouth far too close to his sensitive ears, and I burst into tears.

My husband appears less than a minute later and finds us still tangled up on the couch, both sobbing - Tim from his frustration and the pain of my yell, and me in defeat and self-hatred.

But before I know it, we’re both blowing our noses and slowly getting our heart rates back to normal. Reed has responded with calm compassion, and it’s worked a hundred times better than my panicked self-defense.

I try not to think about the hundreds of times I have led with compassion and only managed to fuel the flames of his meltdowns.

After five months of sheltering in place without school, friends, or even a few hours away with grandparents, my husband has crossed over to a new level of understanding with our children. He can defuse situations that I unwittingly exacerbate. He can get up for the day at 3:30 with a restless child, and still be the world’s best dad by bedtime.

And I can’t even hold down the fort for an hour on the weekend so he can take a nap.

For the first time in my life, I’m failing at something where giving up is not an option, and neither is failure. Everything I used to believe about my strength, my intuition, and my empathy feels like pride and self-delusion.

It’s a terrible feeling to realize that your family unit runs more smoothly when you’re locked away upstairs, working, but there it is.

All I can do is not give up.

therealljidol week 30: champion post for kittenboo

I never knew real love until the day I heard you sing Let It Go.

The song is nearly unrecognizable on your lips. But what you lack in enunciation and melody, you make up for in earnestness. I can feel your tiny heart soaring as you rise like the break of dawn, and you can’t help yourself - you tangle your little fingers in my hair insistently, twisting and smoothing as you imagine my Disney princess updo falling into a loose braid over one shoulder. I’m in love with your soft little voice, the way it travels from your mouth to my ears to connect us.

So much of the time, your words are unintelligible. I try to piece them together, to make sense of vowels and consonants that just don’t mesh, relying on the context of the moment we’re in, the look on your face, your body language.

Bit by bit, I discover new tells.

When you’re happy, you belt out the song with reckless abandon, like there isn’t a judgey human for a thousand miles. When you’re anxious or confused, you whisper-sing it to yourself, never taking your eyes off the person or object that threw off your mojo.

When you’re tired, you trace your fingertips around my knuckles. It drives your father crazy, since you’d do it long enough to bore a hole in his hand if he let you. I don’t mind as much, since I know you picked up that habit from me.

When you’re upset, you flex your fingers rapidly, poised to scratch and fight for your way. You do it for several seconds before actually reaching for someone. If we’re quick, we have time to intervene.

Learning your language has meant learning to listen, in ways I never had before.

But all too often, I have to smile, nod, and ask you to tell me again. Failing that, I repeat the affirmation that behavioral therapy has impressed upon me:

“I like your talking!”

I can only imagine what it feels like, to work so hard to tell me something, or ask me for anything, and be met with a wall of confusion and forced optimism. All that effort, and you walk away without having your needs met - while I apologetically admonish you to keep pushing, to keep trying, and someday Mommy will understand.

Our friends visit, and we watch with wonder and delight as you interact with your first and best friend. The visits always feel too short - they have no idea how much it buoys us, getting our families together, soaking in four whole people with whom we can all be completely ourselves.

And even so, it’s hard sometimes, watching their son grow up before our very eyes, faster than we had ever dreamed possible. Seven months younger than you - which is actually a lot, in toddler time - and he blows me away with what he can do. He anticipates, he negotiates, he plays pretend. He jockeys for position and he charms me with hyperbole. He “needs” everything, and he’s still too young and precocious to see the humor in it.

There’s a part of me that wants to cry every time he talks circles around you. I can only imagine what our relationship will be like when we get there - what we’ll talk about, how much better we’ll understand each other.

The hardest part is not knowing how much you understand. I know you recognize most words that we say, but I can only guess at how it all comes together in your mind. When we take you to the hospital on Friday, will you understand that we are staying with you, that this is scary and unfamiliar, but that you will be okay? When we beg you to be more gentle with your baby brother, do you know that we love the way you adore him?

I’m starting to believe that you do.

I can feel the change in you these past couple of months. The dam of words has sprung a leak, and tiny words and phrases are bursting through. You catch me off guard sometimes, suddenly squeaking out a fully formed sentence as I gawk in amazement. I’m starting to see you in there, peeking through, suddenly able to share things that we never could have guessed at.

And I can see the difference in you, too, your tension fading away as you suddenly seem more comfortable in your own body. What a difference it makes to feel understood.

I am a lover of words. I have spent my life collecting them, savoring them, rolling them around in my mouth until they felt right. They are the most honest and healing way I have to share who I am and what I feel with other people.

I would give you all of my words if I could. But we have time.

I’m listening. ♥

therealljidol week 24: babel

“It’s an outpatient procedure - just a minor excision. For an older child, we would just use a local anesthetic, but we can’t count on cooperation with children this young. It’s safer to put them under with general anesthesia.”

Excision. Excision.

I can see the scalpel in my mind’s eye, imagine the table of sterile instruments. But every time I picture the soft skin of my son’s back, the jelly-bean-sized lump on his shoulder blade, I can feel the panic rising in the back of my throat.

It’s a simple procedure, he reiterates. He doesn’t call it surgery, even though it’ll happen in an operating room. Even though he’s a pediatric surgeon - one we have traveled an hour and a half to see.

I clear my throat.

“So you’ll have to give him an IV?”

“Yes, once he’s already under. We’ll start with anesthetic gases first, administered by putting a mask on his face. Once he falls asleep, we’ll wheel him into the OR and put in the IV.”

We are lulling my three-year-old into a dreamless sleep so we can remove something, cut it open, and make sure it isn’t cancer.

But I’m still stuck on that scalpel, and cringing at the thought of them piercing his skin.


* * * * *

I can still remember our last morning in the hospital, as we ticked our way through the battery of required tests and milestones for newborn discharge.

We were exhausted and shellshocked and stupid in love. Forty-eight hours into this parenting gig, and it was everything that people had told us, and also many things that no one had told us.

The love was there, fierce and overwhelming and indescribable. But no one had warned me how primal my mothering instinct would be, how desperate I would become when I couldn’t soothe his cries.

One more test, my nurse promised, and we’ll get you packed up.

Then a nurse who looked suspiciously like Willie Nelson showed up and ruined the rest of our morning.

She had a piece of paper with a small circle on it, maybe three-quarters of an inch in diameter. And she needed enough blood from Tim to fill that circle.

With little warning, she punched the trigger on her baby torture device and sliced two tiny lacerations into Tim’s heel.

He cried for a few seconds, and I seriously considered leaping out of the hospital bed, IV and all, to strangle the woman.

It was the first time his skin had ever been broken.

She squeezed mercilessly, rotating his foot as if the ankle bone were made of rubber, and managed to fill a quarter of the circle. Then she glanced up and noticed Reed and I, our faces a mix of horror and incredulity, and she had the balls to smirk at us.

“First time parents,” she said smugly to my mother, not seeming to notice that even Nana had murder in her eyes.

I suddenly understood that frantic, hypervigilant fight or flight mode that a mother dog goes into when a human picks up one of her new puppies.

She stuck his heel three more times, and each time, he cried louder than the last.

They sent us home, but we had to come back every day to test his bilirubins until the jaundice faded away. By the fourth day, he didn’t even cry at the heel stick.

But I still wanted to.


* * * * *

At 18 months, his doctor ordered a blood test.

I had already held him through four injections that day, steeling myself against the shock and disbelief flashing across his face with each subsequent jab of the needle. His tiny face crumpled up as he sucked all the air from the room into his lungs. He held it for a second, just long enough to be sure This Is Not Okay before unleashing a wail that reduced me to tears.

I hugged him and sobbed with him as the injection nurse covered the last red dot with a bandaid, gathered her tools, and slipped out of the room with crisp efficiency. We paced, we rocked, I smoothed his hair. The tension drained out of him slowly. I rubbed his back and pictured the lab down the hall, hating the task ahead even more because he did not suspect it.

We had the world’s nicest phlebotomist, and he was great with kids. He was great with parents, too.

“Okay, mom, you have the hardest job today,” he warned me as I sank into the chair, settling Tim on my lap.

He took Tim’s hand gently and positioned his arm on the table.

“I have to keep this arm still. But you have to control the rest of his body.”

I had been complicit in his injections, but it had never been like this. They were a surprise attack, over before he had a chance to defend himself, and then all that was left to do was comfort each other.

This was a different animal. I pinned his left arm to his torso and wrapped my arms and legs around his whole body while he struggled and cried. It was the longest 90 seconds of my life.

When it was over, he gave Tim a stuffed animal. I didn’t even get a sticker, so I settled for Starbucks on the way home.


* * * * *

He trusted me less after that, and I couldn’t blame him.

From the moment we conceive our children, we cradle them in the warmth of our bodies. When they are finally in our arms, we surround them with softness, from blankets to sleepers to breasts, and we put all of our energy into teaching them that they are safe and loved.

But the tragedy of innocence is that it is so quickly annihilated by bad people and bad luck. We learn quickly to accept disappointment, and eventually to expect it. We learn to fear. And if we don’t find something or someone to trust, the child’s heart within each of us dies away until it’s nothing more than a wistful memory.

And sometimes, that is exactly what we need.

Until the day we find ourselves unsafe or unloved, we will not know our own strength, our tenacity, our ability to heal. After thirty-three years on this planet, I still watch in awe at every little scratch on my body as it scabs over and then heals. Scars rarely survive on my pale skin; in a few months, or a year, they fade away, as if I have rewritten history somewhere deep in my epidermis. I treasure the few that remain, tiny love letters from the past that say yes, this happened, and you carried on.

We shed our innocence in blood and tears, but we trade it for a wisdom that prepares us for the road ahead. We stop believing in the gentleness of the world, and start believing in the resilience of our own spirits.

And if we’re lucky, we get a cool scar out of the deal, too.

therealljidol week 22 part 2: sharp words

“You’re doing real good, Stacey. That’s it, just like that.”

You can get used to just about anything with time. Even the round face of a Southern nurse hovering between your splayed legs.

My husband squeezes my hand, dabs tentatively at my sweaty forehead.

“You’re doing amazing. I’m so proud of you.”

We lather, rinse, repeat these exchanges ad nauseum for forty minutes, the two of them assuring me I’m a rock star about to pop out all the babies, while I seem to make no visible progress.

It occurs to me, not for the first time, that I’m really in for it now. I have gone and grown a whole human inside my body, and there is no liberating this tiny person without significant trauma to my body. I don’t care if women have been doing this for eons. We are blazing a trail right through my vagina - right now, today! - and the only way out is through.

For half a second, I consider hopping off the table and making a run for it. I won’t get anywhere; I’m attached to too many things, and even if I could get my feet out of these stirrups before they stopped me, I’d probably just faceplant. But maybe they’d take pity on me and wheel me off for a C-section so I wouldn’t have to push anymore.

“I’m glad you’re all so confident,” I finally gasp, annoyed. “Because I’m not at all sure that this is something I can do.”

Marian’s head snaps up and she looks me dead in the eye.

“Every new mother walks into this room not knowing what she’s capable of,” she insists. “But you’ll see. And you’ll leave here with your baby in your arms, and know that you can do anything.”

And I want to believe her, but I’ve never felt so helpless in my life. I’ve got needles in my arms, goopy monitors on my belly, a blood pressure cuff around one bicep that inflates and cuts off my circulation whenever the hell it feels like it. My body is doing this crazy uncomfortable thing it’s never done before, and I’m crawling out of my skin, smothered half to death. I have an oxygen mask hanging from one ear. And the party isn’t over until I’m a mother.

She sees my expression, sees me, understands.

“Your body knows what to do. Let’s just take it one contraction at a time and get this little boy out.”

I nod, pulling off the oxygen mask.

“I can do that.”


* * * * *

It’s 3:00 AM, or it was the last time I looked. If my alarm is set for 5:30, then it’s probably 5:27. He’s rolling into me, pawing, smacking his lips. It would be freaking adorable if I weren’t so sick, if he weren’t so needy.

But as it happens, he’s hungry or teething or cold or just snuggly, and if I don’t nurse him, he’ll go nuclear in seconds.

I’ve been puking my brains out for the past 9 hours, and you can guess what else. My stomach is roiling. I’m in a cold sweat. All I want is a heating pad and a soft bed and dark and quiet and maybe some lukewarm water.

But he’s rolling into me, his busy feet burrowing into my aching torso, his sweet little lips smacking noisily as he roots around for a snack.

And it’s just too much. It’s too much to ask of someone in the throes of food poisoning, to balance on their side, to bear the kicks and punches, to be this-fucking-close to a squirming little person. Hell, just to stay there long enough to satisfy the baby, without sprinting for the bathroom again.

I’m trapped, trapped by the state of my body, trapped by the needs of my child. I can’t see how to take care of us both.

I seriously consider crying - fine, more than consider it - but the mothering instinct wins out, every time. I let him belly up to the bar and I try not to feel too sorry for myself.

He latches on, and I sigh, rubbing my forehead with my free hand. My husband watches me sympathetically, and reaches over to squeeze my shoulder.

“If he cries after this, I’ll walk with him,” he offers. “If you can just give him a few minutes on the boob, I’ll take over after that.”

I nod, wincing as a pair of tiny knees swing deep into my belly.

“I can do that.”


* * * * *

It’s 11:45 AM, and he’s been screaming for 90 minutes.

It’s horror. That’s the only way I can describe it. Hands down, the hardest adjustment I have faced as a mother is the visceral panic and pain I feel when my child is in distress.

It reduces me down to instinct, and almost to action, even though I know I can’t. We have rules for a reason, we have a process.

Someone out there has a doctorate in behavioral therapy - plenty of someones - and this is the thing that we do with a kid on the spectrum.

But none of those someones are sitting in my living room, writhing in their skin while my toddler shrieks and trembles and lashes out. They write the manual, but they don’t have to be there in the trenches, impervious to the heartrending cry of their own young.

They don’t have to be stone.

But I have to be stone, and I have to be strong, even though I’m new to all this, even though it goes against every instinct I have and I’m not sure I agree with it and the only thing I want in the world is to hold him so we can fight back the rage and the confusion and the terror together.

Even though I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t work, either.

So I record the sound in the room, just a few seconds, as long as I can bear. And I send it to the therapist, asking Is this normal???

I don’t know if I want her to say yes, this is what I expected, stay strong or no, this is something else, intervene.

She doesn’t say either. She asks if he might have an ear infection.

And now I’m sitting here wondering if my child is screaming in physical pain while I bounce the baby on my lap and cheerily, chillingly ignore his cries.

Just stay the course, she tells me. And the second he calms down, praise him and reinforce the positive behavior.

Yeah, I finally text back. I can do that.

An hour later, he collapses in my arms, shuddering and and gasping. I cry into his hair and wonder what I’ve done, if it was right, if there’s another way, if I can do it again if I have to.

I don’t have the answers.

My brain is a twitching echo chamber of why him and why me and oh god i hate this.


* * * * *

I never knew how much pain it could cost you, to love someone so much. To take responsibility for their wellbeing, for their growth, for their happiness. To make the best decisions you could, and never know if you were right.

I talk to my mom about it sometimes, and my mother-in-law. They both tell me the same thing, again and again and again.

“All you can do is love ‘em.”

I can do that.

therealljidol week 19: i can do that

It was a good trip, one of so many. Just you and me, zigzagging down the aisles, cartoonish sound effects for every hairpin turn or sudden reversal. You had just started saying hi to strangers, early and often and without prompting. You even stopped in the crosswalk on the way into the store to wave and say hi to the driver who was patiently waiting for us to cross.

You charmed everyone, especially me.

You helped me bag apples and oranges, and dutifully squeezed each avocado that I offered for your inspection. The produce guy offered you a slice of apple, and you chittered a sweet thank you to him with the juice running down your lips.

We walked and we shopped and we even danced a bit, and I soaked you in. It felt like so long since we’d last hung out just the two of us. You were safely in the cart, and there was no trouble for you to get into. After ten months of trying to run interference between you and your baby brother, it was a relief, for both of us. It had been at least an hour since I had said the word “no.”

You held my hand as I steered the cart, and leaned into me. And it felt so nice that I just slowed down a bit, plodding gently along toward the checkout line, a walking pillow.

And then I had to sit you up again so I could unload the cart.

We’ve all seen the Epic Toddler Meltdown before. We know what it looks like, we know what it sounds like, we know how badly we want someone to shut that kid up or get the hell out of here so the rest of us can go about our business in peace. Every parent of a toddler has been there, and borne the judgment of strangers.

It’s different with autism.

Half the time, I don’t know what caused the meltdown. And if I do, it’s often something intangible that can’t be corrected now that the offense has been caused. You came out to meet me in the garage, but I am already out of the car, so you can’t open my door for me. When we closed the gate on the stairs together, I lifted a little too fast on my end, and you realized that you hadn’t done it yourself. I can’t always walk it back.

So there we were. The checker had just started scanning our items, and you were shrieking with rage and sorrow. Your legs were kicking full force, trying to connect with my torso. You found my hands on the cart handle and dug in your nails, scraping and pinching until my knuckles bled.

I said the things I was supposed to say, Timothy Reed, we don’t hit/scratch/pinch/kick, please don’t hurt Mommy, I can’t let you hurt me, calm down please, we don’t hurt people. You raged, probably not even remembering why.

The people behind us in line took their groceries off the belt and went to another checkout line. I eyeballed the racks beside us, so tempted to grab a treat to try and buy you off. It was almost dinner time, and you were probably past due for a snack, but I gritted my teeth and turned away. I paid for my groceries apologetically and avoided eye contact with my fellow customers.

I’m so sorry, I wanted to say. He’s autistic. That always feels like a defense of you - to let them know that you aren’t spoiled or unruly or, god forbid, a brat. As if autism is a better defense than simply being three, in the day and age of mommy wars.

When the store clerk handed me my receipt, she leaned in and murmured, “You hang in there.”

I would have hugged her if I could have done it without crying.

The second we got out into the cool evening air, it was over. You were calm, even friendly, now that we had escaped the lights and the sound and the people.

I loaded up the groceries, got you into the carseat, and put back the cart.

I managed to get into the driver’s seat and start the car before the tears came.

Your meltdowns always hurt. You twist and scream into this maelstrom where I can’t reach you. You lash out at anyone within your reach, anything to get a reaction, anything to ground you, to change the parameters, to blow off steam.

I know it isn’t about me. I know it isn’t. I know it’s asinine to even indulge in that line of thinking.

But.

When you melt down, I’m in the storm with you. I just want to be there with you, to be present with you, and carry you through to the other side. I want to remake the world, to bend what needs bending and straighten what needs straightening, so it will seem a kinder place to you. I want you to know that you aren’t alone.

But I don’t know where it comes from half the time. You say so much, and we understand so little. I lie awake at night, wondering about all the things you try to tell us, that we haven’t figured out yet. Every unsuspected ear infection leaves me ashamed.

Here is the truth, as pitiful as it sounds:

Every moment that I can’t connect with you feeds my secret fear that you don’t love me.

When you attacked me in that store in front of god and everybody, it was as if I had been stripped naked. Suddenly everyone could see the pain in our house. They could see how trapped you were, how helpless I was to save you. Everyone could see how unworthy I was.

And if everyone could see it, it must be that much more true.

So I sat in the car and had my little pity party as you chirped mama and home at regular intervals. You even gamely told me sorry when I asked you to, though I don’t think you remembered why. The squall had already passed.

There is nothing wrong with you, Timmy Reed. You are storm clouds and rainbows and flash floods, a bright sun peeking through the gloom, dazzling and blinding me in turn. You make every day fresh and full of wonder.

And I am here, even if I never understand. Even if I never feel worthy.

I love you.

therealljidol second chance idol gauntlet

Over time, I've tried to make peace with the idea that parenting has become an industry. The availability of information in this day and age means that there's often way too much information, shouting at you from every corner, with very few tools to help you discern what's true, and more importantly, what's right for your family.

Usually by the time Reed and I arrive at a decision on any given parenting topic, I have to very consciously shed the baggage of what-ifs and second-guessing that I've acquired in the research phase. I have joked to my friends, "I figure that, as a parent, if you don't worry you're doing it all wrong at least once a week, you must not be paying attention."

Autism has compounded that for our family. The daily highs and lows feel so precarious. It takes weeks to feel like we can safely identify a trend of new or improved or worsened behavior, and by the time I have that sense, it is usually shifting again. And when people ask me how he's doing, how it's going, it's so hard to answer. There are highs and lows!

Yesterday morning, Tim threw a raging fit over something (a mystery to us) and kicked me in the face (I was sitting on the floor next to the couch, where he was thrashing). Yesterday afternoon, I had to throw him over my shoulder in the fireman's carry and carry him up the stairs to his room for a rare nap. He clawed and slapped and kicked the whole way, sobbing, and yet he closed his eyes and slept 4 minutes after I laid him in his bed. When we gently woke him an hour and a half later, he clawed and slapped and kicked and sobbed again, wanting to be left alone. But yesterday evening, we took him and Owen to Target and had Owen ride in the cart, asking Tim to walk and hold my hand - something we've never done for more than half a store trip. And he was an angel. Mature, capable, obedient. He stayed with me, even when I let go of his hand, and never ventured more than a few feet beyond us, always coming back when I called.

And I was elated, and it was almost like the morning hadn't happened, or the afternoon. Dinner went smoothly (he ate soup with VEGETABLES, with very little cajoling!) and bedtime was low key.

Then he came into our room at 4:24 this morning, walked up to Reed, and started yelling and hitting him.

I scooped him up and carried him back to bed, where he fought me tooth and nail, wanting to get up for the day. (Daylight Savings Time throws off many children's sleep schedules, but this is a common occurrence for us without the time change.) He sobbed. He hit me. He landed a good kick on my neck. He threw himself on the floor. He threw himself on the bed. He charged for the bedroom door again and again, and shrieked when I turned out the light. He didn't want me to touch him but then he turned over and held my hand for just a second and then he changed positions and my light touch on his shoulder sparked his rage again.

So I gave him space, and I bit my tongue, and I tried to just be present. I have been fighting with myself a lot the past few days around this - my frustration and impatience, and my anger - the sense that Tim is just making shit harder. Every time we're trying to do something - to carry Owen and all of our bags into the house when we get home after work, feed Tim something other than mac and cheese, close a door without letting him close it, run upstairs to grab something without letting him follow - everything feels like an obstacle. The past almost-eight months have been a cumulative falling behind in housework (which I was terrible about to begin with), to the point where I feel nearly crushed by what needs doing, and the shame and stress of it all undone. I do laundry and I do dishes. Pretty much nothing else.

So I live under this weight - Reed and I both do - of having so little time, and so little energy, pushing ourselves so hard just to do the absolute minimum. My days start at 5:30 and the kids are usually in bed at 8:30. Then we wash bottles, make dinner, eat, and go to bed. Then both kids are up several times a night. And we push, and we do the thing.

So when there's this tiny ball of inscrutable rage - not so tiny any more, actually, and very strong - that seems hellbent on taking issue with so many of your basic actions, it starts to feel like persecution. It starts to feel like this kid is just an asshole who's trolling you.

All this to say, I'm fighting with myself over this sense of anger and indignation. Because I'm tired, and I'm stressed, and I'm confused and I'm sad, but I know that I'm also wrong.

Because when I stop looking at this from my personal frame of reference - when I stop seeing my child as the obstacle fucking up my program - I try to put myself in his shoes, instead. And I wonder what he's feeling, because goddammit, this is the only way he has learned how give me any indication. And I don't know what it is, I don't know what's wrong, so I can't determine if it's the business of being two and on the spectrum, or if it's something more sinister, like the double ear infection he had last week.

And then holy shit, I realize I'm the shitbag. Because my child is anxious or confused or sad or afraid or angry or frustrated or feeling overwhelmed or any combination of those things, and I'm getting angry because I want him to get out my way and let me DO things. Because running upstairs to get something or shuffling through the laundry room before the cats get in are so much more important than the way my child feels.

And I just don't know how to do it. Part of me wants to drop everything and just give him love and nurturing. And the behavioral therapists say no - that you have to ignore the bad behaviors and reward the good. But sometimes I worry that ABA is just a carrot and stick training method that pushes autistic children to live by neurotypical standards - as if everything about how he sees and interacts with the world is wrong, and it's our job to fix it. To make him conform. To make him stop making US so goddamn uncomfortable with his behavior.

Because let's face it - I'm so uncomfortable. He lies on the floor and starts stimming and it's like the autism is creeping in from the corners and covering his body. When I see him there, in this echo chamber, his eyes vacant, it's like I'm losing him. Like I'm failing him. The only way to chase it away is to be out, out of the house, out in the world. And we try, we really do, to get out every morning and every afternoon, to let him run, to let him see people and go places. But there are chores to do, and errands to run, and a baby whose schedule often dictates our own. And some days, I think all 4 of us doing the same thing together helps us more than splitting up so each child can get their needs met. And other days, I think I'm very, very wrong in that.

And I know this is a season in our lives. I do. Tim is acquiring language like gangbusters now - blowing us away with new words almost every day. Having a conversation with him is almost within reach, and I know that will change everything. And Owen will be walking in a few months, and hopefully talking, and maybe he won't need so much protection from his well-intentioned big brother.

Or maybe Owen will start showing signs of autism.

He has a 1 in 4 chance. Tim had a 1 in 64 chance, and here we are.

I have the sweetest interactions with Owen, and I can't let myself think about autism too much where he is concerned. I start to picture dark shadows snatching both of my babies from my arms, and it's a bad fucking scene. I don't have the luxury of wallowing in that fear, which is probably for the best.

I know Tim hasn't been taken from me. I know he's amazing and brilliant and special just as he is, and that mourning him or his condition is the worst thing I could do, both for my own wellbeing and for his.

But some days - many days - like today, I'm lost. And I have to at least write it down and anchor the thoughts long enough to disentangle myself.

This week’s entry is an intersection with the very talented douchejuice. He has done me the honor of not only collaborating with me, but also stepping up as my champion to represent me in this week’s voting over at therealljidol. Please start by reading his entry here.

Memories are markers that show us the paths that we have walked. When we lose some of these signpoints, the fragmented pieces left behind may deprive us of the truth - and of the moments of beauty that make the rest worthwhile.

II

You were fifteen years old, and it was your first time hanging out in a hospital.

It smelled of ointment and disinfectant and the stale air of regret, and you couldn’t wait to leave. But you couldn’t go. Because that stranger in the bed in front of you - the withered woman with the bluish papery skin - was looking at you.

And you needed her.

Every few minutes, you could feel the tickle in the back of your throat - a sob, or a scream - threatening to rise up. The adrenaline would surge along your veins, and if your hands shook a little, she didn’t seem to notice. Her hands were shaking, too, but her grip remained firm.

“Sit with me,” she murmured, gingerly scooting to one side of the bed.

You glanced at your parents, your little sisters, and hesitated. Then you crawled onto the bed, the cheap, worn sheets rustling beneath your weight, and into the crook of her arm, your head coming to rest on her shoulder. She smoothed your hair back from your forehead. You sank into her, all arms and legs and nerdy glasses, and somehow, she was still big enough, strong enough, to contain you.

She clasped your face between her frail hands and studied your deep blue eyes, so much like hers. And in that moment, you knew that she could see you.

And she didn’t look away.

Instead, she kissed you on the forehead and hugged you while you held on for dear life.

IV

You were sixteen years old, and your grandfather was freshly remarried.

It felt too soon, but who were you to say anything? Her absence was like a rotting tooth, deep in your gums. You couldn’t run your tongue along its edges without white-hot streaks of pain arcing through your body.

And you couldn’t not poke it.

So you figured maybe he ought to be allowed to not probe it as he saw fit. He had loved her longer than you.

You visited many times that summer, even though his home was soulless without Gramma in it. Your mother seemed to feel the same way, but she dutifully loaded everyone up and made the drive every other weekend. Family is important, she would remind you when you made a face. We won’t always have him.

She was right, of course, but that didn’t make your visits more enjoyable.

You were sitting under the walnut tree in their backyard, reading Ender's Game, when your littlest sister called out to you from the swings.

“Derek, watch me!”

You lowered your book with a half smile, just in time to see your seven-year-old sister take flight from the very apex of the swing’s trajectory. She sailed through the air, smiling long after you were already dropping your book and scrambling to your feet. She didn’t realize her error until a split-second before she landed, face crumpling as the bulk of her slight weight but significant momentum came down on her left foot.

By then, you were halfway across the yard.

You scooped her up, and she cried into your shoulder, snot and tears soaking into your VBS t-shirt. Her ankle didn’t look too bad - you knew Mom would want to ice it - but it didn’t really matter. It was the first time she had ever wanted to fly, and of course, the moment she had learned she couldn’t.

You sat in the grass with her for an hour and taught her every corny joke you could think of.

V

You were almost seventeen years old, and you knew there was nothing left for you here.

High school was just as miserable for you as it was for everybody else, but it felt personal somehow. Going to classes and summer camps for gifted kids had just given you a greater sense of otherness where you had hoped for camaraderie. Your parents were always proud of your accomplishments, but the praise felt hollow. Wasn’t this just what you were supposed to do?

But it changed, at least for a moment, one day in early January.

You walked in the door from school, and your mom was holding a big envelope from USC.

The big envelope. The one that would only be sent to 50 students for the year, inviting them to attend one of the country’s most prestigious universities - as a high school senior.

Here was otherness that promised something more - an escape from the rural existence you had suffered until now. Bigger playgrounds, bigger ideas, broader mindsets. And a blank slate to become someone new, if only you could figure out whom that person was supposed to be.

Your father hugged you - something he did often - and clapped you on the back. Your little sisters jumped up and down, and you couldn’t help it - you held their hands and jumped, too, your bare feet slapping against the warm stones of the hearth.

Your mother kissed you on both cheeks and hurried off to call Grandpa.

In that moment, the people who loved you best let you go, with all of their pride and faith and good will to fortify you. You were so busy reveling in your great luck that you nearly missed it.

VI

You turned eighteen, and both floundered and thrived in that new world.

You didn’t realize it at the time, but it was the lifeblood of the college experience flowing through your veins. Sure, it was USC, it was California, something bigger and wilder than your humble midwestern roots. But really, it was newness and uncertainty, diversity and independence, a heady wine that you drank greedily.

And it was friendship. For the first time in your life, you had found your people.

They were no cooler than you were, though you all made a good faith effort. They too had come to college with dreams of being reinvented, now that they knew the hunger for acceptance. What they discovered instead - what you each discovered - was the novel idea that everyone is trying to find their way.

And perhaps you weren’t so lost after all, if there were so many people on the path with you.

But freshman year ended, and home beckoned. You said goodbye to your friends and flew back to Missouri, where the old walls began to close in around you. They didn’t fit anymore - you saw now that they never had - but you didn’t have an alternative. You were stuck until August.

So you started reaching out. Instant messenger became a lifeline, a channel you could leave open for a dozen hours a day. Even when your friends were idle or offline, you knew they were on the other end, somewhere, connected.

You’d stay at the keyboard far into the night, bloodshot eyes illuminated by the harsh light of the screen, talking with them about everything and nothing. When you got tired of typing, you would call.

There was a night that three of you stayed up late, voices subdued as they crackled across the power lines. For some reason, the talk had turned to sex - a phenomenon that was relatively new to the three of you. Everyone had a story to tell.

The bravado petered out quickly, though, and stillness followed.

“My friend found her dad’s porno mags when we were six,” she admitted suddenly. “My mom caught us with them and totally freaked out. I guess I feel like I’ve always known about sex, as long as I can remember.”

“Yeah, I never really got The Talk from my parents,” he chimed in. “I blame television. Sex sells, even to kids.”

Your breath caught in your throat for a moment, and your grip tightened on the cordless phone in your hand. You closed your eyes for a moment, and lowered your laptop screen, the click of its latch ringing in your ears.

“Something happened to me and my sister, when we were kids,” you began. “I mean, I don’t really remember much. I mean, I’m not sure what it was. But I know what that kid did to us was wrong, and I’ve felt dirty ever since.”

“Did you ever tell anyone?” she asked softly.

“Nothing to tell,” you answered, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t know what to say. I don’t have details, just pictures here and there, awful things. And I can’t talk to my sister about it. I can only pray to God that she doesn’t remember.”

“You can talk to us, yo,” he chimed in. “And hey, fuck that guy. Don’t let him ruin your life.”

That was enough honesty for one night, even in the safety of your darkened bedroom, and talk turned to easier things. It would be years before you spoke the words aloud again.

VIII

It ends, only to begin again, in Hades.

They offer you a choice - to drink from the river Lethe, and forget your sorrows before the next life, or to drink from the pool of Mnemosyne and remember.

So much has already been lost, and so much gained. You soak in the coolness of the cavern, the crunch of stones beneath your feet. You hadn’t expected something so visceral after death.

But you kneel before the pool of Mnemosyne, bits of gravel digging into your faded jeans, and if you didn’t know better, you would swear that your heart is fluttering in your chest.

You cup both hands in the icy water and lift them to your lips.

You scan the darkness, and pause as your eyes lock on a gaunt man crouched at the far end of the pool. His eyes are sunken and shadowed. His skin is grayish in the dim light, and his head hangs low.

As if he can feel your stare, he stiffens and meets your gaze.

His jaw works for a second, lips parting, but nothing comes out. A single tear wells up in his left eye, a wave threatening to break and drown you both.

You didn’t pray for him when you were 25, and you aren’t inclined to pray for him now.

Instead, you cautiously raise your cupped hands, and nod.

His face is unreadable as he returns the gesture.

Together, you drink of Mnemosyne and promise not to forget.

therealljidol week 38: shibusa

A pregnant friend asked me today if I had any motherly wisdom to share with her as she prepares for her first child.

(Clearly she must be pretty hard up for advice.)

I'm only a couple of years into it, but I’ve learned, at the very least, that my truths are only that – mine. There are so many common themes to motherhood, and to parenthood, but it’s inconsiderate at best – and emotionally crippling at worst – to pin your experiences on another mother as if you alone can see the roadmap to her future.

So I held back the flood of feelings and memories and regrets, and gave her the safe advice instead. Bring your own towel and some soft, comfy pajamas to the hospital. Stock up your pantry and freezer with easy meals. When someone offers to do anything to help – to hold the baby, or wash your dishes, or make a grocery run – let them.

Take turns on poopy diapers whenever you can. In my house, “poop debt” is a legitimate state of being that can lead to all manner of unpleasant consequences.

If you’re keeping score on poop debt, you also need a rating system. Sometimes, especially early on, you’ll get one that’s bad enough to be classified as a two-fer.

Then there’s the generic philosophical advice you read in every mommy blog that your friends post to Facebook.

Trust your instincts. Even the mother who looks perfect from the outside is making tough judgment calls and only doing the best she can at any given time.

Sleep when the baby sleeps. No, seriously. Let go of the ideals – and hell, the standards – that you’ve had in your head up till now. The dishes in the sink won’t get up and walk away if they sit for a day or two. Showering daily is more of a luxury than a necessity.

Bras are for people who don’t need to feed a hungry newborn every 90 minutes.

Get over your bad self.

Are you a zombie? Yes. Yes, you are. And it’s going to go so fast, and you’re going to look back on it wistfully while at the same time wondering how you survived.

And you’re probably going to cry the first time you pack away clothing that your baby has outgrown.

It’s all true. But none of it really prepared me for the heart-bursting, soul-sucking melee of motherhood.

So if I could look back at Stacey two years ago, and tell her what she needed to know, here it is:

It’s going to make you bigger and smaller than you have ever been, at the same time. On the one hand, you will love your body and your soul more than you ever have, because you will see yourself do extraordinary things that you never believed possible. You will nurture life. You will dangle from the precipice of utter exhaustion, hanging on by your fingernails for as long as you have to. You will find patience, and selflessness, and tenderness for even the most insignificant things. You will fall desperately in love with a sneeze, a wriggle, or even a wayward fart, and it will happen a thousand times a day.

At the same time, you won’t be able to ignore everything that you aren’t. Your own shortcomings will loom into sharp relief alongside everything that you suddenly realize your child deserves. You will want to be the best person in the world, and for all your sudden transformation, you will still just be Stacey. And sometimes you’ll resent it all, and miss the days when things were simpler. Sometimes you’ll wonder if the person you were before is lost forever, and if everything in your existence is reduced to this one title: Mommy.

And you’ll hate yourself for not embracing that with your whole heart for every minute of every day, because that’s what he deserves.

But he will love you enough each day to put those broken pieces back together. And you’ll soak that in, and promise yourself that you’ll be a better person tomorrow.

Despite your best efforts, you’ll still worry about what other people think. You’ll want everything from his clothing to his diet to his birthday parties to demonstrate the depth of your feeling for him, your dedication to nurturing him and making him feel loved. People will tell you it doesn’t matter, and they will probably be right, but you won’t always know how to let go.

And that’s okay, too – if and only if you can keep all the bullshit from infringing on the little ways that you show love.

That’s where your bread and butter is in this motherhood thing, Stacey. It’s not the photos or the playdates or uber creative pinterest-inspired activities. It’s the tickle fights, the laughing fits over nothing, the way you and your husband tear up to hear him humming My Neighbor Totoro. It’s in the ways that you learn to be present, to finally put down the damn cell phone, and read your least favorite Eric Carle book for the hundredth time this week because he asked you to. Because having him sit in your lap and smile up at you reminds you that all this other stuff in life – all the things we use to fritter away our time and numb our minds – only drains us.

Being a mother, being Tim’s mother, refills your cup every day. And being Owen’s mother is going to be just as beautiful, even if some of the details are different.

Don't worry. You're ready.

therealljidol week 36: open topic

It doesn’t look like much of anything – just a tiny white square of paper in his cupped palm. It’s no more than a centimeter on each side.

“Five dollar rocket ride,” he drawls, holding it out. “You ready?”

I pluck it gingerly from his palm.

“How do I take it?”

“Just put it on your tongue and let it melt. Don’t drink anything, and don’t chew. It’ll dissolve in a couple minutes.”

I nod and take a deep breath.

“Here goes nothing.”

We open our mouths in unison, stick out our tongues, and drop.


* * * * *

It’s nothing more than a ripple at first, hardly noticeable. But it whispers at the edge of my peripheral vision, the hint of something that might be happening if I don’t look too closely.

I find a comfortable chair and let my eyes relax. I can feel myself sinking deeper into the cushions, but there’s something rising within me at the same time, straining against that heaviness. I suddenly understand how a helium balloon must feel when the florist anchors it with a decorative weight.

Even my mouth feels different. My lips are lifting and curling of their own accord, twisted into an unnatural pose. It feels like I am on the brink of saying something wonderful, but nothing comes out.

I discover my hands, then, and the feathery grace of my own fingers as they dance in patterns I have not seen before. I realize that when I move them in tandem, I can manipulate the space between them. For nanoseconds at a time, I send the corners of the room into oblivion and open portals to tiny worlds.

I laugh, then, at the absurdity of it all. A tiny piece of paper has changed everything about how I see and how I feel. A tiny blank slate, ready for my story, my truth. It doesn’t seem right that this is all it takes to cross over.

And then, the helium in my chest wins out, and I find my feet. There is more to see.


* * * * *

He follows wordlessly, and we wander the campus with fingers interlaced. I have never held his hand before – and I’ve never been this close to anyone. He tethers me to the moment, if only for now.

We find a fountain in a quiet courtyard and sit down. The cool grit of concrete digs into my palms, but the night air flows through me, keeping me warm. We stare down into the still pool as it reflects the universe back to us. There is no moon.

The longer I watch, the more sure I become that the darkened pool is only an illusion. I’m staring into the sky, into another sky, a universe nearly as beautiful as our own. I giggle, squeezing his hand, and point at my discovery. He chuckles knowingly and kisses my forehead.

“Sing for me,” he murmurs.

I crinkle my nose.

“Sing what?”

“I don’t care. Anything. You have such a beautiful voice.”

I consider this for a moment, wondering how I could add even a drop of beauty to this Eden. Then I lean into his chest and feel the song well up within me.

Red wine and sleeping pills
Help me get back to your arms
Cheap sex and sad films
Help me get where I belong

I think you’re crazy, maybe
I think you’re crazy, maybe

And I know Radiohead isn’t here with us, but I can still hear the harp come in like a thousand feathers caressing my body.

Breathing feels different. My lungs grow bigger, stronger, and I know they are filling with more than just air. Life is flowing into me, and out of me. I’ve tapped into something ancient.

A pink glow catches my eye, and I turn just in time to see the trees light up in a flood of color. With every bar I sing, the light shifts, new colors in time with my breath. We breathe, and sing, and create in unison. The light lingers until the last note dies away.


* * * * *

We wander again, and find our way to the Chapel of Silence. I let the door swing shut as we enter, and the sound gives me chills. No latches, no clicks – just a somber echo as the room is sealed. This is hallowed silence.

I tiptoe forward toward the altar, fingertips trailing along the edges of the pews as I make my way up the aisle. The ceiling is covered in paintings, but I don’t recognize any of them. I lie down on a pew and try to study them, but I can’t seem to focus. They, too, are filled with life. They twist and dance before my eyes.

There is too much to see, too much to know, and I suddenly realize that I won’t be able to take it with me. This is a peek behind the veil, a brief glimpse that will be lost when the sun comes up tomorrow. There is a hidden world here, one I have never dared believe in. I no longer have a care for hallucinations.

I stagger forward to the altar, hands outstretched to touch the God who has finally shown himself to me. I find a stack of blank index cards alongside a stubby golf pencil. I seize both and bring pencil to paper.

The energy is too strong; my whole body quivers with the currents flowing through me. I try to remember letters and forms, but even when I find them, I cannot seem to harness them. Writhing within my own skin, I write it down as best I can and drop the pencil as if it has burnt my fingers. No one will be able to read this tomorrow. I can only hope that I will.

God breathes through everything I see.

Crumpling the card in my fist, I shove it into my back pocket.

He is still lying on a pew, babbling happily to himself as he studies the ceiling. And he’s right; it is a beautiful thing, a brush with the divine. I stoop down next to him and brush my lips across his forehead. Then my feet carry me to the door.


* * * * *

I find the ladder we’ve used so many times before, and crawl up to the roof. I am more centered here, closer to the trees and the stars. I can see them inhale and exhale, tranquil and awful in their silence. I have found the place where God need not speak to be heard.

I find myself wanting to pray, but the words are unnecessary. He is here, and he welcomes me, but he has no need of my promises – and I have no need for his answers. He is here, and I can sense the truth of him. For this one night, I can commune with him and he will meet me exactly where I am.

Tears glisten on my cheeks as I whisper my thanks, arms outstretched.

Then I leap off the edge, his breath whirring in my ears as I plummet into oblivion.

therealljidol week 34: lost the plot

“Right now, Timothy meets the criteria for Autism Spectrum Disorder.”

I’m sure she said more after that.

But ever since hearing those words last week, I have been consumed with mentally rewriting my son’s past and his future, at the expense of living in the present with him.

Suddenly, each of his delightful quirks – the things I have loved and shared proudly with family and friends – is now a symptom.

He loves wheels. He turns his toys every which way and studies each switch and button. I can see his gears turning as he figures out how things work.

We call him our little engineer.

But no, apparently that’s not Tim. That’s autism.

He loves cars. When we go to the park, he always makes a beeline for the sidewalk. We sit on the grass instead, and he’s content to sit in my lap and watch the cars drive by for an hour.

But this is, clinically speaking, a lack of interest in playground equipment and in other kids, rather than a personal interest in automobiles.

Whenever Reed or I arrive home after work, he charges whatever doorway we’ve come through, and insists we carry him outside a few steps to survey the area before he’ll come back into the house with us.

He’s curious about the world outside of his neighborhood. He wants to know where we’ve been.

But no – the experts explain that this is repetitive, ritualistic behavior.

All of these eccentricities paint a different picture now – one of a child who is hindered by his illness. My son isn’t just being himself.

Now there are limitations where I had seen personality.

And it makes so much sense, but it makes no sense at all.


* * * * *

I can’t help seeing things differently. As I scramble to piece together a real understanding of the nature of autism – rather than snippets heard from friends, or pop culture stereotypes – my fear and sadness outpaces my hope.

I even caught myself looking at my son with pity.

It’s as if my precious child is locked away somewhere, bound by a brain that limits and compels where it should express. I imagine him huddled away inside, wanting to break free, and being unable to.

I see myself on the outside, desperately wanting to know him for who he is, to connect, all the while doing him no good at all.

And there’s nothing I can do except leverage every resource they offer us – which is more than I imagined, and certainly more than he could have had ten years ago. But there are no guarantees.

Every bit of comfort these days starts with, “Well, at least…” and ends with an explanation of how things could have been worse.

And I’m grateful. I am. My son still connects with people, albeit on his own terms. He still finds ways to communicate his desires, even though he only has a few words. And he’s been diagnosed before age two – which means his chances of growing up and living a full, happy life are pretty damn good.

So why do I feel like they’ve just robbed us of everything?

Because if we had never met those doctors, we could go on telling ourselves that he was just being a toddler. That raging, violent tantrums were par for the course, no matter how inscrutable the cause. That he didn’t feel like talking, and was smart enough to get his needs met without it.

I would have gone on telling myself that I just wasn’t as lovable as my husband, and wondering why I was unworthy of our son’s affection.

And our home life, and his development, would have suffered.

But in our own imaginations, we would have protected him a little longer, and preserved the fantasy that the universe would always cradle him as gently as we have.

And that’s what is truly torn away. It’s the delusion that there is ever an easy path – the naïve hope that our children could grow and thrive in this world without experiencing heartache and setbacks like everyone else.

My son is intelligent, hilarious, and stubborn as hell. At 21 months, he may already be better equipped to face all this than I am.

I can’t wait for him to teach me.

therealljidol week 25: intersubjectivity

It’s pandemonium at the Love house, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

My son flies through the living room at breakneck speeds, chucking his purple bouncy ball – or a toy car or pacifier or sippy cup – at people or walls, laughing uproariously at the miracles of physics as objects hurtle through the air. Every few minutes, he charges my husband, throws two chubby arms around his neck, and crushes his face against his daddy’s, grinning all the while. Then he is off to the races again, skittering across the Pergo on his tippy toes as he careens wildly around books and dump trucks and rubber duckies.

His excitement is contagious. The minute I get home, I plop on the floor, ready to join the game. And on a good day, I’m acknowledged, if not invited. He’ll occasionally throw me the ball, or let me swing him into the air for a quick dance.

The hugs and kisses are rarely for me. I try to steal them on occasion, and he patiently pulls free and continues on his way.

I can only assume that I’m the overbearing parent – that I have been less fun than everyone else. I watch my husband carefully, and try to mimic the behaviors that so charm our son, but it has little effect. I seem to be good enough when I’m the only adult in sight, but I’m nearly invisible when he has other options.

In those moments, I feel utterly inconsequential to his happiness, and it’s soul crushing.

It’s just a phase, everyone assures me, and I agree. He loves you, my husband tells me compassionately, and I know that he’s right. And most nights, when I curl up next to my son and wait for him to fall asleep, he snuggles into me and drifts off with his little face only an inch or two from mine.

But on the nights when his teeth are really hurting him, only Daddy will do.

I know that being a parent isn’t about stroking my ego, building my self-esteem, or even preserving my dignity. I didn’t have a child to guarantee myself unconditional love, and I don’t want to saddle him with my selfish expectations, now or further down the road.

But I realize now that I have done that, even though I didn’t mean to. As cliché as it is, I can’t forget that I carried him under my heart for nine months, and pushed him out into the light of day. I revered every soft flutter, every brutal jab, as his happy feet (and fists, and elbows) invaded my abdomen and my psyche.

He was a part of me, and now we’re separate, and maybe I haven’t grasped that, yet.

Maybe I expected him to know it somehow, to have the same quiet, unspoken respect for our connection that I do. Maybe I thought that I had paid the highest price for his love, and it should be mine without contest.

A mother’s love may be holy, but it only travels one way.

Our children will never know the depth and breadth of it, and they will never return it with the ferocity and fervor that pours out of us. How could they? It is a million facets at once, a cacophony of pride and compassion and optimism and fear and tenderness. It is a quiet and disquieting sense of self, as we become more than we ever were, and less than we thought, at the same time.

Instead, I’m going to cherish the love for what it is, instead of worrying about whether it is understood, appreciated, or returned. And I know that someday, if he becomes a father, he will pay that love forward into the fertile ground of his own children’s hearts.

therealljidol week 12: barrel of monkeys

Oooohhh... Stace - what about the elephant in the room when you are by yourself?!?!?

We all avoid our own shit until we can't ignore it.

Indeed we do. Thanks, L.

* * * * *

For this season of LJ Idol, I’m playing two truths and a lie. Two of the three stories below are true.

* * * * *

“Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Romans 12:2

I blinked through my tears and a fat drop splashed onto the page, leaving behind the smoke-colored residue of salt and mascara.

I was supposed to be a new creation, a person transformed – and nothing changed. Being a Christian child had been so effortless – you said your prayers and you followed the rules. Becoming a teenager was so different. I had whole new layers of things to worry about, thoughts to police as well as actions, and tougher patterns to break.

And it hurt because my fervor hadn’t died – in fact, it had only grown stronger. I knew in my gut that my father had gone to heaven, and the thought of ending up in a different afterlife than his was more terrible than the idea of fire and brimstone, sadder and lonelier than the concept of an existence that ended in a pine box.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.” Philippians 4:8

I knew I couldn’t live by his example. I knew that every day would be a struggle I would lose, an exercise in guilt, loathing, and self-flagellation. I imagined that even if I made it to heaven, I would shuffle through the pearly gates with my eyes downcast, a list of each day’s sins trailing along the ground behind me for my father and all the saints to see.

Because that’s what nobody in the Christian faith talks about. No matter how reformed you are, how many years you’ve kept the faith with a true heart, you are still, at your core, as base and “lost” as any other. And your first instinct will still be wrong, no matter how carefully you school your habits into submission.

And what do you do when you believe in the truth of the message with all your heart, but you find yourself utterly incapable of living it?

Fifteen years old and stone cold sober, I prayed that God would take me away, right then. If I could just tap out of this life, an obstacle course I couldn’t run without falling, I could go straight to heaven and be with my daddy. I could stop myself from the inevitable new sins, the cycle of guilt and new failure.

Still sniffling, I placed my Bible and notebook on the nightstand and turned out the light. Lying down, I took several deep breaths to quiet my thoughts.

After a small eternity, I began to drift in that warm void between waking and sleeping. I sank deeper into the mattress and my pillow, and deeper into my body, as though my spirit, too, was dozing somewhere along my spine, and even my conscious mind had decided to give it a rest.

The feeling was subtle at first, a light tingling inside my forehead. Then it spread like wildfire down my body, a rising from within, as if helium balloons had been released inside me, and they now hovered just below the surface, ready to float away.

As if I were about to float away.

I bolted upright in bed with a shriek, gulping air into my lungs. My heart thudded in my chest, and I felt the pulsing in my ears. I stared into the dark, panting, looking for some kind of sign. The hovering feeling had vanished, and I was grounded, aware, shaken, and utterly alive.

I still wonder sometimes what would’ve happened if I had just lain still.

* * * * *

Even in Los Angeles, there are a few places you can go to see a real night sky.

So I found myself in the backseat of Jaron’s teal Altima, cruising down PCH late one Sunday night on the way to Malibu. He and Conor spoke softly to one another in front as I rolled down the window, dangling my arm to catch the cool night breeze. I sighed contentedly as Conor twisted in his seat, passing back a bowl with a blue Bic lighter.

We pulled into the empty parking lot and hopped out of the car. Gritty sand crunched beneath my sneakers, but I kept them on, picking my way carefully around rocks and bits of driftwood in the sand. The moon was nearly full and sat low over the horizon, giving a soft gray-green glow to the sea and sky alike. The ocean was calm, with tiny ripples washing along the shore.

Conor pulled Jaron close, and with a rueful grin, I spun on my heel and wandered off down the beach. I shuffled along slowly, head tilted back as I searched for the constellations I had learned so long ago.

Spotting Orion, my gaze traveled left and down to Canis Major. A twinkle of blue stopped me.

Sirius is the brightest star in our sky because of its luminosity and its proximity to earth. Its ethereal blue light seemed to dance in my vision, and I froze, transfixed. I imagined that heaven rested somewhere beyond that star, and that my father must be within reach.

I found myself crying and babbling, caught red-handed and confronted with my own failings in this unexpected first audience with my father, three years after his death.

Stoned out of my gourd, and I was talking to a star.

When Conor and Jaron came to find me, I refused to explain myself, and they agreed to take me back to the dorms. The long drive home sobered me considerably, but the internal litany of regret never slowed.

Returning to my room, I changed into pajamas in the dark, scooped up my laptop, and left my sleeping roommate in peace. Settling in at a picnic table in the hallway, I began to write a painfully literal allegory about my life as a terrible daughter. I worked from midnight to 6:00am, feverishly scribbling my truth in a way I had never dared.

Daddy! Daddy goddammit I didn’t mean to I never meant to disobey you and hurt you I love you so much and it was an accident daddy. I hate myself so much and I wish I could die. I hope that you don’t see me now because I know that it would make you cry and I loved you so much daddy that I would do anything to please you, I never meant to become what I am… I never meant to betray you and god and everyone else, to walk away from all the wonderful things you taught me, from everything we believed together but I did daddy and I’m so so sorry… I’m so dirty, daddy, I know it, I look at my beautiful clothes and I see rags, I wish that someone could beat me until I was purged of this filth daddy… I’m so sorry daddy that I wanted you to die… I didn’t mean it daddy I was just so tired.. so tired of everything being so difficult with you alive and so sick and maybe if I had just prayed once and asked god to save you he would’ve and I wouldn’t be so fucking guilty right now of your death daddy… I know it wasn’t my fault but it WAS, daddy, it WAS because I never prayed for you to be healed… I just watched you suffer and I couldn’t even learn from your example daddy, I wanted to be just like you and instead I am your motherfucking antithesis, my heart aches whenever I let it and I just want to curl up and die somewhere where I’ll never be found because then I’ll be safe. Safe, daddy. Safe from you and from mommy and from judgment day and from god and from my own bitter memories of all the evil that I’ve done….safe from all the people I’ve grievously hurt in this lifetime and safe from myself and my corruption… I hurt inside, daddy, whenever I’m still and only the angry voices inside me can speak… daddy I’m so sorry I’m so sorry…

There was the truth, plain as day, and I knew she wasn’t meant to live. I killed off my alter ego with a cocaine overdose, but her dying hallucination was of being covered in open sores and scourged until she collapsed. Some sort of bizarre redemption through condemnation, a hope that if I just suffered enough, I would be forgiven.

* * * * *

“We come into NA, we make friends, and we get tools. We develop ways of coping with our addiction, our obsessive thoughts, our character defects. And we use all of these things.

“But someday, it’s gonna be crisis time at three in the morning, and it’s just you and your God. And you’d better figure out right now if your Higher Power is enough when that time comes.” ~ Lisa

Crisis time had come, and my God wasn’t enough.

All the tools in the world didn’t matter, because I was fresh outta cope, and I couldn’t or wouldn’t use them. Sometimes when you’re an addict, you’re just this seething ball of obsession and rage, riding a demented merry-go-round of negative thinking and compulsion. And you laugh like the mad hatter, laugh because you know you’ve lost it and nobody can save you, and you’re the only one who knows right now, and it’s better to laugh, because who wants to cry?

But you do cry, because you’re lost, because for all of the good you’ve done, you’re still a hopeless mess who doesn’t know how to live life normally, who has to struggle for the basic behaviors that come naturally to others.

Because you’ve gone from the sensory deprivation of constant drug use to a harsh, bright world where every little emotion is like a shriek in your ear, and there’s no way for you to get distance from it all. You aren’t allowed even the smallest respite, and you’re fully present in every. Fucking. Moment. And you think that you could fly out of your skin, right now, in every direction, just dissolving and retreating into the wind.

My God wasn’t enough, and I was sitting on my hands. Desperate to take action, to change the parameters of my world and my situation, just enough that I could ease the pressure. I was just desperate enough to take a flying leap from the carousel, and my landing be damned.

I didn’t even want to feel nothing. I just wanted to feel something else.

My eyes strayed to the bottle of Smirnoff on the table. I cringed, hearing Mikee’s snoring in the other room. I wondered what was worse – the merry-go-round of maddening obsession, or the endless loop of failure, loathing, and contrition. I wondered if I could disappoint him and still stand my ground, or if I would leave the way I always had before.

Jumping up, I strode into the kitchen and flicked on the overhead light. Grabbing the silverware drawer, I fished out a steak knife, its blade gleaming beneath the harsh fluorescence. I closed my fist around the handle and raised it to eye level, admiring its menacing serrated edges. Wondering what I was about to do.

I carried it back to the living room and plopped onto the couch, testing the edge with my thumb. Just holding it made my blood quicken, the tension of anticipation and fear I had always felt right before trying a new drug. The dice spinning in my head as I wondered if this would be very good, or very bad.

I planted my bare foot on the coffee table and lifted the knife high. Gritting my teeth, I brought it down in clumsy slash, slicing open my right calf.

Jumping, I dropped the knife as I sucked air in sharply through my teeth. Leaning over, I examined my handiwork with wonder. The gash was about an inch and a half long, and shallow. A fat red drop oozed from the very bottom of the cut, but it was otherwise unimpressive. It seemed like I should have had more to show for what I’d just done.

It stung like hell, but I felt oddly elated. I had redirected my brain without getting loaded. I had taken a decisive action, and even if it wasn’t a good one, I had changed my circumstances, and I would get through this night.

The next morning brought its own merry-go-round of obsessive thoughts and feelings, as I considered the implications of the night before. I might not have gotten loaded, but I had deliberately harmed myself, and not even for the pleasure of a high – just to feel the pain, as a distraction. And that brought with it its own shame, and the fear of what other dark avenues lurked in that direction, and where I might follow them if my impulses went unchecked.

So I went in search of a God who would be enough for even that.

* * * * *



You can go here to learn the truth.

therealljidol topic 4: the elephant in the room

Below is this my submission for LJ Idol. Please read Bekah's entry first to get the full story!

Topic: Open

Gentle Pilgrim,

Fear not, for thine beloved sock rests even now in the bosom of the great and powerful Vortex. I, the High Priestess and First Disciple of the Holy Vortex, have seen fit to give you instruction. Attend unto my words most carefully, and learn of the beneficent deity upon which rests the fate of not only your cold left foot, but your chilly ankle as well.

I, too, once bemoaned the inscrutable mysteries of the Kenmore dryer. Not all that entered its dark recesses returned unscathed. My solitary socks writhed alone in the dresser drawer, not divorced, but merely separated by way of abandonment. The disappearance of white peds went largely without comment, for lack of proper documentation. And yet, I was unable to turn aside as the loners accumulated. My pink knee socks with frogs. That adorable striped pair with purple, pink and grey. I could no longer suffer in silence.

Being a woman of science, I first sought reason and relief wherever cool logic might lead. Furtively I began to observe my roommate, the dastardly Gregory. But when he seated himself, neither frogs nor purple stripes peeked from beneath his pant leg. He appeared to suffer no remarkable difference in body temperature from left foot to right to account for single sock thievery. Upon close inspection of the forsaken sock partners, I determined that not even divine intervention could so enlarge one as to cover half of his mighty foot.

Believing the gentle giant too kind to hide my socks for personal amusement, I began to search further afield, and found that all was not as it should be. The seemingly bottomless drawer which safeguarded my beloved hair accessories was an echoing cavern. Had I not recently purchased another 100-pack of bobby pins? If I broke only one ponytail holder in a month, what could account for an absence of 50?

Frantically I dug through toiletry bags and multi-colored purses. Only two bobby pins and one ponytail holder were discovered, clinging to one another as if in fright, in last summer's hot pink tote. And... what was this? A paper clip? I had never purchased a paper clip in my life.

In my distress, I tore the dryer door from its hinges and confronted the darkened abyss. Vexed and afraid, I wrenched the lint trap from its hidden burrow and cast it aside when its perusal yielded only sneezes. Heedless of my appearance to any person with two matched socks, I sprung headlong into the mouth of the enemy.

Down and down I fell, through worlds and times unknown.

As I fell, I dreamt, and the Vortex came to me and made itself known. I learned that my Master does not simply take socks at his pleasure. He holds them safe against the ravages of long wear, dirty shoes, and mischievous kittens. He would not be so unkind as to take both, and leave me to suffer, eventually forgetting the joy of having ever sported such charming amphibians upon toe and ankle. And as a gesture of his goodwill, and a visible reminder of his intent to return my socks safely one day, he leaves behind a wire hanger each time. I did not see the logic in this until the dastardly Gregory locked his keys in his car.

I have oft asked my Master when I might reunite patterns and solids with their absent halves. It is not for me to know, and yet I long for that day. I have also asked him of my bobby pins, and he sees fit to test my faith with his silence. I await his pleasure in revealing more.

While none can fully comprehend the great purpose of my Master, I will share something with you, gentle pilgrim. Your beloved socks may be beyond all hope.

I think my Master's just a klepto.