Static

The morning sun would shine through the dirty windows at odd angles, because the kitchen faced the west and there were only a few ways the light filtered in indirectly. Through the utility room, you could see every fleck of dust as the sun poured in through the dreary and ancient once black and white checked curtains, spilling onto the dirty concrete floor. Through the entry that connected the kitchen and utility room, some of the sunshine creeped into the kitchen. The south facing window also brought the morning light that would bend around the garage that was attached to the house, from the sun peering above the trees in the woods behind the house. Father had already left for work and mother would begin the days’ chores and dinner planning after her morning coffee (black with numerous spoonfuls of sugar) and cigarette, which she took sitting at the kitchen table. My older brother and sister (by 12 and 13 years each, respectively) had also left for school, leaving just my mother and I. Gazing across the table out the aforementioned south facing window, she brooded holding her cigarette in the air with her other arm across her stomach, in a sort of slouch.

On days that required her to make dough, she would make extra to form me a tart using grape jelly as filling and would crease it closed into a half moon shape. I would watch through the steamy oven window as it baked, giving off the scent of promise. The pastry would come out of the oven warm and flakey and the jelly was always too hot on my tongue but I ate it anyway.

During the time it took me to process all of the sensory input as an autistic three-year old child, I could have been living. I could have been loving, appreciating, laughing, and doing. But I stared uncomprehendingly at everything I saw, memorizing it for me to remember like a movie 30 years later. I could have been making connections and learning how to trust others instead of pushing them away or seeing them as static and unnecessary (unless I wanted something, then they were tools). If I had been paying attention to things other than the tart baking in the oven, maybe I would be closer to my mom. Our conversations could consist of more than the current: ‘is dad there? When will he be home?’ Why didn’t she try to get my attention and spend that time with me? Was I ignoring eye contact so much that in my memory I only see glimpses of her amidst a plethora of scenery? I was only three, and even then I thought I knew everything just as a rebellious teenager would vehemently claim, I knew nothing. Nothing that mattered. I acted impulsively, irrationally, and I considered myself equal to the adults with which I exclusively interacted.

The Girl I should have been

Zoe is the girl I would have been if I hadn't hardened myself with defense mechanisms. She doesn’t hide. She sings loudly at church, she smiles and laughs louder than anyone else, and cries when she is sad. She has a strong family and the support she needs, which I did not have while growing up. Believe me, when I tell you it was hell. I learned all too quickly how cruel the world can be, so I shut it out. Left unmonitored, recess time becomes an opportunity to attack the kids with disabilities without consequences. Physically, emotionally, and verbally we are attacked. Eventually they didn’t have to attack me, the damage continued self-inflicted as I entered Junior High. The only time I got respite was when someone more disabled than I was there to receive the blows, which occurred for the first time in the sixth grade when all the area grade schools merged offering a higher selection of punching bags.

Even though entering Junior High was the worst kind of hell you could imagine, I found some relief from the boys who picked on me (although the girls upped the ante exponentially). In the sixth or seventh grade, I don’t remember which; I had an architecture class with Jason Nalazek and Denton Tackman. Jason was the angry, awkward and unpopular kid and Denton was the scrawny bully. Denton had something to prove and had been my nemesis since Kindergarten where he constantly called me ‘fatso’. The first time the teacher left the room I saw the twinkle in Denton’s eye as he looked at this gigantic cardboard pencil sitting atop some mailboxes on the left side of the room. I sat on the right, discreetly watching him, thankfully assigned a seat far away from Denton. Jason was not so fortunate and sat in the same row in the leftmost aisle a couple of desks behind Denton. Denton darted from his desk, grabbed the gigantic cardboard pencil, and swung it like a bat into Jason’s head. The thud was deafening. Denton simply threw the pencil back atop the mailboxes and slid back into his seat, while Jason sat in silence with his face turning the darkest shade of red. Thus began Denton’s new bullying interest and my sweet relief. Occasionally he would revert to some of that behavior and would jeer me in the gym where I played basketball after during lunch (avoiding the other kids and any social time I was forced to endure in the cafeteria). But I ended up being one of the tallest girls in our grade and he never seemed to grow at all and was quite easily placed in a headlock.

Eventually I couldn’t play in the gym anymore as the boys began to notice my body changing and weren’t afraid to say anything about it. Then I was thrown back into the wolves in the cafeteria where most of the girls sat in the round tables according to their social standing. I sat in the round table nearest the doors (offering the quickest escape when the bell rang) that soon would become my social circle for the rest of my school years, with those rejected from the other tables.

This is Not Me

After a friend informed me he didn't want to read my blog because by doing so he would thereby be tainting whatever perception he had of me I took a look back. These blogs are about who I was...not who I am. Look back ten years, are you the same person? I hope not. I don't want to rewind ten years...I was selfish and petty. If I could rewind with my brain retaining all of the knowledge I have gathered these 30 years I would go back and do a hell of a lot more with my time, wouldn’t we all?

I look into the past because it’s interesting to me. I’m objective. Maybe it’s not interesting to others because they are subjective and make assumptions related to my posts. Not to sound conceited, but it’s their loss if they do.

Heavy

When I got my first job at Sears when I was 16, I was a mess. My lack of communication skills and inability to interpret any form of communication correctly left me mostly alone. Luckily stock replenishment didn't demand that much by the way of communication skills, nor contact. Every morning at 6 am I would walk into the dark, crisp early morning summer air and into the special side entrance to start my day. Until the store opened at 10 I would count, sort, stock, fill, and rearrange product in mostly sweet solitude. I had the occasional question from a coworker or "check-in" from my boss.

My boss was really something else....a short lady with a quick tongue and a sun-weathered face that didn't carry much expression. Her eyes always seemed beady, angry, and completely unavoidable with her dark hair cropped so short there was nowhere for them to hide. She would speak to me and I would avoid those eyes, letting my eyes rest above on her imp0ssible hair, which was generally styled in a precise disarray that resembled still cotton. What her face lacked in expression, her voice and attitude made up for tenfold, startling you back to her eyes when she spoke. She was loud and intimidating, with a crooked mouth and a quick temper. I hated her for constantly belittling and insulting me with her backhanded compliments and straight forward insults. I now realize I needed to know how others perceived me by my silence, lack of eye contact and nervous, monotone replies. Perhaps not in such an abusive manner, but I needed to know how others really saw me, as defensive and sometimes rude. It became a continuation of the isolation and pain that I felt during my school years, and I just wanted her to accept me like I wanted my classmates to accept me all those years. Ironically she never noticed that it was really a reflection of herself as I mimicked her social skills, reflecting her quick tongue and attitude back to her.

Lately I feel so weighed down. No amount of social coaching can help me transition from professional to personal relationships. I feel a personal relationship with so many people at work, but that is a road I should not go down. Aspies are not good at gray areas, and making friends with those you are associated with professionally is a huge gray area. I try to lessen the burden by finding and adding friends to facebook that I "network" with through church and work (which is essentially the same). I still find myself confused by the direction some of this effort is going. All I can do is ignore it, essentially. I hope my boss continues to support me because sometimes I feel like quitting. I don't want to quit, but I feel like quitting because the social demands of the parents are so much. That's completely my autism getting in the way. I will probably look weak for saying that, but I should say what I feel and not simply ignore it. I don't need to lie to myself or to anyone else. I also feel God gave me this opportunity for a reason, and for once I am listening to him and following the path he has mapped out for me.

my world is not right.

I haven't been writing much. There are lots of errant thoughts in my head, mostly riddled with bitterness and jealousy but nothing really of consequence. What I have come to realize is that I really wish I had a stronger family support system, comparable to those I have and see at church. I wish I had a stronger marriage. I think if more people in my life believed and loved God then perhaps it would be easier to be around them...and not feel so shunned or cast aside. As a result, I’ve been feeling inadequate lately. These negative thoughts need to just go on vacation.

I obtained employment, and a crisp piece of paper indicating I am learn-ed. I have to say I have a new respect for teachers. I love my job, but watching 13 kids is incredibly taxing.

Putting Them First

God gives me signs.

As eager as I am to get things rolling with my pending graduation (September 15), I think I need to slow down. I had planned to get another job to complement the aftercare position at my son's school (where I can spend time with both of my children instead of getting a "real" job and missing them the entire time) when Eli is gone in the mornings to preschool. Moving on with my goals, I've been relentlessly stalking the local library system for any job with 20 or less hours per week so that I could get my foot in the door. Once I graduate I don't want to waste my time sitting idle.

However, Friday I got called into Eli's summer camp at the YMCA to come get him because they couldn't calm him down. They said he kept saying "I want my mama".

Want or need? Who should judge if it is a want or a need, and if it is only a want is it that horrible to give him what he wants just in case it was what he really needed the whole time?

As it stands, plans for fall include 5 days a week in a preschool class for autistic children in Lansing, and that's a lot for a four-year old. He attended this class for four months of the school year this last year, most days. If he wants to stay home, I will let him-just like I did last Spring. But If he comes back with one bruise on him (as often happens with special needs children), he's out. I have zero tolerance for that bull#@$% and I get emotional when I read stories involving murder, rape and abuse of autistic children. I need the freedom to be able to support him how he needs to be supported and be vigilant to prevent any of this from happening.

Sometimes I feel like I'm not sure what to do, that I'm making too many excuses and not doing enough. But then I get that sign. And I know that it's God's will, and not my indecision or haste getting in the way.