The Rowing Endeth

So a few things happened this weekend that brought unexpected and welcome resolution.

Suffice it to say, stuff that usually remains buried and unspoken came out. Finally.

The greatest gift this holiday season has already been unwrapped in the form of a peace I have never known until now.

And now I know what it feels like.

This is the standard against everything else will be measured. 

Wishing you all an equal peace this season.

I Hope You Get the Help You Need (Part 3)

"Mom," Younger says as we head out to do some Christmas shopping. "Tell me again what happened to Miss C."

We drove through a neighborhood, past a house of an old acquaintance with whom we lost touch. Except Elder remembered the street and even the house. Thus, triggering a discussion on the ghosts of friendships past, fallen by the wayside by autism and/or divergent paths.  And Elder's train of thought led to younger's question.

My head, as it often does when someone brings up the past, felt wrapped tightly in barbed wire. "G, come on, you know how much I hate talking about this. And it's not like you don't know how the story ends."

G shrugged.  "I forget."

I sighed, rubbed my forehead, negotiated the traffic into the busy shopping mall parking lot.  If I deflect, he'll just keep bringing it up, persistent as a Jehovah's witness. May as well get it out there, again. "She was weak.  She believed people who stole something from me and then called me crazy. And then she kept me hanging on long enough to report back to them, so they could email me and tell me I was crazy and to tell me to kill myself."

I blinked. I never went that far in the story. But they are both old enough to know what happened.

Elder blew out his breath in astonishment and consternation. "MOM.  You were bullied worse than me. Like, your whole adult life."

Longer, I thought. Much, much longer.

I parked the car and gazed at him a moment. "Why do you think I am so good at helping you navigate this?"

That ended the subject for the moment. We had gifts to buy, but not before Elder found a $20 bill.  I put the whole conversation on hiatus until I went to bed, and woke up in the wee small hours, with Elder's voice echoing "You were bullied worse than me."

Reminded me of the conversation with my new supervisor last week, about how my return to corporate came at a time when Elder was experiencing the worst of  the bullying of his school career--and how I, through all my experience to that point, managed to finally convert the lessons to strength, and helped him handle the worst of it.

My last little while has been a coming to terms with all of it.

I hope the effort's not been wasted.

Take Nothing for Granted

So I had my first one on one yesterday with my new supervisor.

Up until now, I thought that my competence and collaboration were enough to garner me a berth on the team.

He asked me:  "What makes you think we should hire you?"

I shrugged.  "I've been doing the job for the last six months. I know what I'm doing. I am moving the business forward."

He sort of cocked his head and said "What makes you think that's enough?"

And then he told me to get a job description and schedule a meeting with him in a few weeks wherein I can plead my case.

I was quite bitter leaving that meeting.

In the 24 hours since, I've had quiet time on the train, in the car, walking in the cold to think about this. I am not young. I have been kicking around the workforce for decades. I know that one's hireability (if that's a word) has less to do with ability than it does connections. I was brought in with the old order, and the newer order may have its own people to place.

Isn't that always the case?

I may need to color again....

Grace in small spaces

Right now I am trying to find the grace in small spaces.

I arrived home early enough yesterday to help elder find something he was looking for and help younger study for an upcoming test.  The three of us together in the living room made me happy. 

Same earlier in the week; I came home to my older son, smiling, telling me about what was going on in his life, in a decidedly happier place than he's been. 

Weathering some bad and indifferent news with younger; sometimes there's a no in the universe for a reason.

Trying to figure it all out. Finding grace in the small spaces.

Sensory Overload

I didn't realize to what extent I compensated for my own shortcomings until recently.

As a child, I was susceptible to meltdowns. If my brother wasn't triggering me, something else was. I remember going a whole winter in short sleeve school blouses because sleeves tormented my dry skin. Spaghetti and tomato sauce burned my face, but I had to eat them. Super 8 footage of my early Christmases show me squinting and squirming under the hot lights.

I remember reading a page in my mom's journal, where she wrote I "fought with everyone."

Actually, it was only my brother, and no one wanted to be on his bad side.

That's still true.

I can't sort through the emotional laundry without addressing the physical, because it was all of a piece. Is. Still all of a piece. And all of these memories are hard-wired to the point where I passed them down to my elder son, who suffers, but doesn't know why. It's physical, and the physical has emotional manifestations and repercussions.

I am reduced to asking the question:  Would it kill me to....? Some things might. Others might make me stronger. I'm running down the clock on the lifespans of some, so kindnesses sent that way may comfort--not so much the knowledge that when that person ends, so do my obligations.

But they won't care, and I won't, either.

I continue my hegira with David Foster Wallace, and he's reminding me of things I've known all along, but putting names to things that I couldn't name because trauma and trauma-induced speechlessness. I'm course-correcting for all the whimsy and fickleness and fecklessness; keeping space between myself and everyone else helps me navigate.  I feel my aloneness, but I am not lonely, not really.

My boys come to me eagerly between their own adventures, wanting to share things they notice, smiling, eyes sparkling as when they were toddlers. Now they are both nearly grown, and things still spark joy, and I hope they will always find joy, and know it when they find it.

Sometimes, joy is the absence of everything else.

The Truth will set you free (but not until it's done with you)

I've been reading Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace since June.

After a few false starts, losing one copy of the book (while talking elder off his ledge on the train), re-watching The End of the Tour a few times, I hit page 400 sometime yesterday.

In some ways, it is, for me, an easy read.  He writes and thinks like me. I laugh out loud with recognition at amusing turns of phrase, people I can actually SEE and HEAR (and, I know these people. I've lived with them.) When he's in full-bore expository pyrotechnics, I'm in awe. But the flashing and banging isn't what's getting to me. It's the quieter, more melodic passages that follow the ebb and flow of someone wrestling the demon depression that are playing hell with me. There is an equal, unsettling amount of recognition.  Isn't that what true art is supposed to do?  Move you and piss you off, sometimes at the same time?

Check.

This isn't  a leisure read so much as a post graduate independent study that also serves as therapy in the absence of having a licensed professional talk to me about what I'm feeling and why I'm feeling it.

Instead, it's like I'm wielding a box cutter, and I'm performing emergency amputations on those parts of my psyche that are damaging the functional parts that are left. Which would be fine if cutting away the gangrene solved the problem and brought relief outright. But, predictably, I'm still bleeding, and I still need to function, but at the same time, I desperately need to heal.

And this damn book bandages one moment and rips off another mask (and part of me) the next.

But I need to finish this work because I will never have peace if I don't.

I'm thinking of Dave and his dogs. I'm thinking of Shadow, the rescue that was not ours, but who I desperately wanted to be ours.  Maybe I need that dog more than G.  I love the bird, but he's not a dog (although he's trying hard to be).

I'm thinking about the fact that even though I am doing what I need to do and how I need to do it that I will still be judged and stuck in a slot I ceased to fit in a long time ago. And I'm crying about that, don't know why, and feel somewhat ridiculous about it. I need to be done with it, but the past is not done with me.

The title of this blog showed up on page 389.

I spent a long time on this page.

I need to keep going.

But I need to take a moment and grieve, too.

Only, I can't stay here with the grief. I need to leave it behind and keep going.

I wish it would stop following me.

Getting over it

So I've been struggling a great deal lately, over grudge-holding versus forgiveness versus healing versus moving on.

My healing process has been staggered and staged over decades.  Probably the big moment that forged the person I am happened on that infamous fifth grade trip to Baltimore almost a decade ago, described briefly here.

The backdrop:  Nic's aforementioned horrid year at the hands of a teacher who enjoyed torturing him under the guise of 'trying to help him'--the extent to which I was blissfully unaware of until I had a front row seat to the horror that was his life that year.

Additionally, this was the year I had caved to hubby to join the neighborhood association.  He/we naively thought this would help us integrate into the community--instead, people shunned us more (and encouraged their kids to harass us--documented here.  In the fullness of time, it was revealed to be a neighbor's teenage son and his friends. I called the family out a few weeks later, and to this day, the mom gives me her back whenever she sees me---as if I were the one who were in the wrong.)

This moment literally defined the rest of my life. But I digress.

Anyway, the trip.  Nic and I off on our own. The girl who sat next to him in the science museum cringing away from him (I leaned over, smiled sweetly, and said "Oh, honey, don't worry, he's not contagious." She looked mortified. Good.).  The boys who kept singing "Hi, Nic!"  And Nic wanting to run to them, because he was so sure they were his friends. I told him, no, they were not.  Nic telling me I am lying to him. Nic marching over to them and saying "My mom says you're not my friends."  Me trying to pull him away. Him pulling me to the ground in a full on meltdown, everyone looking on.

Thanks all. You created this bullshit.

I ripped that teacher up one side and down the other via email later.

She had the nerve to tell me she wished she had my younger one in her classroom. I had moved heaven and earth to make sure that would never happen.

But that moment, getting pulled to the ground by my frantic, melting down tween in front of an audience--that told me to never, ever expect help from any mortal outside of my trust. 

That also galvanized my determination to create a safe place for my boys. I had done it already, unconsciously, but this made my process very, very conscious. 

The truth is, I will never get over this. I have PTSD from hundreds of thousands of moments like this that started from the time I was 7. But this was my last PTSD-worthy moment, I think, having hit a lifetime cap. But I have plenty of them that reduce me to shaking and tears unexpectedly, in quiet moments while I am enjoying the woods, or making dinner, or riding the train. I wish it were as easy as "getting over it" or "moving on."  I am trying.

But it's hard.

I hope you get the help you need Part 2

I'm finally at a point where I can write this.

A couple of years ago, I had someone try to tell me how to raise my kids at a holiday function.

I thought it was hilarious. This person had no contact with my kids outside of a few interactions over the course of a dozen years, therefore, no context.  I could barely contain an eyeroll and said pretty much thanks, I've been living this 24/7/365 for years, I think I have a handle on it.

Except.....that person got butthurt about it, and through a series of freak accidents, I somehow ended up apologizing. Like I always do.   The whole thing turned into me being over sensitive, taking things the wrong way.....

Except....my boys were there, and are witnesses themselves that, yes, these things were said, yes, this was how they, too, interpreted events as I did.

Except...autism makes us unreliable witnesses.

Or....does it?

If three people variably impacted experience events and people the same way, doesn't that mean there's an agreement of the way events unfolded?  And there was an agreement, that yes, there was tone, yes, so and so said this, but because we are who we are, our experience is invalid?

Elder even rolled his eyes at me and said "MOM.  I've been telling you this for YEARS."

He's an authority on gaslighting. This was his entire fifth grade year, in a nutshell. How somehow HE was the bully when he was outnumbered by kids (led by adults) who insisted they were trying to "help" him, and he "misunderstood" them.

And I have some swamp land in Florida to sell you.

Going back to the first blog I wrote about this back in September, about the relative who told me that she hopes I get the help I need--I have a message for you.

How dare you?  Any reason I need help was caused by you--over years, decades of your fault finding. I tried my best and my hardest to make up for all my perceived deficits, only to have you start fights by saying what was on your mind, and put me in the position to apologize for whatever bullshit way I slighted you. You walked all over me because everyone else did, and because it was "okay."  Fuck you. It's not okay. It was NEVER okay.  But I let so much pass in the name of keeping peace.  YOURS.  Not mine. And I paid a stupidly high price for YOUR peace.  Namely, mine. And it literally drove me crazy.

I'm done supplicating.

You're dismissed.

Letter Man

So this happened last night.

My younger, a high school sophomore, earned his Varsity letter for marching band.  Elder earned his for bowling a year and half ago--and there's still a chance this guy could earn a second letter for bowling, as well. 

Hubby scoffs--letters weren't a thing in high school for him, and that wasn't his speed. Truth be told, it wasn't mine, either. As Elder would be quick to tell you, I was never national-anything.  He, meanwhile, ran nationals for cross country 6 years ago (but let's be clear--that wouldn't have happened if I didn't drive it).

But this is different. This is not mom driving a damn thing except making sure my kids get the same opportunities their peers get. I wish it were as easy as them "just signing up."

Back in the dark ages (5 years ago), when Elder was a freshman who made the bowling team, we had behaviors. We had willful. We had "there's no support for after school." Give credit where credit is due--I coached the coach on coaching elder. He made it through freshman year bowling. And then he did the next three years on his own. 

He earned that letter. 

My boys are close enough in age to be friends, and being friends, they are also competitive.  G entered marching band as a thing do do last year, and then was interested enough in getting his letter to make another go of it this year. 

And he's joined indoor percussion to give him a chance to learn other instruments--the thought being that he can graduate to mallets next year.

I'm not going to bet the farm on section leader. But I'd love to walk with him on senior recognition night.

Goals.

So big deal. Who cares about the letter?  The truth is that I do. Because a letter for either kid was not in either of their plans.

And yet--here we are. 

I can't wait to see what boundaries they break next. 

Fall in NYC

So we met one of elder's elevator friends and mom up in NYC this weekend.

It was one of those WTH gambits made spur of the moment about a month or so ago.  I picked up D and took him and the boys elevatoring, and he casually mentioned that he and his mom were going to NYC in November.

So we check schedules, and lo behold, G is done band and we can all go. 

And oddly, G, Mr. Homebody, Mr "Let me out here in MN so I can hitchhike home," was looking forward to this more than anyone. 

Anyhoo, D had an agenda, and, miraculously, we were able to convince our boys to go a long (plus add a couple things they both wanted to see), and everyone got to do what they wanted and had a good time. 

Not to say there weren't any meltdowns--Elder and D chorused on one together on 42nd street at around 5 pm--fortunately, we were close enough to the hotel where we could all drop in and decompress a bit before dinner. 

Otherwise it was awesome. Both boys came home happy. Elder considers D his friend, but D considers both boys his friend. No one was excluded. There were no third wheels. 

It was good. 

Yelling into the Void Redux

I can't complain; I had a decent breakfast courtesy the company, and that always puts me in a good mood.

I do need to get down to the business of writing my memoir/how to and all the dirt that lead me to this particular moment in time. I spent a lifetime beating and defying odds, but it hasn't been without associated costs. I am reading David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, and in him I see a kindred spirit I would love to sit down and have a cup of coffee, or glass of diet rite, or whatever he'd drink to share company (alcohol is out, and probably for the better). 

But depression killed him, and the world is a sadder place because he's not in it.

But reading him, really paying attention to what he has to say, reminds me that I, too, have things to say that should be out there in the universe, and I am not being a good steward of my talents by neglecting my responsibilities.

So ironic I say that now. I said that 13 years ago when it came to light someone plagiarized from me. I still remember her on our online forum appropriating my voice and turns of phrase and wondered what that meant until she cast me as a pretender and people believed her.

That anyone believes I am capable of pretending anything is probably the best trick she ever performed. Too bad it's in her rear view mirror.

But there it is in my windshield, like the unfinished business it is. Just like all the rest of the unresolved shit that I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't, so I defer it until another point and time where it's in my way, and then I have to choose whether to divert or roll on over it.

Clearly, I haven't rolled over it yet if it's not in my rearview mirror.

My story, if not written per se and immortalized in bits and bytes in various places in the internet, is written in the hearts and minds of people who knew me. REALLY knew me.

So I have to let the haters go, even if they are of kin to me. They were not kind. I forgive them their unkindness, but I need to let them go.

I'm having a hard time doing so. Because I've been programmed that family is everything, even though it's damn near killed me more times than I care to count.

I desperately want to heal, but the same wounds keep reopening in the same places, and I don't know how to make the bleeding stop.

Perpetual Change

Trying to wrap my head around it all....

Elder is struggling with college this semester, and impending adulthood.  Heels dug in, kicking and screaming will he be dragged to the threshold of his 20s. And likely beyond. Seriously.  He is resisting age harder than I am at the moment.

Younger is finally (finally!) on an even keel.  His placement agrees with him, and he is making inroads to becoming more active in his school activities and making a greater effort to seek out his people.

He also met Mandy Patinkin, one of his heroes, last week. So that has him in a good mood.

I'm struggling.  My therapist departed for greener pastures in July and I am doing a lot of heavy lifting in coming to terms with things (people) I can't change and changing my behavior to keep me from further scarring up my psyche.  My cone of shame is invisible.

I perseverate on how people blame me instead of letting it all go. I'm not done processing. It's taking a painfully long time, but I can't undo decades of programming overnight, as much as I'd like to.

I have my bird, who is equally happy to have me. But man, I would really love to have a dog right now. Another thing we are working on. I think it would do G a world of good. And I do think it would do all of us good.

I pray a lot. I try to spend as much time in the woods as I can (saw bluebirds yesterday, which totally made my day.)  But I am so tired.

It's not yet 10 am and Ima Yelling into the Void

SO where does one start, when things seem to be falling apart?

I say seem, because I know they are not, but my capacity to withstand insanity, other's and my own, is diminished as I age. This week drained me to the point that it's not yet 10 am and I kicked the bottle of anniversary riesling we started last night over dinner.

Elder yells at me over the phone about the injustices and wrong the world had done him. While I don't disagree, there are ways to handle the divergent paths that life takes you, and his first response is to kick, scream, and bury himself.

I talk, then shout, then scream over him to be heard. But his own hurt, offense and whatever else he's got going on drives him to shout me down, drown me out, and no matter what sense I have to divulge, he will have none of it.

I eventually need to hang up or lose my mind. And then text "I'm done." I've spoken my piece and counted to three.

And he yells back to stop wasting his battery. I recognize this need to have the last word.

And I allow it. Because I have nothing left to offer.

I shoveled through the ashes of my own past this morning, again, always, trying to figure out what I could have, should have, would have, done differently, and arrive again at the conclusion that I DID do everything I could have done, despite what my gaslighters would have me believe.

My entire life now revolves around meeting the needs of the others in my life. I feel guilty when I grab time for myself, but acknowledge that I can't pour from an empty cup. I do what I can and acknowledge that those who depend on me argue they don't get enough. Well, only one will vocalize it, one will think it, and the other will be thinking of other things.

I'm doing what I can. Some days, it's more, and it looks different, and other days, it's a lick and a promise.

Although one of these days, that promise will go unfulfilled. And I am increasingly aware of that fact.

And One for My Baby

So G engaged me in this long diatribey description of a Gumby episode on the way to CFF yesterday. As usual, he is sounding like a wikipedia entry (likely he memorized it). I asked him all kinds of questions right up to, "Well, how does it end?"

He sort of looked at me and said "I never watched the episode. I thought you watched this all the time when you were little.  Why don't you know?"

I struggle to reach this one. I'm literally stewing over it for hours after we've had the conversation. Out with hubby, who is trying to discern my quiet, into the city in the date car, looking for parking, then looking for sustenance (and finding it), then off to see King Crimson. Mulling, stewing, wracking my brains.  Finally, I figured it out (during the concert, because the concert jarred a lot of things loose....) that he was referring to a post on the family Facebook page. One of my sisters found a Gumby meme and tagged me, and so he appropriated this as a means to connect with me.

OH.  OH.  (and why on earth can't he just ask me these things directly?  Because he's G, and that's not the way his head and heart are wired)

SO, this am, over waffles and coffee, I asked him about what he was telling me yesterday, was the whole thing because of the FB post?

And his eyes lit up in the way they do when someone gets him. 

So I explained about the Gumby figure I had when I was about 3, how I carried it everywhere with me (like his Alfie) and lost it (like his Alfie) and the tantrums I threw over its disappearance were epic. He bore with Alfie's loss with infinitely more grace, but he asked after him forever after.  I didn't have a real great love for those shorts, but hey, do you want to know what I really liked?

And his eyes lit up.

And I told him I'd make him a list of all the things I liked/was obsessed with when I was young for him. 

And his eyes lit up even more, if possible. 

So I started a list and left it on the dining room table. I was obsessed at different times with lots of things, but I'm sure all the things I was obsessed with are finadable on YouTube. I might even take a picture and post it later. It's not an exhaustive list, but it gives a good idea of where my head was 40 something years ago. 

And my head is now where it always is, trying to find ways to connect to my baby, because he is the hardest thing in the world for me to find, and every time I think I've got him, he loses me again.

And my heart finds new ways to crack.

Birdology

I'm not ready to continue the other thought on bullying, mental health and all that good stuff, so I will concentrate for the moment on my bird.

I adopted a cockatiel earlier this year from a friend; his name is Nugget. I learned about him from a post, and something in his posture in the picture she posted moved me. He looked a little uncertain and a little lonely. I messaged her and made an appointment to meet him.

She was surprised that I didn't reach for him and try to make him perch on my hand the first meeting. I explained that he needed to get to know me first, and that we'd need a little time to get acquainted.

The second meeting I told her we'd take him over holiday break and see how it went. She was going away, and bird-sitting would give us an idea if we were a match for one another.

Nugget immediately became a member of our family. He'd hang out on my shoulder or on my foot if I were stretched out on the couch, just happy to be out and about and a part of the action. We decided pretty quickly, Nugget and I, that he was my bird and I was his hooman.

But all is never perfect.  Nugget poops wherever he goes, being a bird, and having full run of the downstairs made the boys a little batty. Nugget frequently mistakes younger son for me, and is forever stunned when G bats him off ("Whoops, wrong hooman.")  Elder smiles at him and watches him eat when he thinks no one is looking. Hubby calls him a little dinosaur.  He also wanted me to get Nugget's wings, beak, and nails clipped.

I finally got that done on Friday. The shrieks he let out while I waited in the next room convinced me that I need to do something differently next time. He didn't eat much the next couple days, sad about his diminished mobility and angry that I subjected him to strangers who did these things to him.

After an amiable evening last night, he hissed into my ear, then bit it.  Reminding me he's still mad, and that he's not going to forget it.

Which makes me think I need to learn how to do these things myself.  And I think I will.

I hope he's with me a long time. Elder calls him my security bird. He's not wrong.

Channeling Pat

Lately, when I look in the mirror, I see my aunt staring back at me.

My mom's older sister. I saw her a few times a year while I was growing up. She called me Babe.  She colored her hair and dressed iconically. Like my mom, she grew up poor and would eventually marry her childhood school sweetheart, who eventually became a doctor.

Like me, a bounder.

She encouraged my mom to allow me to take a scholarship to go to a private high school, and even today, mom calls me "elite", as if it were an insult, or as if it were meant to be. And that route allowed me to grow to adulthood, meet my soulmate, and live a life. Which is why, I guess, I am pretty good at creating opportunities that originally didn't exist in other people's schemes. I  grew up outside, and as an outsider, I see things differently. I spent a lot of time looking for validation in the wrong places, and I lived long enough to see that, and correct it.

When I talk to my own kids, I sometimes hear my mom, but lately I hear a lot of my aunt, too. She envied me my straight nose. Her commentary was peppered with vulgarities, and I wonder now if she felt like she could let her hair down with my mom and her family.   She always appeared to be 'on.'

At least when I saw her, which wasn't that often.

But I look in the mirror these days, and with my halo of chestnut, copper and silver wild and wavy hair, I could be her. And when I talk, I hear her.

She died 7 years ago. Her family didn't tell my family she died, and now no one is talking to one another. I showed up at her husband's sister's funeral and shocked him and four of my cousins who were in attendance. I didn't get to her funeral, so I got a do over. I wish I understood why her family excluded us. I wish I understood what our perceived fault was.

I wish someone would explain what happened.

All the good

Coming off a somewhat crazy busy weekend, for the first time in a long time I am not filled with dread.

For the longest time, the anticipation of anything I *had* to do, be it track practice, den meetings, PREP classes, and last year for the first time, hosting a band event, ratcheted up awful levels of stress and anxiety for me. And most of the time, anything I *had* to do went off without a hitch (maybe a hiccup, certainly not more than that), but the knowledge that I could do whatever needed doing was not enough to stave off the dread I felt in the days and hours leading up to (fill in the blank).

And when you consider all the *stuff* I used to do, I spent most of my life in this state.

So last weekend was THAT weekend, and I didn't have all the attendant baggage that came with it.

In fact, it ALL felt pretty good. Largely because I figured out what I'm good at, and that's what I'm doing. All that's required is that I literally just show up.

And after years of forcing things, this feels pretty good.

"I hope you get the help you need" Part 1

That's what a relative said to me a few months ago. And I've been chewing on that thought ever since.

I've been in therapy for four years. I recently lost the therapist who has been helping me work through decades of emotional wreckage. And that comment nicely frames it all up in a way few things could.

My boys are transition age now, meaning that they are at a point where we need to figure out what happens next, how they are going to become self-sufficient, how they are both going to be capable of gainful, full-time, competitive employment--the ultimate goal my two very different young men share. My primary job has been figuring out how to make that happen.

Our experience, our way to this particular moment, has been fraught with all kinds of challenges.  I was told, way, way back, when my boys were in preschool and early elementary, that they need to be included in general education. I didn't really grok WHY, I just pushed hard to make it happen.

What I learned was that the WHY was because of expectations. My 'behaviorally challenged' elder was that way first because of his difficulties in communicating in the spoken word, compounded by his sensory challenges, which were once legion. My Greek chorus, my support, my village, got behind me to help me figure this out. And eventually, elder was able to find his own words and language to get what he needed to be successful in the classroom.

But that was not without challenges--specifically, the bullying that began around third grade and culminated with adult-led isolation, exclusion with his fifth grade trip (documented here). That manifested in sixth through ninth grade as eating disorders among other "co-morbid conditions that go with autism."

We're still recovering from that damage.

Hubby and I didn't realize at the time, but we were already doing everything we could do to countermand the damage of the outside world for both kids. We've been a tight knit family, our core of four--we did everything together. And more importantly, the message we imparted to our boys was that they matter, they were not how other people treated them, and they were enough.  We provided a safe place, whether that place was home, or out in the world. They were with us, a part of us, and they were enough.

This is important, because I didn't realize I was giving my kids something I never had.

I was the outlier. The scape goat. The one everyone blamed everything on. And I eventually began to believe I deserved it. That I was as awful as they said I was. I didn't deserve love. I deserved whatever shit the universe had to dish out because, well, I deserved it.

And I believed it until I met the man who would become my husband. Who changed everything.

And between us, we created this awesome thing, where we were both greater as a team. The sum of us was something multiplied.

And we were able to impart this to our kids.

What a gift. But they will need this, because the world does not expect much of either of them. Or at least that's the message I've gotten in great and small ways over the years.

Elder now holds three jobs, attends community college and votech--this is the kid who was never expected to hold a job. We're trying to figure out younger's way forward. And he will surprise us all, because he always does in his own quiet way.

Mental health is a thing. Bullied people tend to either internalize their (ill) treatment or boil over into sometimes wildly socially inappropriate behavior. People are generally quick to assign blame to the bullied, that they a) somehow brought it upon themselves and b) deserve it.

Do you see a pattern?

And if the bullied stand up for themselves or (god forbid) treat their offenders as they have been treated, they are told that they are either over sensitive or need help.

That happened to me.

I'm still working my way through the decades that led to that moment.

I am hoping my boys will have less to work through.

Into the Woods

Weekends are a challenge.

If there are no activities or employment planned, the boys spend a lot of time immersed in their screens.

"You don't know what it's like to be a teenager in the 21st century, mom," Elder tells me with an eyeroll.

He's right. Back in the stone ages when I was a teenager, I spent a lot of my time on my bike, riding through whatever woods I could find in my city environs (Pennypack's bike trail was a frequent route, taking me out to the country line), or just taking in the urban sights in the grittier neighborhoods.

I never knew exactly where I was going; I had a pretty good sense of direction and trusted that the road would take me interesting places.

Which sometimes got a lot more interesting than I bargained for.

So, thirty-mumble years later, we loaded up our bikes, thinking we'd take a little ride, visit my friend's brewery, and maybe go out to dinner later.

We looked at the route on a map. Elder was doubtful that we'd be able to do it in the timeline I framed out. And I mistook his doubt/reasonable judgment for recalcitrance. And what resulted was an adventure.

It began innocently enough. We took a little detour to see my friend and sample some beer while younger showed elder around the fort, the sensory area my friends built in their tap room. When we got to the trail, Elder wanted to go right.  I went left. Hubby and I didn't blink when the asphalt gave way to rugged terrain.

Nor did we blink as the rugged trail stretched ahead, sometime necessitating us to get off our bikes and walk.  Younger was encouraged ahead by dogs he met on the trail. And annoyed that I didn't pull out my phone to record the moments.  I heard a quail--briefly, in the meadow--the first time since my summers in Rio Grande, NJ decades ago. Then, elder yelling silenced him. Poor bird.

We glided along the causeway, admiring the twilight over the reservoir, watching people casting their fishing lines into the dusk. The red trail gave way to blue. And then the trail got tougher.

And then darkness fell faster than we could peddle. We dismounted, pulled out our phones, turned on the flashlights, and found ourselves in the night woods.  Nighthawks and screech owls provided a steady counterpoint to our footsteps in the woods. To our left, we watched the opposite shoreline recede into darkness.

Elder fretted about being locked in the park. Younger wondered aloud if we would ever get back to our car. I wondered to myself if hubby would divorce me for not thinking this outing through.

I discovered later that he was as delighted as I was for the unexpected adventure.  Because it was pretty damned incredible being out there in the woods, both of us reminded of our adventures in our pre-kid days, hiking, fishing and birding in Long Island, North Carolina, Nova Scotia, and dozens of times and places in between. The stars stood out in brilliant relief against the midnight blue sky.  A lightning bug lit our way in the woods.

In a previous life, Elder would have been an explorer. He studied the park map confidently and assured us he knew the quickest way back to the car. And armed with his directions, we moved forward, first along a country road, then back into the meadows, across a field, and a loon called, giving us a little extra boost and direction.

The meadow gave way to a field, then the park entrance again. And the car awaited us a few hundred yards beyond that.  It was well after 10 by the time we were on our way home.

Elder promises this will never happen again.

But that was eight hours they were off screens. :)

Onward

There's been no shortage of upending and disruption the last few months.

To the good:
Elder took on his third paid position last month, this time as front office intern at the VoTech. He's averaging about 30 hours a week among the three positions. The next big hurdle will be to get him to start driving.

He's also presenting; this month, in addition to co-presenting with me at the transition conference at State College, he'll also be participating in a panel discussion on why students need to lead their own IEP meetings.

Still finding our footing with younger. I'm learning a lot of important things about him, including what will make him happy and help him lead a fulfilling life.

Dad and I are still works in progress. I'm finding the more we discover about our sons, the more we discover about ourselves.

And it's all good.