ME ME ME ME ME (self-indulgence check in progress. Please do not adjust your screens)

Should I apologize? Is blogging, by it's very nature, exclusively self-indulgent?

I'm not sure anymore. It sure didn't start out that way--I always wrote, journaled, whatever, and am a much better typist than handwriter, so it made sense. Then, when I got to pick templates, well, maybe then I got a bit giddy. Then, when the whole FB thing started, it was seemed kinder to let old friends catch up on Alabama, autism, dementia, and drama at their own pace instead of heaving it out all at once in the "How have you been?" part of the friending process. You know, sort of a "read what you want...this is how it is, and it is what it is...talk about it or don't...it's okay" sort of thing.

Really. That's how it started. It continued because I needed to write to think and I needed to think to accept and I needed to accept to grow. (granted, that's a lot of "I", but really, what kind of mother would I be if I didn't continue to grow? Yes. Utter Bullshit.)

This week I came across a blog written by someone so absolutely wise, so self-assured, so completely confident regarding so very many life issues that still terrify me, inspite of whatever I've managed to glean from my many extra years of unplanned situations and plain old weird outcomes...well, it stopped me cold. Made me cold.

Am I the same? I don't want to be the same. I know how unwise, how scaredy-cat I am. I know I have no idea what I'm doing (um...just today our water got shut off. Seems the bill was misplaced. Alot. Clever, no? No. Not clever).

So then, what's the point? Oh...the point is so much about hidden magic, unexpected beauty, tiny miracles strung together like pearls...all stuff I would miss if not for LRHF and his base magnificence. And the point is that I did not find all this magical beautiful miracle stuff because I'm so freaking bright myself, but rather, that God had to slap me silly a whole damned bunch of times (metaphorically, of course), and the point is that if such gifts exist, even for me, even for my broken old self and my bitten-up soul, then surely, such things are within your reach as well. See, I thought surely I would break and die--I did. Knowing me, I should have. I waited to break and die. But I did not.

Not yet, anyway.

So I'm thinking that this is what I want you to know: You really don't have to break and die either. And you deserve to hear that--no matter what. Just take it, fold it up and stuff it somewhere in the backpocket of your head, will you please? Just in case it gets too dark.

Look, I'm sure of precious damn little, we both know that. But through Grace, through Hope, I am absolutely sure that you can do whatever you need to do.

That's all I've got. Hope it helps.

Oh Christmas Tree

When I was a senior in high school, I received a pretty decent state award for some writing I'd done. I sat in the assembly beside the head of the English department wearing a ripped sweatshirt (it was 1984) and a vintage old man coat b/c I'd totally forgotten to dress for the event. My teacher was understandably horrified, as she had remembered to dress appropriately, but the kicker was when, during our state song ("Maryland, My Maryland"), I felt the need to turned to her and whisper that I did not know "Oh Christmas Tree" (same melody) was our state song.

She was not amused.

But I digress.

Another Christmas fading away...lights and glitter and sparklies all packed up as time and energy and small boys allow. And I am glad that the madness is done and that we're halfway through the dark of winter, but still, I'm sad. I have boys who believe. I have a Big Boy who says, "Well, why wouldn't you believe?" and I am proud that he owns that tiny bit of magic, even has he gets all gangly and mouthy and cologne-y in his early adolescence.

So I'm sad taking down the tree because next year...next year might be the one. That first unmagical one. Perhaps, tho, maybe my boys understood the real magic, even with my incessant maternal bungling. No promises and no money back guarantees, but maybe...

Because--

Yes, indeed, Big Boy--why wouldn't you believe? And also...When you find even a tiny bit of magic, a small patch of possible, please promise Mama that you will always, always take it, you will nurture it, and you will keep it safe.

It matters.

RE: "All Done"

I meant it. I did.

It grieved me and I wept and shook until my eyes ran dry and my bones ached cold.


I had no words. None had worked, none had elightened, none held comfort, and then, none were kind.


I had no words. I always have words. You know that.

Too many words. Words bled out of my mouth in grief and desperation and anger, and for my part, it was not the least bit helpful.

*sigh*

In fact, my words wove themselves into a noose. If I could have shut up for even a minute, if I could have taken even one full breath, if I had not ignored the bits of my heart as they fell away in every room with every fight, then perhaps I would have done the wiser thing, the kinder thing. Because at that time, I was the one who could do the wiser and kinder thing. My husband is, however I might perceive it, in his own place of dark hurt, and so he speaks from this place. Maybe he's never been there before, I'm not sure. But I was so scared...I wasn't cool...I wasn't empathetic...I was just um...wordy.

Stupid wordy.

Couldn't get it right or clear or sensical. Then I couldn't even get it kind.

Long story short: I should have known when to shut up. And I should have remembered a frequent conversation I have with God in which I announce in no uncertain terms that I am "all done." I do believe He glances down at this silly, silly child and in His endless patience, He simply asks, "Well, LAH, tell Me then: What, exactly, have you done?"

Oh. Right.

And please don't misunderstand me, this is not exclusively my fault, and I don't take all the blame for it. We have junk. And in fact, he has more junk than either of us realized. And his junk doesn't go with my junk very well at all. But I hope that LRHF has taught us enough about the jumps and starts and fits of moving forward that we should apply it to our marriage.

Do we need help? Oh, ho, yes. And we'll get it. oh, ho, yes.

I'm re-reading this and thinking that I must be quite sleep deprived to think this piece makes a bit of sense, but I needed to say, wanted you to know, that despite our struggles and hurts and misunderstandings, we are not in the last bit "all done."

"All Done"

That's what LRHF would say when he couldn't do something, or something was hurting him, or he didn't see the point of something.



He's picked up a few new ways to make his point since then, but wisely, he keeps that sharp phrase in his back pocket for the really, really big stuff.



So I'm borrowing that no-frills-and-to-the-point sentiment today because I am tired, so tired of my own stupid, pointless rodent-on-a-reelride words. And if you think I'm tired of them, if I think my words are stupid and pointless, then consider that my husband's ears are practically bleeding. Ahhh...He doesn't want to talk anymore and doesn't see the point.

Since that's precisely when LRHF would say it, why not go with what you know?



And this I do know because I saw myself through his eyes last night.



My marriage.



"All Done."

Soulstice

Yes, I know there's no "u" in Solstice.

And yes, I do know how to edit a misspelling. I meant that u with all my heart. With all my heart because all my soul is darkening and deepening and falling, falling.

And I am afraid.

Tonight I began to light the candles at the ever earlier dusk, lighting each one, asking for mercy and illumination and grace and warmth. (Rush the season much? yes, well, desperate is desperate, thank you)

And this very small, very un-liturgical ritual is made all the more meaningful by LRHF, who is my anti-alcolyte of sorts--he follows me around, waits for me to finish, and then blows out the candles. He had a hood on tonight, but I am 99% sure it was him trailing a few feet behind me with the stealth of Walmart buggy. I don't know if his act extinguishes mine or makes it more meaningful. Isn't that funny? Does God watch this mother/son ritual and shake His Head at it's uselessness? Or does the smoke from the extinguished flame carry my voice just a bit closer to His Ear? I don't know. Maybe both.
It's a pain in the ass, but what can you do? the kid loves birthdays and birthdays have candles and...you get it now, don't you?

And Dammit, it's dark again this year. I carry my sore and tired marriage and my all-gone mother, my far away husband and my beautiful children, all on top of a very broken me, and it is all dark right now. I know that in my soul, I must go through the dark to get to the light. I know that Solstice is about the promise and the hope and the anticipation of light and rebirth and newness and growth. I know all that. If I didn't, why on earth would I go around lighting candles muttering to myself, knowing full well that LRHF was hot on my heels?

But then, there's so much I don't know. What if this is as bright as it gets? What if the days get longer, but not lighter?

I don't believe I've ever been so afraid of the dark.

Taking Two to Tango

Is it possible that this remarkable, magical, spectacular love that I have for my husband will not withstand the equally spectacular stress of this life we've created together? Could such magic be so cheaply made?

I don't know.

And I don't know anymore if the spectrum streak that runs through my husband is what will make it just too damned much to bear. I already have one man in my house who refuses to look me in the eye and answer. I don't need another. And is this hardwired? I always figured that through the course of our marriage, the rough spots would soften and we would grow together, change together, learn together. Isn't that how it works? I thought so, too.

Not so much here. He tells me I've changed since we got married twelve freaking years, three kids, two states, one pervasive neurological disorder, and one brain-fried mother ago. Oh really, Honey? Gosh, I'm sorry I let that stuff get to me. My bad. He says we're not supposed to change. (WTF?????) I know, right? But that's what he told me today and I cannot make sense of it and I am beginning to think that he will never, ever hear what I say, never understand my perspective, and never trust my judgement. And the worst is that he will never, EVER talk about it.
Me? I'm all about no secrets. Ever since we had the big secret about how my grandfather drove to the end of the block and put a bullet through his head right before my mother's school bus went by, and nobody told my brother about it, so when he was sick and grabbed his gun in similar fashion, neither he nor his wife knew how this was built into him. (Because it was a secret...shhhh...)

Anyway, ever since then, I'm not much for not talking, for pretending it's sunny outside when the roof is leaking. I don't have the stomach for it. My husband comes from the kind of family that spoke of nothing. Ever. Thus, I am confrontational and difficult and obsessed. No, I'm not. I'm scared and mad and I need to talk about it. Tomato, Tomahto.

I'm horrible. I know. I can't let up. I've changed since we married. I know things now that weigh on me like wet sand. Am I supposed to pretend? I cannot. And I cannot keep asking the same questions and getting no answers. And getting no explanation for the no answers. Not big questions. Regular questions. It's very strange. And one minute he wants a documented list of these "offenses" and the next he thinks I should forget about them. I...I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. He hears things I do not say. His perspective has changed me, yes. Made me completely gun shy, if you'll pardon the pun. I am wary of talking,it comes at great cost to me, so when I do, it is because I must. Do you see? I must speak and be heard, and I must have him answer when I speak. For good, or for bad, just an answer, please. This is communicating, no? And yet, here we are.

Oh, how I love this man. I do, a million times over and over, I do. But is it enough?

I don't know.

I Know This Much is True

Until LRHF has the therapy he needs, he deserves, and he wants, I'm useless. A concise daily spiral of desperation and anxiety, a nightly recount of maternal failures and fears. In between these two things, I might make pizza.

This is what I am.
All I am. No, really. All I am.

He doesn't want me to play with him, engage him, even in those moments when I hike up the big girl panties and try. He knows I'm not that stuff. He knows how much it hurts when he turns away. How can I blame him? He hates when I pretend to be therapeutic.
Is it so bad that I'm not that stuff? I don't know. Probably. I am so woven to him, so bound to, and blessed by him in his different ways, his secret sweetness, his six year old hurt, and still, I am useless to him. My beautiful boy. So close, it's like he's just in the next room. I can see him, I can, but it isn't my voice that will bring him out. It just doesn't work like that for us. I don't know why. I miss him so damned much. He comes for kisses and for hugs, and that's good, but then he's gone again, back into his world of breezes, and leaves falling, and toy trains, and computers. I need a crowbar to break into that little world now. And I hide, a little. Okay, a lot. Like chickenshit hiding.
Every day without a progress report is a day without progress for me. I am a Noted Progress addict. Because he's not regressing, not unless he knows it'll piss me off, but I apparently can't see progress unless someone else does. Nice. A born mother, that's me.

And there's nothing in sight. Just endless afternoons, watching him soundlessly through the kitchen window. Wondering what he's thinking, what he wants, what he's holding back. Wondering why I've been given this child, this gift, and not the gift of knowing what to do for him. And then turning away from that window and feeling my soul curl up on itself and chew on its tenderest parts. All this, and two other boys who only know I'm tired, I'm "not myself," I'm sad. All this and my marriage, stretched so thin, seams wearing weak, worn spots becoming holes. Oh, how I love that man! How truly he is that one treasure I did choose, and yet he is the one I never see, never nurture, never can. No respite. No dates. No spur-of-the-moment romance. All of every rare moment together is at a great cost, greater stress. Someone has to watch the kids. There are only two people in our Someone Department and we're heading toward ten years of company service. We're it, and it's wearing us bare and abrasive. Defensive. Hurt. Or worse, numb.
I look at the early days, baby days, when all we needed was more sleep. Silly, how hard it seemed back then, before delays and doctors and diagnosis and therapies and applications and modifications and the way it is now. Today I stood in line behind two mothers of infants talking about teething and rolling over and sleeping through the night, and it was all so hard on them...Oh, silly mommies of babies who will most likely not be one of the 1 in 92 on the autism spectrum. Such silly worries seem so very big when they stand alone, I know. I get that. I'm certainly not better for having bigger worries, but I can testify that there are bigger worries. That those mommies were splashing around in the kiddie pool of worries while I'm pulled out to sea by the riptide of autism. Under and under and under.

I don't know what to do here. Where to go. Who to call. Thought about being all Buddha and facing it head on and alone, accepting it, letting it pass through me, and then letting it go. I can't make it work, tho. Autism doesn't work like that, I don't think. But then, I don't think I know much about how Autism works at all.

All I know, all I can be absolutely sure of, is that I am insufficient, not only in my own abilities, but also in finding those things which will be help my son. My beautiful, blessed, and deserving son.