Autism & Revenge

It appears I created a monster.

A short while ago I wrote about teaching Finian to help with housework.  He's enthusiastically making his bed, learning to use the washing machine, and emptying the dishwasher.  I should be delighted.  

But it's come at a steep price.

I'm undecided if it's his autism, or if he's turned revenge into an art form, but Finian has assumed responsibility for tumble drying clothes with relentless zeal.

He puts everything into the tumble drier.

Everything.

Clean clothes.  Dirty clothes.  Wet clothes.  Dry clothes.  Clothes he just stripped from himself in the kitchen.  (Naked tumble drying is now a thing.  You're welcome).  Clothes that should be air dried and emerge just about big enough to fit the cat.  Shoes.  The entire contents of the washing machine in one load.  The hair-infested dog blanket.  My favourite fucking cardigan.

I've developed a Pavlovian startle response to the sound of the tumble drier.  It invades my dreams.  I've created a niche anxiety disorder about what I'm going to find in the drum next.

Be careful what you wish for, as the surprisingly wise Pussycat Dolls warned us.

It occurred to me that the mafia famously said that revenge is a dish best served cold.  They didn't count on a tumble drier.

where my dreams go to die

Autism & Growing an Adult

I have Finian's head wrecked.

The whole object of parenting is to produce functional adults who will eventually leave us.  That part sucks, but it's how the gig works.

I know Finian will never live independently, but I want him to live as independently as possible.  So I give him jobs to do that challenge him a little, like unloading the dishwasher and changing his sheets.  Hopefully this will deepen his self-trust so that he can tackle more complex things in the future.  I try to help him develop confidence in his own abilities, safe in the knowledge that he can come to me for help if he struggles.  My hope for him is that he will have the courage to move further and further from my safety net.  That he will develop a sense of safety within himself and within the world.  This is where creativity and personal growth flourishes.

Like any self-respecting teenager, he resists like crazy.  He becomes deeply engrossed in his toenails, or urgently needs to watch an episode of The Power Puff Girls, or becomes strangely deaf.  Sadly for him, he's my third kid so there's no get-out-of-jail-free card.  I've heard all the excuses, and none of them fly.

Then, I had one of those light-bulb moments when I realised that I'm going through the same process.  As epiphanies go, mine wasn't as poetic as Saint Paul falling off a horse and being blinded by the divine light of God.  I think I was scrubbing skid-marks off the downstairs toilet wearing a pair of marigolds at the time.  While sweating like a mare through a menopausal hot flush (I suspect God doesn't like women very much.... he definitely seems to favour saints on horses). 

Anyway, I'm also learning to be my own safe space in therapy..... which is pretty much what I'm trying to teach Finian.  I had a happy little nerdgasm when I realised there's a parallel process going on.  It doesn't take much to please me.

Helping Finian to become a functional adult won't be let slide just because he's autistic.  I expect him to become all he is capable of becoming...... including creating inventive excuses to dodge housework.

somebody call Child Line

Autism & Ability

I like to think of myself as being adventurous rather than unwise. 

It could even be true.

In my 50 years on this earth, I never quite got the hang of running.  I seemed to lack the ability to coordinate breathing, moving and remaining alive at the same time.  On the strength of this, I decided that I had to train to run 5 km.  It seems my defiant streak shouts louder than rationality.

So I gave a two fingered salute to Wisdom and started to run.  Wisdom, however, promptly gave me a two fingered salute back by trashing a muscle I never even heard of (the soleus, apparently.... which up til now I thought was a type of ice cream).     

So, I'm hobbled.

My stellar running career has been put on hold,  and my ego is sitting on the Bold Step thinking about what it's done.

Limping around is one thing.  Apart from being endlessly entertaining to my family (who find it hilarious because they're a bunch of bastards), being slowed down is driving me crazy.

Using the stairs takes forever.  Housework has slowed to snail's pace.  Every movement requires planning, intention and lots of extra time.  The space-time continuum has ruptured along with my disagreeable calf muscle.  

In a minor way, it feels like being temporarily disabled.

The world is not as easy to navigate.  I'm frustrated because I can't do all the things I want to do.  I'm exhausted by the extra effort it takes to manage simple things I previously took for granted.  And this is just a damaged muscle which will repair in a few weeks.

I wonder how many times I'd have to multiply the feelings of frustration, impotence and rage to imagine what being autistic feels like?  It's little wonder that autistic people are often overwhelmed, strung-out and explosive when they live in a world that doesn't match their needs.

I often say that I'd love to live inside Finian's world for a day, to truly understand how to help him live comfortably in this world.  Now I'm not so sure I could manage even that.  My respect for people living with life-long disabilities has dialed up past the max. 

not a muscle