Autism & Therapy

The more personal development I do, the more I'm in awe of Finian.

The kid who is labelled as having 'special needs' lives in a state of self-acceptance and wholesomeness that most of us can only dream of.

To be fair, Finian does have special needs.....  anyone who routinely chows down on furniture and enjoys a nice game of chicken with traffic has additional requirements.  But 'special needs' is not a uniform blanket that covers every aspect of his being.

As far as I can tell, Finno embodies mindfully living in the present and doesn't waste time ruminating over the past or worrying about the future.  He seems to navigate this earth fearlessly, with a solid sense of his own identity.  He is who he is;  he doesn't fretfully construct a persona to make people love him.  People love him anyway.  

His authentic nature is saving me a fortune in therapy.

As a student counsellor, I'm expected to rise to uncomfortable challenges.

Well, to be fair, things like time management, academics and life balance are difficulties to be expected.  No-one goes to college for an easy ride.

It's the personal development demands of the course that blindside me occasionally.  Now and again I faceplant into that psychological shitpit and have a good old roll around in it.

It's mandatory that we attend our own personal therapy.... this is so that we're aware of our own stuff and don't project them onto clients.  But it occurred to me, that most of my work is around un-learning unhelpful patterns and beliefs.  Finian never bought into this crap in the first place.  It's like Autism has betowed upon him the gift of Not Giving a Flying Fuck (patented counselling term), and I could really do with more of that. 

He doesn't do defence mechanisms.

I've had to dig deep to find the courage and humility to make myself vulnerable (and authentic) to my therapist, and then to my loved ones.  This is a risk, with sometimes painful consequences.  But if I expect this level of openness from my clients, I need to be able to walk the walk myself.  Finian never learned to shut his real Self off from others, so he always knew exactly who he is.

I've had to un-learn relating to others from my ego, and try harder to connect from my deeper, more genuine Self.  I do this by slowing down, checking my responses and being painfully honest about what's motivating them.  It's a work in progress.  For example, sometimes on reflection, I'll realise that I've said something to appear clever instead of genuinely connecting with someone.  Or I'll respond in a certain, insincere, way to prevent a hostile reaction from the other person.  Finian doesn't give a shit sideways (also a patented counselling term) about any of this.  How others perceive him isn't even at the races.  I'm more than a little jealous.

It's not that I spend all my time joylessly naval gazing.  Occassionally I like to get nuts with the dark arts of crochet, or I've been known to crack open a new book midfuckingweek.  If I'm feeling really freaky, I'll drink tea right before bed.  So lock my bad ass up.

We have so much to learn from diversity, if we have the eyes to see it and the heart to feel it.

Also, I may have said before, but Finian would make a great therapist...... if he'd keep his clothes on and stop eating the chairs.

mmmmmm, delicious

Autism & Villages

I spent much of today procrastinating.

Instead of tidying up a few irritating loose ends in my college portfolio, I draped myself across the couch like I was in the terminal stages of a Victorian wasting disease.

My portfolio will be assessed in three days.  The bits that need attention will take about an hour to tidy up.  It's not even proper work.

But I acted like deadlines weren't even a thing.  It was of grave importance that my eyebrows were tweezed into perfect symmetry.  It was most urgent that the dog was groomed.  And all the tea wasn't going to drink itself.

My portfolio gathered dust while I alphabetised the spice cupboard.

I'd like to make my procrastination sexier by saying it was a coping mechanism, used to protect me from my fear of not being good enough..... like a type of performance anxiety.  But the real, and tragically less sexy, truth is that I was just being a massive lazyarse (real word).

And I loved every minute of it.

I idled the day away deeply appreciating having a lovely husband who will take Finian to youth club while I crack on with (*cough*) work.  I am weak with gratitude that I have emerged from the happy side of many months of intense therapy, now able to eat, sleep and not view the world as a hostile place.  

Having a kiddo with autism is hard.  That's hardly headline news.  Crawling through decades of psychological awfulness (without much grace, it has to be said) was also super not-good while managing autism.

But when things are hard, I've learned to look for the good people.  The ones who hug you when you're a stinky mess.  The ones who meet you for a walk or a coffee when you're Not Your Best.  The ones who let you know they're there for you, even when you've driven them insane with your lunacy.  There are good people who supported me without knowing it..... my yoga teacher, my college buddies, strangers who smiled at me in shops.

Before this becomes an Oscar acceptance speech, I think it's important to point something out.

Among our autism circles, we often remark that it takes a village to raise an ASD kiddo (albeit a weirdly niche one, characterised by much talk about streaking kids, and children taking enormous dumps in the display toilets in B&Q).  

But as I continue to flounder my way through this perplexing world, it's clear to me that it takes a village to raise every one of us.  It takes a little humility to accept this, but all of us need each other. 

Portfolio done, with fabulous eyebrows

Autism & Mad Mothers

This has been one of the most difficult years of my life.  

There was Autism, usual family stuff, college and covid.  But in the Spring, the shell protecting my mental health cracked open and I fell to pieces.  One day, all the defenses I used to avoid my issues (maintaining facades, perfectionism, anxiety, depression, overwork, wine, rationalizing emotions, denying my own needs, unhealthy boundaries, whatever you're having yourself) just stopped working.

It was about fucking time.

My breakdown immersed me in a world of pain that I'd been avoiding for a very long time.

Many months of therapy have helped me to integrate most of my big psychological injuries.  There's still one or two sticky issues  I need to befriend, but I know I'll get there.  Tbh, I'd rather french kiss Boris Johnson after he's eaten a packet of Monster Munch, but you do what you gotta do.  Am wearing Big Girl pants now, and all that.

The big surprise is that processing the awfulness isn't as terrible as pouring all my energy into avoiding it.  I mean, therapy is horrendous.  It's like being atomized in a high-speed blender and then re-shaped in a really unfamiliar new mould.  It takes a while to get used to.  And making friends with the dark creatures in my mental basement has been...... unexpected.  

But avoiding it has been worse.  The relief of allowing the mask to slip is wonderful.  Breaking down gave me the freedom to recognize and discard what was bad for my soul.  It's a work in progress, but yanno.

Autism was the catalyst that forced me to engage with my mental health in a meaningful way.  It's very possible I would have continued to spin in my resistant groove for the rest of my days, had Autism not driven me mad.

It's kinda comical to be grateful for something that caused me pain, but here we are.  Alice in Wonderland knew her shit when she said "curiouser and curiouser".  

Autism & Processing Emotions

Finian got his covid booster today.

He was not amused.  

Despite social stories, schedules and reward incentives, he screamed the fucking place down.  The staff were amazing, though, and after half an hour of slowing everything down, he got his jab.  

It was a stressful procedure for him.  

And for me.  

I learned to sweat from entirely new pores while attempting to hold him.  My heart enjoyed a few interesting new arrhythmias as it tried to exit my body.  I discovered that my son makes a pretty decent kick-boxer.

So it was quite the learning experience.

What was really surprising, though, was to witness the range of emotions Finian went through, and how he processed them. 

On the car journey to the centre he was a little anxious, but was happy about the prospect of  a hot chocolate and McDonald's afterwards.  But when we reached the centre, fear overwhelmed him.  He was locked in a full-on adrenaline-fueled flight/fright response, and reasoning was pointless.  He was terrified and incoherent.  Three of us couldn't hold him.  He kicked and screamed like he was possessed (def a 'fight' rather than 'flight' guy, it seems).  After a spell of calming him down we decided to reschedule, which meant that  Costa and McDonald's were off the cards.  When he realised this, he sat down, pulled his sleeve up and sold out for a happy meal.  His legs were shaking with fear, but he tolerated his terror to get his treat.

On the walk to get his drink he skipped, jumped and flapped to offload his adrenaline.  There may have been screaming.  In Costa, the adrenaline wore off and gave way to intense sadness.  It was like watching a tsunami rising.  His sadness swelled and he howled over his hot chocolate.  He buried his head in my shoulder and sobbed.  There was zero inhibition.  There was much lusty wailing and salty tears.  It was an unapologetic snot-fest.

After maybe ten minutes of naming his emotions and giving him space to feel them, he was ready to move on.  It was like magic.  If we could all experience and express our emotions as freely as Finian, we'd be a lot healthier and happier.

By the time we got home, he was singing Lofty and the Giant Carrot (in Albanian), so all was well.

We're conditioned to be so scared and ashamed of our own feelings that we disown them.  We're numbed out under layers of booze, drugs or mindless distraction.  Or we're paralyzed by anxiety and depression as our suppressed emotions scream to be heard.  We don't know ourselves at all.

In therapy, I'm still processing deeply buried emotions from five decades ago........  all for the want of being helped to own my shit.  It's truly humbling to witness healthy emotional processing from an autistic kid.

sofa cuddles to re-calibrate

 

Autism & Why I'm an Asshole

Epiphanies aren't all they're cracked up to be.

Having a blinding moment of insight usually means that, up until this point, you've been kinda an asshole (and by 'you', I mean 'me').  It's never my favourite moment to realise this.

I was bopping around the house with Finian and he wanted to go for a drive, but something happened that prevented us from going.  Instead of losing his shit, he amped up his inner Zen and shrugged it off.  He met this with an inner calm that surprised me, and I was struck by his acceptance that our change of plan was beyond his control.

We waste an insane amount of time and energy trying to change the unchangeable.  It occurred to me that we have no control over our outer reality.  This seems obvious, but we often act as if we can bend our environment.  But we can't change the weather, or make the driver in front of us speed up, or make our crush fall in love with us.  We can't force other people to see us the way we want them to.  We can't control random occurrences that scupper a road trip with our kids.  These perceived obstacles enrage us and we become consumed with the need to overcome them.  They devour our energy.

Imagine the creativity we could unlock if we channeled all that energy into developing our own inner strengths? 

It all starts with our self-concept, and the lies we tell ourselves to maintain it.

Our self-concept is who we imagine we are.  We construct it from what other people tell us we should be like, as well as who we imagine we want to be.  We build it as a shield to protect our vulnerable Real Self from the judgement of ourselves and others.  So basically, we become who other people want us to be, so that we will be safe and loved.  Eventually, we may come to believe that our self-concept is real.  Our Real Self  may become silenced and we don't achieve the potential we're capable of, depending on the level of judgment we are exposed to. It's kinda a bum deal.  

It's really only through having the courage and insight to dismantle our false ideas about ourselves that we can embrace our inner truth.  The energy we waste trying to maintain our self-concept could be vastly better used to become the best version of ourselves.

We drive ourselves crazy trying to change an unchangeable world to support our self-concept.  We scream at the slow driver.  We blame the weather for being in a bad mood.  We feel victimized by aging. Imagine accepting reality for what it is, free from the terrible anxiety of trying to twist it to fit a false agenda?

Acceptance doesn't mean passively enduring things that are bad for our soul.  It's not the same as giving up.  Finian knows this, and he kindly schooled me by being chill about change.

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

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                          

Autism & Mortification

Autism is singular in it's ability to make you get over yourself.

Pre- Autism, I have distant memories of possessing a certain amount of dignity and social grace (fine, I never had dignity or social grace..... but I definitely harboured pretensions of them).

Then an autistic kid barreled into my life with all the decorum of a drunk wildebeest.  He made short work of  any social climbing I was ever going to achieve.  I missed social occasions because I was unsure if I was covered in chocolate or human excrement.  My life's ambition became less about projecting a social image and more about peeling the wildling off the ceiling.  This did not enhance my public rating, and rattled my rather shallow self-concept.  Any delusions I had about being perceived as a calm, competent adult was removed with disarming efficiency by a beautifully untamed dynamo.

And thank God.

Dignity is over-rated.

For example.

Finian loves black people.  I mean, really loves them.  Not in a "omg they look so amazing" kind of way, but in a "I want to worship at their collective feet and die of awe at their sheer beauty" kind of way.  When we're in public, I scan crowds so we can avoid black people, which makes me feel weirdly guilty, like a far-right xenophobe.  When Finian was five, it was kinda cute when he bolted up to a randomer and gazed adoringly into their face.  Now that he's sixteen and mostly composed of elbows and acne, the cute factor is long gone.  Public safety trumps embarrassment, so avoidance is the best option.

When I tell him not to touch the black person, I'm not being racist.  I just don't want him to lick a stranger.

Finian's lack of modesty has often caused red faces, but never his own.  He doesn't see the big deal in casually displaying his family jewels.  Fortunately, he has learned to tolerate wearing clothes, which is no bad thing considering the Irish climate and public decency laws.  When he was younger, though, he was a big fan of nude trampolining.  Trying to apprehend a naked, bouncing boy is like trying to catch a buttered eel.  Any poise you ever imagined you possess will be dispatched with surgical precision.  

You should try it.  

Finian also taught me to make friends with the floor.  One of his signature shopping centre moves was to hit the tiles and terrify the public with his impression of a biblical demonic possession.  To be honest, I think even Jesus would have dodged into New Look to avoid him.  To calm him down and keep him safe, I needed to sit near him.  The  Marshes floor became very familiar with my bum cheeks.  It is literally grounding to spend time at eye-level with people's knees, while they give you and your screaming son a Very Wide berth. 

I never felt shame about these experiences.   I accepted the 'mortification' and found a kind of freedom in it.

Humility is a gift.

It has helped me be more authentic and accepting of difference, and has definitely allowed me to have more fun. 

I never imagined that one day I would be grateful that my son screamed in the face of social rules.  He continues to be my favourite teacher.

you know you want to

 

Autism & Learning From Depression

 In my last post I said that Autism and Depression are locked in an ungainly, dysfunctional dance.  

If any of you ever witnessed me at a wedding, I'm a terrible dancer.... even after loosening my limbs with a few shots of industrial strength Dutch courage.  But, what I lack in talent, I make up for with enthusiasm.  

The point is, I'll still dance and love every minute of it, despite moving with all the grace of an electrocuted rhino on acid.  The secret is surrendering to the moment without judgement.  There's a strange joy to be found in the most challenging of circumstances, whether on the dance floor or from the pits of Depression.

Recovery from Depression is shaky.  The tempo changes, I miss beats, I fall over my own feet.  I am clumsy and misaligned and slow to learn.  But I will keep trying.

Humility has become my guide.

This episode of Depression shook up my internal psyche with ferocity.  It mercilessly exposed the toxicity of patterns I am locked into.  It is becoming clear that old coping mechanisms are no longer protecting me, but in fact are damaging my ability to relate to others in a healthy manner.  It is humbling that those I care about have witnessed me at my most difficult, unlovable worst.  It is painful that my flaws have been exposed to others, making me vulnerable to judgement. 

But.                                                                                                                                                      

There is something  freeing about being open to all my weaknesses and flaws.

Openly acknowledging them, without concealing them with humour or smothering them with intellect, is authentic and human.  There's a certain relief in it.  This Depression storm released many shadows from deep within my psyche.  It is an opportunity to engage with them, befriend them, instead of forcing them underground again.  This episode of Depression is giving me the chance to grow.

Another aspect of humility is gracefully accepting help when it is given, whether through actions, challenges or presence.  I have a long road ahead of re-learning how to navigate relationships in a healthy way.  Like any novice,  I will rely on professionals, family and friends to point out when I am being inauthentic, defensive or misguided.  Surrendering to help from others is both freeing and terrifying, but curiosity about who I will become will drive me through the difficult terrain. 

While Autism was a predisposing factor to my Depression, it was not the cause.  It's time to roll up my sleeves and do some heavy emotional lifting, without resorting to my usual excuses.

The only thing vulnerable to judgement is my ego.  

While honouring how it has protected me, it is time to respectfully dismantle it to live as my authentic self.