Autism & Grizzly Bears

I've written about Autism and fear before, but it's a weighty topic.  It's too big an animal to reconcile with in one post (or maybe even one lifetime).  

I visualise fear as a grizzly bear napping on my kitchen floor.  I try to tiptoe around him.  I fear disturbing him, so I mop around him.  I know there's a large, bear-shaped patch of muddy floor beneath him.  But as long as I can't see the gritty shadow, and he remains sleeping, it's not a problem, right?

I've dealt with many guises of fear in therapy.  It has shown up in the shape of people, loss, trauma, powerlessness, illness, abandonment, perfectionism and all the slings and arrows of life.  I've survived them all.

But there's still a big fucking bear on my kitchen floor.

Most of my defense mechanisms have been therapied out of me.  I can't (and won't) think, drink or distract my way past this. 

We're in the middle of planning adult services for Finian.  I use the word 'planning' advisedly, as we have no idea what we are planning for.  Illusion, smoke and mirrors mostly, it seems.  Endless meetings, assessments and soul-destroying forms circle back on themselves with no clear destination.  

In 3 months Finian will turn 18 and leave the familiarity of school and respite.  The path he's blossomed on abruptly terminates at a cliff edge we can't see over.

I'm terrified.

The well-being of my vulnerable son is in the hands of people I don't know, turning cogs I don't understand.  He could be lucky and be placed in a day service where he will thrive.  Or he could be dropped like a stone with a wry shrug.  His fate will be decided by funding, politics or a rubber stamp.  My husband and I are advocting for him at every turn, but one day we'll be gone.  He'll be at the mercy of faceless people in offices who are more concerned with budgets than humanity.

I'm sick of being scared.

At the risk of snapping an already stretchy metaphor, imma poke the bear awake and either dance or be devoured.  I've wasted a lot of time and energy avoiding the fear.  I need to sit with it, feel it, meditate with it and process it.  I need to integrate the fear as part of my tapestry instead of having a wild animal controlling my home.

The only thing to fear, is fear itself is a cliche because it's true.  I've learned that embracing difficult emotions fully always leads to growth...... it's just that without awareness, my default poition is avoidance. 

I'm curious now about what this will unfold.

Fancy a chat?

Autism & Holding Hands

Finian and I hold hands a lot.

It's partly a hangover from his bolting days, but mostly we just like the connection.  It seems to anchor and soothe him.  

When Finian was younger, I had to keep a death's grip on him to keep him safe.  There was nothing centred, or loving, about it.  It was all about survival.

We held hands in the car today as we drove to youth club. I noticed that even though we had a warm connection, we held hands lightly.  We didn't need to cling to each other to feel secure.

In keeping with life's synchronicities, this reflects how differently I now relate to the world.

My breakdown a year ago was one of the best things to ever happen me.  It was an excrutiating baptism of fire, which burned away my excess baggage. It was a painful, humbling way to shed a thousand pounds of  weighty armour..... but living as a more exposed, but genuine, soul has a lightness that it wonderful.

My ego, and all it's defences, were incinerated.  A generous amount of therapy helped me learn to relate to the world with love and compassion, instead of from a rigid place of fear.  It's still a work in progress (and always will be) but it's a healthy, wholesome path supported by authentic connections.  

Clinging onto anything (hands, people, objects, self-image etc) is a wax-sealed guarantee for suffering.  Any Buddhist worth their Himalayan salt can tell you that.  

Letting go is a scary process, though, when our culture has conditioned us to value ownership of external objects above all else.  

I'm not such a beardy hippie that I want to live in a bin eating lentils.  We need to pay our bills and have somewhere safe to live.  But that's all we need.  

When I meditate, I visualise holding everything, and everyone, I love lightly.

It's really cool to notice this manifest in how I hold hands with my son.

Autism & Naked Walking

I submitted an essay today as part of my final semester at college.

To ensure its safe passage across the ether, it has been annointed by the blood of my firstborn.  I had it blessed by wise virgins (surprisingly hard to find) by the light of a strawberry moon.  Prior to it's dispatch I realigned its chakras with smudged sage.  Its aura was protected by incanting sacred mantras in ancient Arameic.  I thought it prudent to throw in a little garlic and holy water for good measure, because, vampires.

Y'know, the usual.

All the magic spells were evoked against a backdrop of Bob the fucking Builder in Albanian. 

My brain has been Moulinexed into particularly runny porridge, so I went naked walking to recalibrate.

Disappointingly, naked walking isn't as decadent (or chilly) as it sounds.  

Naked walking is mindfully exercising without the distraction of music, podcasts, phones, Autism, ...... or anything superfluous to surviving a brisk February afternoon.  So..... nothing in my ears.  Nothing buzzing in my pocket.  Just me and my senses and the elements.

The birds are starting to build now, so they were rowdy and energetic.  Sudden flashbombs of sunlight pierced the clouds and exploded back into darkness.  Rainbows played catch with the shadows.  Everywhere was light and movement and windrush.

It was magic.

I was alone, but part of something much greater than myself.

By the time I got home, I was re-centred and mindful that there's a greater world than my blinkered college microcosm.

Within a few hours I was once again part of the flow of family life.  Our ordinary dramas reminded me that I'm part of the poorer, uglier Kardashians.  A bit of naked walking helps me love every minute of it.

"ffs the bitch is watching us"

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 & 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 & Amazing Parents

It's widely accepted that autism parents are saintly, wholesome creatures who could teach the Walton's a thing or two about being virtuous.  We have been gifted by the Gods with an eternal wellspring of patience, shouldering our load with inner tranquility.   We dispense kindly pearls of wisdom to those in trouble, having cultivated our Zen through the serene endurance of hardships.  

It is whispered that Buddha and Jesus are kinda jealous of the level of enlightenment we radiate.

Autism parents are the true Latter Day Saints.

"go in pieces"

No.  We're.  Fucking.  Not.

I'm having a shit day with Finian and I've just given him his third bag of crisps to try to stop him crying.  Learning to regulate his own emotions is a work in progress.  He's OK at indicating that a shower or a walk would calm him down, but he's unable to identify the reason for his irritability.  Equally, I'm OK at using Mindfulness and Other Tricks to help me attempt to co-regulate his emotions, but this relies on me getting enough sleep and eating properly.  This doesn't always happen.

Some days it all goes to shit and all I can do is throw crisps at him and hope it'll pass soon.

Today is one of those days that grabbing a shower is a hazy dream, and cooking a proper meal is the stuff of fantasy.  Balancing a Gin and Tonic on the ironing board while I tackle the laundry seems much more conducive to coping, as does a phone call to our friendly (and very familiar) take-away.  

You do what you gotta do to manage.

It's important that we forgive ourselves for being less than perfect, and for breaking the rules to survive a hard day.

Today I look like a small family of weasels live in my hair, and I seem to be wearing my husband's clothes (and not in a fun, Friday night sorta way).  Finian's breath stinks of salt & vinegar, and I may be half-baked by bedtime.

But I'm OK with not being an Amazing Parent.

Being OK will do grand.

The Waltons.
Off their tits on Mogadon.

Autism & Stillness

I love my FitBit.

It motivates me to keep active, and when I hit my daily 10,000 steps I feel like the next obvious step for me is pro-athletics (right after I win a Nobel prize for saving the planet, publish a series of novels and find a cure for cancer).  

I dream big.

My somewhat inflated ambitions tend to get flushed down the Great Toilet of Dreams, though, when I remember that I'm not a medical scientist, and writing novels is really really hard.  Also,  If I strapped my FitBit to Finian's wrist it'd run out of numbers by lunchtime.

Finian rarely stops moving.

He has a sensory processing disorder which means it's hard for him to make sense of the information his body is giving him.  He has to keep moving to regulate his sense of where his body is in space, so he paces a lot.  

Day and night.  

While eating, watching TV and brushing his teeth.  

While waiting for the school bus and standing in queues.  

This need was especially difficult to deal with during lockdown, and caused an escalation in meltdowns and self-harming episodes.   It was one of the factors that lead to my mental crash-and-burn earlier this year.

Part of my on-going therapy is about learning to cultivate inner stillness (a steady work in progress).  Inner quiet helps me to deconstruct painful defenses and get to know and honour my authentic self.  That said, I'd prefer if my authentic self had better behaved hair, but whatcha gonna do?  A calm centre facilitates mental clarity and emotional equilibrium.  It's hard to find fault with it.

The irony isn't lost on me that Finian's insatiable need for movement has lead me to find inner stillness.  What I wonder, though, is if it's possible for Finian to experience inner calm, or if his cogs are permanently set to cruise control?  His eternal pacing is his body's way of trying to reach a state of balance, but it remains one of those painful, unanswerable questions if he is capable of feeling true peace.