Autism & Pica

Pica sounds like it should be something exotic.

A strange Amazonian fruit.  Maybe a Vivienne Westwood corsage.  Perhaps some prehistoric creature clinging to volcanic vents in the deepest caverns of the ocean.

But it's none of those things.  Sad face.  

Pica is eating shit you shouldn't.

Babies go through a stage of development where they explore the world orally, and just about everything goes in their mouth.  For a while they're like cute, but not very efficient, hoovers.  Then they discover that most stuff  on the ground doesn't taste great, so they stop.

Unless that baby is Finian.

It's hard to tell if its arrested development, or part of a sensory processing disorder, but pica has been his dependable companion ever since he discovered his hands could reach his face.

Finian seems to be committed to a life-long game of cat-and-mouse with Death.  He eyeballs the Grim Reaper, without blinking, while popping some broken glass in his mouth.  I imagine him saying "so whats your bony ass gonna do about it???"  

Death doesn't stand a chance.

The list of things Finian has eaten (entirely or partially) is impressive.

Coal.  Thumb tacks.  Paper clips.  Staplers.  Paper (important documents are especially delicious).  Firelighters.  Nail clippers.  Buttons.  Many, many books.  Wet toilet roll (yum..... and yes, from the toilet, for extra flavour).  Towels.  Styrofoam, which makes for defiantly floaty turds..... a few of them hung around so long I considered adopting them and giving them names.  Peter the Turd.  A chair.  Glass (see above).  Rocks.  Masonry.  Sand.  Jewellery..... we may have the most expensively accessorized septic tank in County Monaghan.  Packaging.  An electrician once remarked that judging by the chewed cables, we may have a rodent problem.   Yeah we fucking do.  Combs.  The insoles of shoes.  Pens.  Blue tack.  Googly eyes.  Crochet hooks.  DVD cases.  Baskets.  Logs.  Whatever you're having yourself.

Finian has the constitution of a hard-boiled ox.  He'd survive a nuclear holocaust with barely a sneeze.

The irony is that he'll eat just about anything except food,

His diet is limited to about five or six items (excluding crisps and confectionery, which he would live on if allowed).  We rely on protein bars and multivitamins to keep him nourished.  He is a human paradox.

So, it would be lovely if Pica was a sublime piece of music or an unusual rose.  But it's not.  Which is just as well, because he'd probably eat those too.

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.