by Band Back Together | Dec 4, 2010 | Asperger's Syndrome, Autism, Childhood Bullying, Coping With Bullying, Fibromyalgia, How To Heal From Being Bullied, Parenting, Rheumatoid Arthritis |
A couple of weeks ago, we finally got an official diagnosis for Alana, one of my twins. The doctor confirmed our suspicions. She definitely has Asperger Syndrome. According to the doctor, there are changes in the works in the medical community to eliminate the separation between Asperger’s Syndrome and Autism by referring to them all as Autism Spectrum Disorders. That’s just a dressed-up way of saying our family has yet another mountain to climb.
I guess the formal diagnosis shouldn’t really change much in our lives. We’ve suspected for several months and we’ve already taken steps to try to help her. We’ve eliminated red dye from her diet, learned to remove her from situations at the first sign of sensory overload, and tried different coping methods to work through the inevitable meltdowns.
But somehow, having the words written that will forever label her…well, it does change things.
Last night, I went through my nightly routine of teeth-brushing and face-washing, and then I checked on the kids. They are five and two, and I still can’t go to sleep without checking on them, making sure they’re breathing, and saying a little prayer over each of them.
I got to Alana’s bed last. I sat there on the edge to watch her sleep for a minute and give her a kiss. As I looked at her, the reality of her diagnosis hit me.
Sure, we expected it. And just like I do with my health issues (RA and Fibro), I’m constantly doing research, trying to find tips and tricks for handling this. I’ve thrown myself completely into figuring out what’s going on in her brilliant mind and helping her through her struggles. But I don’t think I’ve let my heart in on the process. And last night it learned what was happening and screamed in protest.
“THIS IS NOT THE WAY IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE FOR HER!”
She’s not supposed to have to struggle to make friends. She’s not supposed to get so anxious over a picture she’s drawing that she starts crying because she messed up and thinks other people won’t like it. She’s not supposed to have a compulsion that makes her chew the skin on her fingers until they bleed. This should NOT be happening to my child!
There are so many things that are much worse than ASD. I know that and I thank God every day for the health of all my children. But I think every parent can understand that I had a vision of how things are supposed to turn out for my kids. They’re all going to grow up and have plenty of friends, go to college, have a great career, get married to their soul mates, have beautiful healthy babies, etc. And while I know that they will ultimately forge their own destinies, I guess the common thread in what is supposed to happen is an absence of pain.
Pain is part of life.
There’s no question about that. As much as we want to protect our children from it, it’s going to happen. Our job is to be there and help them through it. And while I watched her sleep, I realized that she’s likely to be dealt much more than her fair share of pain. There seems to be new stories every day about children with autism being abused or bullied. The last few months that Alana was in daycare proved that it starts early. The four-year olds didn’t understand her anxiety and meltdowns so they would pick on her about it. It brought me to tears.
As much as I worry about her in social situations as she grows up, I am constantly amazed at the gift that Asperger Syndrome has given her. We always knew she was very smart. As I home-school her, though, I’m seeing evidence every day of just how different Alana is by comparison.
For instance, a few weeks ago, she got her Hooked on Phonics Kindergarten Level 1 book and started reading it to me. She sat for an hour and a half straight going through the last seven lessons in the book. No DVDs, just her. I feel like I’m not even needed now when we work on reading. We’ve completed one-quarter of Kindergarten and she’s reading every one syllable word she comes across.
Beyond scholastics, she understands things on a deeper level than even I do sometimes. Since our last appointment with her doctor, she and I have talked a little bit about what makes her “different” than most other kids. I told her that the symbol for Autism is a puzzle piece because we still don’t know much about it and we’re trying to fit the pieces together.
A few days later, she brought me a piece of paper with a few colored pieces glued on randomly. She said, “Mommy, this is your puzzle. Every day when we figure out something else about me you can glue on another piece until we have it all put together.” Just one of the many things that surprise me coming from a five-year old.
I admit, I had a rather weak moment last night, sitting there on Alana’s bed.
I try hard to be positive and look for the bright points. But sometimes the worry, the pain, the fear all break through and dark clouds roll in. Then, Alexis giggles while she wrinkles her cute little nose, or Avery tells a 2-year old version of a knock-knock joke, or Alana says something really profound.
Then the light comes back, reminding me of just how blessed I am and how much I have to be thankful for.
by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Child Abuse, Coping With Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Major Depressive Disorder |
wall. hit it. check that off my list for today.
trying to get them to school on time–wrong
trying to get them to eat–wrong
trying to get them dressed–wrong
trying to get them clean–wrong
zipping the jacket–wrong
having them not show up to school late–wrong
waking them up–wrong
waking up–wrong
words–wrong
My silence in my home is the only acceptable form of me to the three who need me.
The hardest thing about being a depressed mother? The odor. No matter how much relentless, caffeine-induced energy, forced enthusiasm, skilled application to educational crafts, or books read on development. No matter what care taken with my fragile mental health…taking my pills like a good girl every night so I wake up in the morning to do it all again. No matter how clean the kitchen sink, how nutritious the meal, customized the birthday presents, thoughtful the note in the lunch box. No matter how carefully I avoid repeating patterns of abuse and violence –no matter. I stink. It is as if my depression leaves a permanent, distasteful and toxic odor coming from my very being. No matter how much I dress it up, clean it off, put make-up on it, expose it to fresh air and aromatic therapies. I toss chemicals into it, paint it pretty colors, or force it into room-mommy scenarios.
It still stinks.
The fumes of depression seep out of every pore with the stench of decaying life and flammable, noxious fluids that lead to forensic evidence in my face–that my own mother chose my father over me and my father chose me over my mother. My children–they are bomb-sniffing dogs.They smell the little girl I was–discarded and thrown into the trash with the giant Gallo wine jugs. They smell the lack of basic import I have ever had on the mother, father, brother, and sister family of origin I fell into. They smell the dangerous mix of rage and intelligence that may combust at any moment. They smell despair and destruction. My kids smell my depression.
I stay vertical as to not hurt them more than I already have by exposing them to a life long…long life…with a chronically depressed mother. It goes like that…it is like that. New strategies on disinfectant, deodorant, dialogues on anti-depressants. Days like this are the scratch and sniff of it. These days scrape hard on my soul. And I reek of it.
They are out there…my kids are out there right now waiting for me to pick them up after school, as I do every afternoon in a dutiful attempt to assure them that my love is greater than the force of gravity on my heart. I am already dreading the predictable, palpable disappointment they will have when they get in the minivan and the smell of my mood reminds them I am not EVER going to be the bounce-house of distraction-filled fun that is their father.
They will never know he broke me too. Asshole. And I stayed for them, sleeping with one eye open and one foot out the door ever since. Seven years of a thirteen year marriage straddling suspicion and motherhood.
Against every fiber of my being to drive it off a cliff and enjoy the fall–I am getting in the fucking minivan, I drive on the right side…stop at all the red lights, avoid oncoming traffic whenever I can.
Joy gone. Independence gone. Creativity gone. Respect gone. The possibility of being touched by a man and feeling safe–he and my dad put the nails in that coffin, too. Yuck.
it is this always
i am barely, rarely, fairly ”good enough,” silent, and vertical.
and i smell like a martyr.
by Band Back Together | Dec 3, 2010 | Abuse, Anger, Child Abuse, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Guilt, Loneliness, Sadness |
I picked up the key – my key – to the apartment my son and I would soon call home.
I tried to figure out just what I could take. If I took too much – or the wrong things – I feared the price we’d pay.
I made the reservation for a U-Haul, knowing that I didn’t have the money to pay for it, but that it was the only option.
I learned that my son had been suspended from school, on moving day – inappropriate language. I was hoping to protect him from the process of moving but now he would have to help.
I had $74.87 in my checking account that had to cover the U-Haul, gas, food, laundry and basic needs for the two of us for six days.
I was terrified.
I grieved the life I thought we’d have. The family I so desperately wanted.
I was convinced that he would see his abuse was the problem. That he’d seek help. That he would change. That we would be the family I knew we could be.
364 days ago …
The emotional damage I allowed him to inflict on my son became vividly clear within days of the move.The realization of just how damaged I had become would materialize much later.
It hasn’t been easy. Not a single day. I’ve tried to make the impact on my son minimal, but he has often had to do without.
I’ve had to apply for financial assistance to help offset the cost for him to attend church camp and youth fall retreat, sharing very personal information with complete strangers so that they could judge if we were worthy of their money.
I’ve had to file for bankruptcy, facing the public embarrassment of admitting I could not meet my financial obligations.
I’ve had to get food from a food bank, more than once – waiting in line for hours with those people – hoping I wouldn’t see anyone I knew, but never being quite that lucky. Feeling waves of humiliation and shame each time and never telling my son.
Many days I’ve felt like a charity case – a project for someone – not quite human.
Although we remain married, I suspect he will eventually find someone else who is prettier – smarter – more concerned with the image and the things so important to him. When that day comes, I’ll be faced with the reality I’ve been avoiding – even denying. The reality that confirms I wasn’t enough for him, and will never be enough for anyone – just like he told me years ago.
364 days ago …
It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do. But I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t do it for myself. If it weren’t for my son I’d have never left. I still believe that I don’t deserve any better. That settling is my only option to combat a life of loneliness. But my son? My son? He deserves better.
I wish I could have done it for me.
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Abortion, Abortion Recovery, Abuse, Anxiety Disorders, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, Major Depressive Disorder |
I can’t believe it has been 15 years since I meet him. There are days it feel like it was just yesterday. I knew his past – his Dad killed himself when he was young and he rebelled. He still did things that you would expect a troubled youth to do, but that stuffed seemed to stop once we started dating.
I can’t really complain about the first year and a half of the 3 years we were together. We were a normal, young couple in love. Everyone thought we were a happy couple. Then I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but I was young and “thought” I was in love.
That’s when you started telling me how worthless I was. It’s also when you started to hit me. A punch in the arm here. A shove there. Then you started with my stomach. Told me I was stupid and I wasn’t going to have this baby. You forced me to have an abortion, which in hindsight I am glad I did, mainly because I think if I had carried this baby longer, You would have made sure it didn’t survive.
I was no longer allowed to see my friends. I feel into a deep depression and was heart-broken when you broke up with me. What to do with all of this new found freedom? Take a trip with my BFF of course! Well, once you got wind of that, you had to have me back. Could it be the rumor that I was planning on moving with her to Florida, start a new life? Foolishly I agreed to meet you for lunch. I let you make me think you were truly sorry and wanted me back.
Things only got worse. I had a curfew, had to sneak out to be with my friends, could only do what you wanted me to do. The beatings and verbal abuse got much worse the second time around. I remember the time I picked you up from work at one in the morning in the city and you beat me in my own car because I was listening to a mix tape of songs that my favorite cover band played. A stranger came up to the window as you were banging my head into the car window. He said he was calling the cops and told me to get out of the car, that he’d help me. You stopped hitting me long enough for me to drive away, only to start punching me in the legs the whole ride home.
If I loved you enough, you’d stop, I told myself. You told me how much you loved me.
You were only doing this because it’s what your Dad did to your Mom.
I started sneaking out to go out with one of my BFFs. I started having fun again, feeling like myself again. I cheated on you. I found a great guy, at my favorite hangout, who I had known since high school. He worshiped me. He told me how smart, beautiful and fun I was. It gave me my confidence back.
I got the nerve to leave you. I made sure to do it when everyone was home at your Mom’s house.You proposed to me, told me you’d already asked your Mom for her engagement ring your Dad had given her. I took all my stuff out of her house and moved right in with my new boyfriend. I lived 10 minutes from you for 3 years and you never knew.
To this day I live with the scars you left me, physically and emotionally. I have been on and off anti-depressants for 10 years. I have panic attacks when I am reminded of a bad beating. I freak out when my husband tries to kiss me (like if I am leaning up against the counter & he blocks my way out). I feel trapped, yet I know he would NEVER lay a hand on me.
Luckily I found REAL love with my husband. I told him EVERYTHING you did to me and he still loves me. I am damaged goods, but he loves me anyway. You told me if I left you NO ONE would want me. I can count on one hand the number of people who know what you did to me, but I need to get it all out.
I was a silly, young girl who believed I could change you. I now know, that you were the one who changed me. Not because you loved me, because what we had WASN’T love.
You made me stronger, no I made me stronger.
I survived the hell you put me through.
by Band Back Together | Nov 29, 2010 | Abuse, Addiction, Alcohol Addiction, Coping With Domestic Abuse, Domestic Abuse, Economic Abuse, Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, Rape/Sexual Assault |
You beat me mercilessly and I learned to be gentle with my own kids.
You said hateful things to me and I learned to weigh the consequences of my words carefully.
You sexually abused me and I learned that I could survive pure evil.
You were a raging alcoholic and I learned to watch my alcohol consumption, lest I become you.
You thought only of yourself and I learned to think of others.
You were angry and cruel and I learned that being kind is worth the effort it sometimes take.
You were a judgemental bigot and I learned to be accepting.
You were a horrible parent and I learned what kind of parent I never wanted to be.
You were a horrible husband and I learned to look for a loving heart before appearance, wealth or status.
You always found someone else to blame for your problems and I learned to accept responsibility for my actions.
You would jump to conclusions and accuse and I learned to listen.
You preyed on the weak and I learned to fight for the underdog.
You lied and cheated to get what you wanted and I learned to be honest and trustworthy.
You told me I was worthless and I learned to find my worth from within.
You tried to break me and I learned I have a strength I never knew was possible.
You showed me who you were and I learned exactly what I did NOT want to be.
You tried to kill my spirit and, in the end, all I had learned, set my spirit free.
by Band Back Together | Nov 29, 2010 | Abuse, Adult Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse, Sadness, Stress, Trauma |
10 years ago today…He is 10 today.
10 years ago today– body and mind split completely open. Each minute brought more pain. Each moment split my mind further away from my body.
Despair it wouldn’t happen
relief it was happening
despair it wouldn’t end
relief it was ending,
despair it was over.
Despair it was just beginning…and down I went.
I remember the feel of my grandfather’s dresser under my hands as I felt the beginning. Black cardigan sweater. Blue shirt, elastic waist black Kmart pants. Two days later they would be bagged up and handed to me much like forensic evidence of what had gone down. What had been killed. Blood soaked underwear, puke-stained shirt. How did I ever get them off of me? Who took them off? How did anyone keep track of them? Why do I want them back? How am I going to ever get them clean?
My water broke. I was still good…still in love with my husband, still believing I was going to be okay. The last image of my marriage as I had known it was my dear one walking me across the street to the hospital emergency room. It was a normal birth. I was a healthy woman. I had a healthy baby. I loved my husband, I loved my baby.
Everything was going great. I was okay. I was birthing the son I loved more than anything I had known. The son who had come to me months earlier as I walked around a lake and said “I am ready, Mama.” First time we tried, he came to me. My dear Zig. My dear one. We tried, he and I. We tried to follow the rules, follow the body, follow the doctors. I followed with some idealistic faith in store-bought images of motherhood not meaning the end of me. But I forgot something on my birth plan.
I forgot to remember to not forget she wasn’t there. My mother, any mother, was not there. No mother to see me through it, to protect me. I forgot to watch my back. So I missed it altogether. Idiot. I should have KNOWN. I wasn’t looking, too distracted by pain, and the slipping away of parts of my mind. I wasn’t aware when the dark figure of the lifelong fear of my father took its place in my birth room.
The dark cloud. Standing behind the door, behind me – lurking. I never had a chance. My bad.
