How Christmas and the Naturopath Found Me Again

I am Christmas Crazy this year. This is new.

It started a few weeks ago when I texted my BFF:
"Just bought the old MWS, Amy Grant, and James Last Christmas albums on my phone. But every time I start listening to them, I cry. Why does this keep happening?"

My BFF is all things music, including her own music school, (which she just won an award for) so I assumed she would have implicit understanding as to why this vexing phenomenon kept occurring.

She replied:
"Ya I know. Me too. A kinder simpler, easier time."

And I was relieved, at the very least, that I'm not completely losing my marbles.

But later that week, as I played these albums in my car, I began to think there's something even deeper going on in my connection to this music. Certain songs reflecting a magical quality still make my eyes sparkle and leave me with a sense of wonder, and that's where my tears kept spilling. I know I used to have the wonder when I was a kid, but the last few years I've been so beaten down by life, I had no magic left... no life left, really.

In my professional work, I teach a class to grade 10 students called, "Losing Yourself, Finding Yourself, and the Journey In Between."  At the beginning of the class we talk about what it means to lose ourselves. Firstly, how do you even know what "yourself" is in the first place? Especially when you're in grade 10.  So we start by connecting with who we really are, and I tell them "Who you really are is who you were when you were a little kid, just playing." And then we recount our favorite play activities: action figures/dolls, Lego, hide and seek, little green army men, etc. Then once we've re-connected with our inner little kid, we look at what separates us from that little kid: stress, bullying, trying to fit in, trauma, suffering, etc. We then look at numbing behaviours we engage in to relieve the suffering, and how if we never move beyond those numbing behaviours, we never get back to that little kid again (who you really are). (Materials credit: Brene Brown, Gabor Mate, Richard Rohr).

Back to the Christmas music, I realized the parts that caused me to cry were the parts that caused/created stillness, holiness, awe, magic, and tenderness. And as I kept experiencing the feeling of awe in the mysterious and magical components in the music, I realized that I have finally re-connected with my real self again. I, Karen, had come back to life after totally losing myself to trauma, heartbreak (read earlier blog entries) and suffering.

Okay. I was aware that I am feeling more like my old self since I started some naturopathic supplements in October (apparently I was a little dopamine deprived). But why have I failed to connect with Christmas for so long? Its not just the suffering and trauma of being a single parent to a non-verbal child with profound autism. Because I was struggling with lack of Christmas magic for much longer than that. And then I remembered that Christmas music was reviled in our home previously, including a ban on any singing along. I still played it quietly where it wouldn't upset others, but I couldn't express joy, delight, or childlike awe with it. Of course when one is in the midst of such dynamics, its nearly impossible to identify what's really going on in such circumstances, and I continued to mute Christmas so as to keep all members of the household unagitated. And as I stuffed my Christmas spirit further and further down, hid it away with my inner child, and waited until it was safe to come out again... And it wasn't safe to come out again until my neurotransmitters had re-balanced after the last 10 years of trauma.

It all made me think about what the true Spirit of Christmas really is. As a person of Christian heritage, I believe it starts with the birth of a little baby who brought new life to a weary world. (Of which we celebrate in winter, although it seems Jesus of Nazareth was more likely born in spring).

But the point is, celebration of new life.

Of fragility.

Of vulnerability.

Of fleeting awe.

Of mystery.

Of beauty.

Of the essence of life itself.

Merry Christmas!

Love, Life and 50 First Dates.

So the latest ASD development in me and my 5 year old's life is that he no longer sleeps his meager 10-11 hours a day. Now he sleeps 8-9 hours a day, and he doesn't go to sleep until 10 or 11pm. This is a tough adjustment for me as, even when childless, I was always ready for sleep by 9:30pm. For the last year or so, he's gone to sleep between 7-8pm, leaving me an hour or so for personal time and unwinding before bed. I don't get that anymore.

I've decided to cope with this 8pm-11pm time lag in his bedroom, waiting for sleep, by reading.

This weekend I was pleasantly surprised to find an entire change of perspective from an unexpected source: Wildflower by Drew Barrymore.

Drew was talking about her movie magic with Adam Sandler, and specifically referencing the movie 50 First Dates, which I love. If you haven't seen it, its rom-com about a marine biologist who falls in love with a girl who was in a car accident, causing her to lose her memory every time she goes to sleep, effectively re-setting her brain back to the morning of the day she had her accident. The theme of the movie that Drew references in her Wildflower book, is that you have to fall in love each and every day with your life that you have. (Honestly, I'm not sure I noticed that theme in the movie; it was purely entertainment for me).

But reading Drew talk about falling in love with the life that you have (and she had a lot of negatives going on too), I started to think about that question for myself. And I think I am in love with the life that I have -- I really can't imagine life without my profoundly autistic and adorable son -- but I let myself get so overwhelmed and flustered that I don't have ability to realize and/or experience the love half the time. Not unlike those of us who love the surf, but its like I'm always caught in the barrel of the wave, I can't tell which way is up, and it makes me forget that I love the surf, because it always ends up becoming about survival. And that lets fear in. And fear steals the love if you let the fear reign.

And yet simply realizing that I AM in love with the life that I have, re-energized me from an 8 week slump of extreme exhaustion and overwhelm (ok, I also got a rare 10 hours of sleep the night before, so that might be part of it too). So how do I get back to being in love with the life that I have, everyday?

My thoughts returned to the resolution of the 50 First Dates movie (spoiler alert). Lucy's (Drew's character) new husband and family help her life to move forward from that one day where her memory starts from every day, by making her a video tape. Now every morning when Lucy wakes in her bedroom there is a video tape, and it shows her that she had a car accident, footage of her recovery and her current memory problem. Then it goes on to show that she met and fell in love with this awesome guy (Adam Sandler's character) and they got married, and had a kid who is now 4 or 5 years old, and while it looks just like her bedroom before the accident, it turns out they're actually on a research vessel in Alaska with their daughter. And Lucy cries in amazement as she watches these incredible events of her life unfold in front of her over a few minutes. At the end of the tape she is invited to join her family (including her dad) up on the deck for coffee and everyday she meets her husband and daughter for the first time and absolutely knows she is hopelessly in love with them.

(Lucy meets her daughter for the first time that day)

Ok. Its fiction. But I started to think about what if I awoke every day (not woken by the pitter patter of little feet running to jump on me and steal my blankets, but just naturally woke) to find a video tape of my life. What would be on it? Like Lucy watching footage of her recovery from her accident, I would recoil from the pain of my marriage and divorce, but be overwhelmed by the miraculous birth of my son, hurt again by his autism diagnosis, but overjoyed at our day to day life. And even though the marriage and divorce were more painful than I could bear, they made me who I am today, and I am happier, content, and more satisfied with my life now than I have ever been. Ironically, that all came from making a 'bad decision' instead of being fearful of making a bad decision as I had previously been. (Live in love, not fear).  Yes, a lot of it is really hard, and there are many many tears, but the awesome stuff is SO AWESOME. And there are great moments of cuddles and tickles, the moments I always dreamed of having, I now have. Even today I have spent much of the day just watching my son in amazement; he fascinates me.

So when I realized that I AM IN LOVE WITH MY LIFE, that brought back the glimmer that 8 sleepless and virulent weeks had sapped out of me... and it didn't hurt that my little man happily entertained himself on YouTube all afternoon either.

Love. Not fear.

Connection. Rejection.

In her 2010 Ted Talk, Brene Brown says "Connection is the reason we [humans] are here". I believe it, and yet connection continually eludes me.

Turns out I am not alone in that feeling.

I am writing this blog entry in my art therapy journal from my online Brene Brown art therapy course. (We'll get back to that in a second.) I am writing in my journal at the beach, about 100 metres away from where my non-verbal 5 year old ASD son is playing with his dad... and his 2 year old half- brother, and his dad's second wife (who is inappropriate because of her original relationship to me and my son's dad; but she and my son's dad have a child together now so it ain't going away, and its not my story to tell online). At this very moment, rejection is screaming in my ear and jumping up and down on top of my head. But this rejection has been thrust in my face long enough, that while I feel the constant stab, I have become accepting of the pain. It adds a few clouds to the day, but it no longer ruins it. I only add this because it plays into the vulnerability of what I'm writing about at the moment.

Back to the Brene Brown art therapy course... I am taking it a second time because I was invited to be part of a local group of people doing the course for the first time. Something nagging deep inside me told me I should do the course a second time because there was probably something I missed the first time. The first sections of the course are about Connection and Courage. I focused mostly on Courage my first time through because that's what I needed at the time.

 "We get courage by couraging," Brene says, and whether I wanted to practice courage or not in 2013, (NOT was the case) I had to. And I did develop a lot more courage (though I still need to consume large doses of it every day, so I guess that means I'm still amassing it?)

Three years after the first time I read Brene's book, "The Gifts of Imperfection", the theme that is emerging for me is Connection, which my heart's knowing grin tells me that I quite purposely glossed over these pieces the first time I did this course. I just didn't have capacity to look at this needy part of my life the first time. But I guess I did so well with the courage piece that I now have courage to look at my difficulty with Connection.

Like the research subjects Brene refers to in her 2010 TED talk "The Power of Vulnerability", I can't really tell you much about connection, but I can tell you a whole lot about rejection. And as I bring up this topic with friends who aren't necessarily intimate friends, but whom I feel free to speak deeply with, I hear much rejection from them too. Rejection (or lack of inclusion) from syblings, parents, colleagues, friends, and lovers. Then there's those who are identified as a minority, for whatever reason, who are also not included by society at large.

I have to wonder why so many of us who are confident and capable and loving and loveable LACK close intimate relationships of the friendship variety, (community?) causing us to feel so alone. Brene would probably say its because we're not being vulnerable enough, with ourselves, with our loved ones, with our God.

I would agree. But some of us are working on being vulnerable and are doing really well at it, even though it hurts. Many of my colleagues and acquaintances are clinical therapists, and they know how to achieve relational intimacy and they are doing they're best at it, but they also say they are lacking close friends.

Why are so many of us lacking close friendships then?

 

Why do I hear and see so many people saying,

"I have lots and lots of acquaintances, but I don't really have any friends."

In my city, I think the astronomical cost of living is taking its toll on people's ability to nurture the main thing that gives us meaning in life: human connection. That's a big factor. But that's not the only factor. I'd bet we'd find just as many people in affordable cities who are surrounded by acquaintances and still feel lonely.

I think it might have more to do with the way western societies are all about the individual pursuit of happiness, whereas eastern cultures tend to be more about the wellness of the whole group... the family unit, or even the community. While it might seem like a good thing for an individual to succeed and actualize their potential, the problem that emerges is that when a person fails to actualize, all the failure falls on that one person.[Credit: I'm pretty sure I got this individual vs group mentality stuff either from Richard Rohr, Dacher Keltner, or both.] When group/family wellness is the goal, then when people fail together, they are still together. Its not as devastating... because "connection is the reason that we are here"... so you haven't lost everything. You still have the connection. (Unless you are a character in Game of Thrones, then if the group fails, you all die!)

Which brings me back to my lack of connection.

I would say I am quite good at connection, when its a fairly safe bet; like I am awesomely connected with my son. But his autism prevents him from socially reciprocating. (He is full of hugs and cuddles and tickles and wrestling, but he can't share memories with me, or celebrate holidays, discuss things, etc.)

I am great at connecting with colleagues at work who also want to be connected, but I don't belong in any identified groups, so I get left out a lot.

I am disconnected from anyone I need to be connected to, but with whom it is inconvenient to be connected to. Autism  throws a giant wrench into connectivity because a few autism outburst from the past have basically kyboshed any future connections because people are still traumatized from the previous ones. The result is my son and I are on our own. And it doesn't feel good. I think we need to belong to somebody or something.

I felt this lack of belonging for my son and I already last year. I attempted to fix it by 'building a team' around my son, in terms of support and respite people. I asked about 8 trusted families about being part of our team. They all considered it heavily, and all of them (many with tears) said they're just too busy with sports/church/health issues, etc. More rejection... for really good reasons, but still rejection.

I want to get real about this Connection thing. Because Brene is right. Connection is everything.
      - I really like the beach.
      - I really like the beach by myself.
      -  But after 10 times at the beach by myself, it would mean so much more to share it with  
        someone (friend or otherwise).

Right or wrong, I have given up on people I should be connected with. I am pondering that maybe the way for me to achieve real connection in an on-going way might be more about building my family than building-in play dates. There are others out there who don't even have 1 person they belong to. So maybe we can belong together.

Ironically (or probably not if you're a shame researcher like Brene Brown) it will take a lot of courage if I do proceed with building my family. It's unknown. It's unpredictable. It's forever. So it's scary. But it will also take a lot of courage to continue to not-belong as we currently sit.

YES. We have autism.

I get a weekly newsletter from mindfulness expert, Dr. Rick Hanson (not the Man In Motion) at work. Today's newsletter was called "Say Yes." Essentially it was about the well known concept that suffering lies in the resistance, so when we say 'YES' to life (instead of resisting), we suffer less. It doesn't mean we have to like it, but it means we are accepting it for being what it is. Such as 'Yes, there is nothing good for breakfast,' or 'Yes, I would like a pumpkin spice latte, but I can't afford it.' or 'Yes my desk is covered in mouse poop again this morning, and I am still thankful for my job,' or

Yes, we have autism.

I say 'we' because even though its my son who holds the diagnosis, he and I are all in this together. He suffers in significant ways at the hands of autism, and so do I.

For the first four years I have generally been able to help him contain his frustration and lack of emotional regulation. But he has done a lot of growing up over this summer before Kindergarten, and all of the sudden his rage and upset are moving beyond what I can intervene with. I am starting to get the point where I have to let go a bit and allow him to find his own way through autism.

In the last week my son has bitten two people through the skin, one of them he bit three times (and that person knew better how to prevent the bites, but didn't). He began brutally biting and tearing at his skin with his own teeth when he was prevented from biting others (and he rejects chewy toy interventions). He INSTANTANEOUSLY goes from relaxed to screaming and smacking his head on the ground. And my arms are black and blue this week from his pinches. (The pinches used to be the big problem. Now I think, "Oh, its just pinching. That will just bruise.")

What are all these tantrums about? Could be anything. Like he has brought me his sippy cup to get refilled with water. Since I have to walk to the fridge, get the water out, take the lid off the cup, pour the water into the cup, and twist the lid back on, he is tantruming because I haven't instantaneously supplied water in his mouth. He knows I am getting it for him. But he can't stand the wait. Or the most common tantrum as of late is because he really enjoys a song on one of his tv shows and he wants it replayed instantly. Yes, we have the technology to do so, but he will tantrum unless you replay the same 2 minutes over and over for hours on end. I am not exaggerating. When I once permitted this behavior because I couldn't stand the screaming, I replayed the same 30 seconds on his iPad video for almost three hours. The only reason I could stop was because he fell asleep.

So, to help me survive autism, I have elected to replay the same 30 minute video all day, of which he likes three segments. So he is happy for 5 minutes, screaming for 10 minutes, then happy for 10 minutes, and screaming for the last five. I feel he needs to learn to wait for his favorite parts to come on, even if it doesn't feel good to wait.

In my survival of this cycle I have noticed that when I intervene to prevent his potential injury, such as put my hand between his banging head and the floor, he stops head-banging, and targets his frustration at me by pinching, biting, and screaming all bloody hell at me. Or he does anything in his power to get away and bang his head in another spot. He seems to know I am mostly horrified by the head banging and the screaming, so that's what he does.

Yesterday afternoon I decided just to leave him be. The fastest way to de-escalate him is to leave him alone with some blankets and pillows. As I watched him without being seen, there was very little head butting. There was self-biting, but he wasn't biting through the skin, and it appeared that he wasn't getting the bang for the buck that he was used to. So he tried something different. He tried throwing chairs. He preferred his kiddie chair since he could throw it farther and louder, but he attempted the kitchen chairs too. Since he is only four I doubted one would go through a window, so I let him be. It was quite a cacophony.

I realize that in just a few years I won't be able to let him do this kind of thing anymore, but we are not there yet. I do have an option of creating a padded room in the basement when he grows older if need be. I am hoping he can verbally communicate by then and we won't need it.

In my theme of rest and healing, this doesn't jive. This is why I need to focus so much on rest. But YES, the suffering is found in the resistance. If I want to stop suffering and keep healing, I need to say, Yes, some days it is a mad house. This is what autism is.

And Yes, we have autism.

Day 30: Sleep (The journey toward healing)

Several weeks ago I was chatting with a friend of mine who is also a mental health therapist. This person told me about when they had to take a medical leave because they had so many clients that were suicidal, that they couldn't keep their own head above water. The advice this person gave me is that, "when you do get a chance to rest, you need to go really hard at it. All that stuff that you teach your clients... you need to do all of that and do it intensely."

So this week was the third week of my vacation, and the first week where I haven't been away somewhere, and still had childcare for my non-verbal ASD child. I haven't been able to turn off completely because I still have to be a mom to my special needs child. I still have to take him to his autism intervention appointments 3 times a week. But I have been attacking nutrition, physical restoration, and rest with everything I have. (kind of an oxymoron: attacking rest).

The rest has, by far, been the most challenging. My adrenalin surges are my biggest problem as my adrenalin has been keeping me going for so very long (like being in newborn mommy mode for over 5 years... with a non-cooperative newborn). Yesterday was the perfect example of that. My surging adrenalin (same as a panic attack) kept me up until 11pm. Why was it surging? Because almost every time I have been ready to go to sleep in the last 5 years, I wasn't able to because there was still something critical to be done, or an emergency to tend to, so adrenalin helped me keep going. Now it thinks it needs to kick in every time I get tired because that's what its been doing for me for so long. (And since I am tired most of the time, the adrenalin surges most of the time).

...so I couldn't sleep until after 11pm due to adrenalin. I finally fell asleep sometime before midnight. Then my ASD son had a typical bout of night waking from 1am - 4am, and I had to be up with him to prevent him from kicking the walls or floors and disturbing our neighbours. It also turned out he needed some intense sensory input, so I also had to bear-hug him, squeeze him, kiss him, and give him leg compressions, which are sort of like massage. I'm still super grateful I have an ASD kid that loves being hugged and kissed. And its my favorite thing to do as his mom. But when I've only had an hour of sleep, and I've been squeezing/kissing for an hour, it wears on a person.

Somewhere around 4am I finally got to sleep. Then up at 7am to get my son to his autism intervention appointment for 9.

We were back home around lunch, the babysitter came over, and I headed straight for bed, and fell into a very deep sleep for two hours. When I woke I felt like I was coming out of a coma. Most days adrenalin wakes me. Not today. And wow, was it ever hard to come back to consciousness and functionality. It took me a long time to figure out what day and time it was. I was convinced I had slept for a couple of days.

When I was at family camp last week I got in a 1 hour nap one day there, as well. Both that day and today I feel like I can grasp a small handful of the person I really am again, beyond mommy-robot mode. And that is a giant leap forward in my journey toward healing.

Day 24: What I learned in painting class (The journey toward healing)

I was at a family camp this week. I went for my parents to celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary. But I seriously had my doubts about what kind of rest I would get managing my non verbal, high needs ASD son amidst a camp full of families.  And the only thing worse than not getting any rest, is expecting to get rest, and then not getting any. Devastating.

But I learned something about life (and rest) this week in a painting class I managed to take. I learned that even when it looks like things are totally screwed up, and there is no hope of getting things back to the way they were before, if you keep on going (blending, adding water, adding white, or just painting over it,)  something pretty cool emerges.

While the above image is not the image we were painting, the sky is similar to what we were trying to achieve, and we were surprised by how hard (and easy) it was to do so.

Every day someone in our class would be trying to fix a mistake, and would cry out to our painting teacher, "Sharon! Sharon! I totally screwed it up! Help! What do I do?" And the first two days she gave us specific instructions on how to fix it. After that she said, "Just keep working it. You'll know what to do. You'll think you've lost it all and then all of the sudden the most beautiful thing will emerge."

And it did.

Over the course of the week, it seemed everyone in the class learned that we could either be vexed by our 'mistakes' (or lack of ability), or we could breathe, be patient, come back in a few hours with a different perspective. I think we all walked away with a deeper experience of process (journey) and patience from our painting class.

In terms of rest, I realize that:

a) I need opportunity to rest like I needed opportunity to paint. It doesn't happen 'over vacation', or during 4 hours when I have respite care one day. It's an ongoing project. Last Sunday I couldn't believe we were going to work on the same painting all week. But it took all those hours, and then some. I can't believe its going to take me more than 4 weeks to rest, but as indicated in this blog's subtitle, it is indeed a journey.

b) Its partly a mindset. When there is a four year old screaming bloody murder and trying to bite, kick, pinch, or headbutt either of you, its not a mindset. But after that storm has calmed, there is an element of choosing to be vexed, or choosing to allow flow to happen. And there's nothing wrong with walking away and coming back to it later.

Me partway through my painting.

c) I don't really know what this is going to look like in the end. I'm scared it will turn out horrible. I talked to a therapist friend of mine when I began my journey toward healing and rest and told her I was scared that after about a year of focusing on rest, I might not be better. Then what? She told me what I already knew, that was just fear talking. I could have used the same kind of fear to not start my painting in the first place.

d) To get a painting, you have to start painting. To rest, you have to engage in rest. Just do it. But for some reason its hard to initially engage in it. Similarly its hard to retract. It was often hard to stop painting, but my childcare had run out so I had to go. Same thing with resting. Once I start I could easily keep going, but I have to go back and forth because I still have to be a mom. That part takes commitment and work

Day 16: The Journey Toward Healing. Loneliness

Today is the last day of my vacation. I still have a few weeks left off work, but today is the last day of the vacation I did just for me, that included a nanny so that I can actually let go and rest.

I know my vacation is an incredible success because a couple of times the nanny came to me with a routine issue with my autistic son, and my first thought was, "Okay. What am I supposed to do about it?" And then I remembered that I still have to make him dinner. Or I still have to change his poopy diaper (by choice: I don't feel like anyone else should have to change my 4 year old's soiled diapers.) And a couple of times when the nanny was off I actually forgot I had to watch my son (but remembered before anything disastrous happened). That shows me I did, indeed, turn off.

This afternoon I walked along the beach by our cottage, alone, for a little reflection, and a little good-bye, and I could feel that significant healing had already occurred even in the shortness of this week.

The healing that I felt was that a little of the overwhelming loneliness that I am relentlessly consumed by, had faded quite a bit. Most single parents feel some elements of loneliness, I am sure. I would also venture to say that married parents feel loneliness too. But when my non-verbal, special needs child has been sick most of the time since February, and I was sick for half of that, and every day has been a vicious struggle to survive, and I barely have a moment to text those closest to me, never mind have conversations and feel heard, I start to feel like I am fading. I start to feel like no one sees me. I start to feel like I am not even me anymore. And I don't allow myself to be loved because I am too busy fighting off fear.

A friend of mine, who is also a single parent, but with a typically developed son, the same age as mine, came along on this vacation. We've done a few things together with our sons, but not everything. Her presence has been a big factor in healing some of my loneliness.

 My nanny is also a genius at engaging my son and his friend, and it feels wonderful to me to have another adult to share special moments with as my son develops. That's also a big factor in the development of my loneliness: having no one to share my son's victories and challenges with.

But the real key in healing my loneliness this week has simply been re-connecting with me. Having several hours every day to do what I like to do. This week it was reading, writing, painting, walking, eating, and shopping. It's also been about having time to take in God's love/presence all around me, and in this place, its obvious as Technicolor.

In this place I am aware that I am deeply loved by God around me, and God in me.

At the beginning of this week I read my daily meditation by Richard Rohr. He quoted an ancient saying of perennial wisdom which says "You are that which you seek." I knew then that I was seeking love, and I knew all I had to do this week was absorb it.

So that was 5 days out of 365. The trick will be re-connecting to this place of Love-in-me a little more regularly throughout the year.

Day 13: BEing in the journey toward healing

Whatever ground I lost while being sick at the start of my journey toward healing and rest, I regained immediately upon arrival at our vacation cottage in Coupeville, WA. Everything about this place disarms any stress I was clinging to, just to maintain my usual state of being. Last night I just sat on the deck and stared at the view. That was about it.

Slept well. This morning I got up, got my son breakfast, and then we all kind of sat around and stared at the view. I said to my single parent friend, "I've only been up for an hour, but I feel sleepy again already." She said, "That's called relaxing." I said, "Huh."

Then we went to a park, got some food at the grocery store, came home where I painted a bit, went for a walk, and suddenly it was the end of the day. I can't believe how fast the day passes when one is relaxing.

Today would best be described as simply BEing, or being mindfully present. I was very aware of my presence interacting with almost every other presence in everything, with every step I took, dialed up to 11 (meaning every step I took, something else blew my mind). A few of those things were able to be captured on screen, and I hope they allow you to BE in the moment.

 

 

 

 

All was not just sweet smelling roses, however. My sitter helped with my son enormously. Autism still won 3 battles today that I just wasn't interested in fighting. The hardest was the last (bedtime). My blood pressure probably went up with the 40 minutes of screaming before sleep because he was tired and couldn't get himself to sleep. But now that he is asleep, I can watch the sunset sky and the twinkling lights across the bay.

Day 9: Muddling in the journey toward healing

Maybe not quite lost, but I definitely feel like I am going in circles. I was able to start resting on Day 1 (July 1) because it was a holiday in which I had nothing planned, I had some respite from my son that day, and my son (non-verbal 4 year old) finally got better after having a low grade fever and other unknown symptoms for the last two weeks.

(Us on one of WAY TOO MANY sick days this year)

About Day 4 of my journey toward healing, I came down with a swollen stinging sore throat, probably the same virus my son had. This is the nastiest, longest sore throat and ears I have had in a very long time. From what we know from 3 doctors visits with my son, its a viral ear/throat infection. I just pray its what he had because if he is still going to get what I have now, I have a hellish couple of weeks ahead of me.

So needless to say, rest is difficult when you feel like crap. In fact I've heard a number of doctors say that if your body is in pain (physical or emotional) it makes it pretty difficult for it to heal itself. So part of me kind of feels like I'm back to square one again... or just waiting for this virus to pass so I can approach square one again.

And this is pretty much the story of my life as a single parent of a high/special needs child, trying to take care of myself.

The one thing that has caught my attention this week, is a weekly JOT (Just One Thing) I get from Dr. Rick Hanson (not the Man in Motion), one of the world's leading experts in clinical mindfulness and positive psychology. It was a post called Get Out Of The War. As the title suggests, it was about removing yourself from toxic situations, toxic thoughts, or any battles that you lose energy to, or battles that cause you (unnecessary) pain.

So while I am not resting, I am paying attention to the thoughts and situations where I am losing my peace of mind. The battle with my son's autism is the obvious one. 'The suffering is in the resistance' is one of my current mantras, so several times I have tried to let go wherever I was finding resistance to my son's autism, but this is a laughable effort at best. Autism is a ruthless, relentless, stalking predator, particularly when there is only one caregiver, and this morning was a perfect example of how futile 'letting go of resistance' is. The ride to the place where my son receives autism intervention is about 15 minutes long. 5 minutes into the ride my son figured out where we were going, and he screamed bloody-hell/someone-is-murdering-me/my-eardrums-are-bleeding for the duration of the trip. That's a battle I have ZERO control over.

The one battle I have let go of is the tension my heart feels at never achieving the house I really want to have. I still love my house but I've had to come to terms with the fact that my living room is my son's play room, complete with daily destruction. It will never be my place to let go. It will never be a place I can have ready to receive visitors. My kitchen floor will never ever be clean. My son might be the world's messiest eater, intentionally spraying crumbs with total glee, about 5-6 times a day. I have to tell visitors to keep their shoes on because it really might be cleaner outside than in. I let go of the master bedroom as my son has been so sick this last year, and sleeping in my queen bed with me, he has now assumed that is his room and will only sleep in there. I now sleep in his single bed, which I bought brand new for him this past Christmas. Fortunately, I spent the big bucks on it and its really comfortable. Having less room in bed is worth it not to be woken by a knee to the boob, a heel to the nose, or 45 pounds sailing through the air landing on my sleeping body.

And I am still trying to think of other ways to get out of other wars I don't need to be expending energy into.

This week's JOT from Rick Hanson talked about finding peace. He referred to four levels of finding peace. I remember the last one was about connecting to the Something Greater in life, which I already am. But the first one is probably the easiest for me to implement, and might be providing me a level of rest: it was about celebrating and dwelling on good accomplishments you have achieved. I can do that. And have done that.

 I feel proud of the family I have built with just my son and I.

I feel like I am a good mother most of the time.

I feel like I have weathered some pretty crazy shit and come out the other end wiser, stronger, and even more at peace.

 I feel good that I am able to pay my bills.

 I feel good that I am growing my own veggies in the garden.

 

I feel good about the community I found to raise my son in.

I feel good that I have increased my veggie intake by 90% and decreased my sugar intake by 95%.

I feel good that I take my son out to experience nature as much as I possibly can.

And I could probably keep going with a long list of simple thing... things that some might not consider accomplishments, but these things do give me a sense of peace. And in that peace, there is some rest.

Day 2: The Journey Toward Healing

Today is the second day of my journey into rest and relaxation. I have been talking about doing it since last Christmas, but there literally hasn't been a time since Christmas that I was able to let go, even for a day. I am talking white-knuckling it every day AND night (and I literally wake from sleep white knuckles hanging on to each other for dear life).

I spoke in another post about how moms of kids with autism (not specifically single moms, just moms) have stress levels similar to soldiers in active combat. I get that because there is little ability to predict when the next episode/attack is going to be, who will get injured and how, how long it will last, or how bad it will be. Typically there's a few a day. Sometimes there isn't one for a while, and then you wait to be ambushed. And you will be. So whatever you do, don't relax.

Much of the time, significant clean up is required after an episode. And the episodes also tend to cluster, so while you are drooped in defeat, cleaning up from one devastation, the enemy (autism) launches another attack on another front.  Perfect illustration: My non verbal ASD 4 year old pulled almost every one of his 100+ books off the shelf the other morning. As though to add a garnish on top of the mess, he also emptied his Mega Blocks and race tracks top of the books. The sitter found me working up a sweat trying to tidy things for her arrival, when we suddenly heard a CRASH out on the deck where my son had intentionally smashed a glass bottle. His delight was quite apparent and he didn't understand why I ran at him yelling, STAY THERE STAY THERE. He wanted to jump amidst his new smithereened creation, but I was able to hold him in place while the sitter got shoes for all of us. Then I got to go to my job (phew!). The following evening was relatively pleasant, watching (every second or he will take off) my still-diapered son playing in the sprinkler. I took off his wet clothes and shoes and left him in his wet diaper while I went to answer the doorbell to discuss an urgent maintenance matter with my neighbor. After a 5 minute conversation, I ran upstairs because I couldn't hear my son. What I found was  a kitchen smeared with diaper gel... he had broken through the protective barrier in his diaper, heavy with sprinkler water, and smeared the gel everywhere through the kitchen. Then I took him to the bathroom to wash him off in the shower and I got screamed at, head-butted, and bitten. I could go on, but you are getting a snapshot of what it looks like.

Add on top of this the fact that my 4 year old has been sick almost non stop for the last 5 months. This means 5 months of sleeping with me, or waking in pain, or crying etc; 9 trips to Children's ER, 6 of them in the middle of the night. Not only will my body not allow me to fall into a deep sleep, but it is ready to slam me with adrenalin to help me deal with whatever the mid-night screaming is about.

And thus my problem now arises: I HAVE TO RELAX if I want to survive to live another few years. But my body is coursing with so much adrenalin, when I sit still mid day, my whole body is buzzing like a bee. Like this bee in my garden as I started to write this today:

Bad picture, but I had to snap quick to capture the moment. The bee actually irritated me because I am working so hard to stop the buzzing (adrenalin) in my body, and the bee's buzzing was amplifying my buzzing.

So yes, Day 2 of my relaxation journey, and it will be a long journey. And apparently uncomfortable. Its tough coming off of 4 or 5 years of solid adrenalin.  Prescribed medication takes the edge off. But what really helps is meditation. Twice today I turned off the tv and meditated for about 5 minutes each before my son needed something from me. And I felt better. But its surprisingly hard to let go. And my adrenalin has served me so very well for so long. Its gotten me though dozens of experiences where many have said, "I don't know how you do it." Neither do I because adrenaline keeps doing it for me.

 I don't have anything wise to end this post off with except to invite you along with me on my journey back to calm. To center. To stability. And the very fact that I've created another post here tells me that my first step toward healing has already begun.

I Cry In Public

And its starting to happen more and more.

Strangely, I am kinda okay with it.

I mean, if I could wave my magic wand it wouldn't happen. But knowing WHY its happening somehow makes me okay with myself in the midst of the spectacle. The hard part is putting other people at ease over it as they all rush to find out what's wrong, essentially trying to ebb the tide of my unsightly emotion.

What's wrong? Autism is.

As a single parent of a 4 year old with autism, I would give myself a grade of B+. (Not 'A' because I am bad at asking for help. If I was doing this perfectly I would have a support team constantly around my son and I).

A few times now, there have been extremely stressful situations involving my son and medical personnel, or somewhere we have to wait, or somewhere he doesn't want to be, or NOT somewhere he wants to be... where my son has thrown a giant fit of epic proportions and I have had to

• contain it
• deal with it
• survive it
• treat it
• outlast it
• help others recover from it,
• etc

The problem is my son has no ability to self regulate. It is soaring ecstasy or utter devastation. If he experiences either of these extremes, its hard for him to find the balance in between again.

How I think this differs from an average 4 year old fit is that he doesn't have the self ability to recover, and he is truly suffering. He doesn't understand, so I can't explain it to him. I can see the devastation and suffering in his eyes. Yet there is no other course of action I can take except to ride out the storm with him.

As a parent I think I might take the bigger brunt of the hit. Or maybe its because I don't live in the present, so I am still living in the trauma a couple of days after the fact. Maybe its because I am more acutely aware of the suffering, and am helpless to relieve him of it.

Maybe its because as a single parent, I don't usually get any recovery time. So when my child has recovered 2-12 hours later, I am still 'on' making sure he remains stable and doing everything in my power not to set him off again... not resting and recovering from the trauma I suffered, watching him suffer.

You may or may not be acquainted with grief. If you know it, you will know it will rear its ugly head at the most inopportune time, if you don't make appropriate time for it.

Well I don't have any opportunities to debrief my sons varied, sporadic, unpredictable trauma's, and subsequently the tears come out really inappropriately:

• at work when someone asks "how's it going?" (they are learning not to do that)
• at a salesperson who is trying to upsell me, and I don't have the energy left to protect our limited income, so they just get tears instead of intelligent refusal.
• at my poor mother who is just trying to make plans or help, but one more question is making my brain explode in the form of tears.
• at the news that I still have to stop at the pharmacy before we go home... tears.

I would be headed straight to my doctor for depression, but the thing is, this is purely situational. It IS trauma. But antidepressants aren't going to fix any of it.

Earlier this week I reposted an article on Facebook that cited that mothers of kids with autism (just moms in general, not expressly single moms) have stress levels the same as soldiers in combat. I don't think they put soldiers who are in active combat on antidepressants. I would imagine it could affect their ability to fight.

Same here.

So in the meantime my body's way of dealing with the trauma of the battles is by releasing the trauma through tears when it needs to cry. (Side note: tears of suffering are a completely different chemical composition that lubricating tears) And that's why I'm kinda okay with it. I trust and respect my body to know what it needs to do.

Its all the other people that are freaked out about it.

Sorry! Its just autism.

Croup, Hot Paramedics, and Me

So my ASD non-verbal four year old woke up gasping for breath in a croupy kind of way about two hours after going to bed last night. Then he started the croup cough with the gasping, then he started ASD screaming because that's what he does. Within five minutes of this beginning, I had him outside in the cold night air, and I was on the phone with 911. I am pleased to say the firefighters and paramedics were there within 5 minutes. (I am embarrassed to say that when talking to the 911 operator my first comment was "My baby is having trouble breathing". "How old is your baby?" "Four."  I am imagining my embarrassment when I open with the same line in 15 years).

 

 

The paramedics could easily hear my son's croup, and the lead paramedic, (who I couldn't help notice was kind of hot... not the hottest guy I've ever seen, but hot enough that I noticed he was hot in the midst of crisis. Obviously a body builder with bulging biceps and a clear V-shape... I digress) immediately determined that my son needed to be taken in to the hospital to get the croup treated. Then he lifted my lil tantruming, gasping, coughing, punkin pie out of my arms to carry into the ambulance, almost dropping him at first because he is really hard to hold if he doesn't want to be held. When the paramedic figured out how to carry my son, he walked away with more confidence, and, being a single mom, it twigged something in me, seeing my son easily carried away by strong compassionate skilled arms. It also felt like a huge relief knowing at the moment he was in caring capable hands. I got a rare, brief, sense of relief (for about 60 seconds) absorbing that for even a few minutes, I am not the sole human responsible for my little human's life. The relief struck me so hard because I'm not normally cognisant of that extra, relentless weight that single parenting brings.

They took the car seat out of my car and transported my son to the hospital in the ambulance, in his car seat. When we got to the ER (I followed in the car), and had him assigned to a bed, the hot paramedic couldn't figure out how to get my son out of his car seat (on the stretcher) and into the bed... because if my son doesn't want to get out of his car seat, you'd almost have to break his bones to get him out. The paramedic tried the fun approach, the quick distraction approach, and finally got my son out, only because my son allowed it. But then my son unleashed his full wrath on the paramedic who glanced at me for some guidance. "Carry him like a log," I coached him. He did, and we got my son transferred into a crib (which he liked... always been attracted to fences and firm boundaries).

As they were departing for their next call the hot paramedic looked at me and shook his head saying, "Man, that kid is strong for a 4 year old! You must be incredibly strong if you have to do that all the time." And then they were off before I had a chance to register his comment

In the end, my son is fine. We were released 3 hours later with some good doctor coaching on the complexities of determining emergency with a non-verbal child with little self regulation ability. And affirmation that I had done the right thing, and because he is non-verbal, its always better to be safe than sorry.

Then I had to figure out how to carry out my son, his car seat, his backpack, and my purse, across the street to where our car was parked. I did it by carrying my son on my shoulders, the backpack on my back, my purse slung across me, and the car seat in one hand. I felt proud and competent that I was able to do that.

And that's really what I got from the whole experience... a sense of pride in myself, that I asked for help when I needed it, even with the potential embarrassment of being one of "those people" who call an ambulance for a runny nose. (And I am really, really bad at asking for help) I am learning to trust my gut feelings more and more and just drop what I think other people might be thinking of me.

I bought this inspirational wall hanging when I moved into my current home last year.

 I think I bought it with hope in mind. I look at it and read it over all the time. And last night I realized that I have become everything on that sign.

The Bench (I Survived)

It was a rare morning.(Autism Mommy was starting to lose it because while she was on vacation, autism doesn't take vacations, and things had been drifting towards worse instead of better. So I hired a teenager to help take the edge off for 48 hours. Her job was to watch my ASD 3 year old in all the  in between time, (side, side note unrelated to the rest of this post: she was as exhausted, possibly more exhausted than I, just keeping tabs on him.))

But yes, a rare morning. Mid summer. Decided to spend the morning in one of my favorite staycation spots: the fishing village of Steveston. I dropped my son and the sitter off at Steveston's FABULOUS playground/waterpark, and then made my way up to Starbucks to get a coffee before strolling along one of many wharfs, walkways, and docks in the village. I happily sipped on my iced soy latte, felt the salty ocean breeze lift my freshly cropped locks, and stood at an intersection that offered three different directions I could take my peaceful walk. My heart bubbled with delight at my opportunity to walk/ drink coffee/ ponder on my own, and the summer morning was picture-book perfect.

Then suddenly I found myself THERE.

Confronted with that place.

 

That bench.

Where I sat with my husband on our last anniversary together.

 

 

I was 8 months pregnant.

And desperately trying. So hard. To enjoy our anniversary.

And it was hell.

Barely able to touch each other.

His disdain for me palpable, though he tried too.

Conversation was strained and sparse. There was nothing left to say.

 

 

I am gripped by the memories that go with the view from the bench, remembering the angle of the sun that day, glistening amongst the reeds, being absorbed in the horrible beauty... horrible because that was the first time I looked straight into the eyes of Divorce. I was paralyzed by fear. Paralyzed by the unthinkable. That bench was where I sat the first time I honestly considered that our 5th wedding anniversary could be our last.

 

And it was.

 

And here I am, 4 years later, almost to the day (and almost equal to the length of my marriage). I am on the other side of the Valley of the Shadow. I have learned to accept love from everywhere around me. I have accomplished far more than I ever thought I could (or wanted to). I have an adorable son who exhausts me beyond exhaustion, but also delights me with his antics and who he is.

 

I walk out on onto the adjacent pier and notice there is a totally different view from there - from beyond the bench. From where I stand today.

 

 

 

I feel the warmth of the sun, breathe the salty air, feel it caress my skin, and I realize that I survived. And life is good. Challenging beyond words, but very, very good. As I stand in the moment, in the presence of the river, I think of the death in me that occurred in that spot. And all the life that has magnificently erupted from that death. I think of the role of the river. There is a lot of death involved with the Fraser River - fish, industry, murders, drownings. And there is a lot of life - fish, water for all forms of life, a means to make a living. The river also moves and changes things, whether we want it to or not. It just does what it was created to do. Slowly. And with tremendous power.

 

Death began here, and life has resulted at a whole new level. The biggest sign of life for me, is that I didn't even think of that danged bench until I was right on top of it. I was just doing what I love. And it was an interesting experience for me to hold the dissonance of grief and joy in the same moment.

 

I practice a Pema Chodron teaching I recently read: breathe in the pain deeply, and exhale joy, love, and peace. Transformation.

 

After the Storm

It all started with a murder back in September... well really it started with a reckless decision I made about a decade ago... so let's say it flared up again with a murder back in September. One that took place about 100 feet from my front door.

Emotional grief and chaos had beaten me up pretty good back in March and April. My divorce became final in the same time period that my son got diagnosed with autism. And shortly thereafter I had to take a stress leave from work because I just couldn't keep up with everything.

I needed some space to breathe.

Some time to figure out which way was up again.

 

The real outcome of my leave, however, was that I discovered that I am comfortably busy

 just being the stay-at-home mom of a 3 year old with autism.

I can keep up with fitness, spirituality, and a social life if I don't also have a full time job
 (but I have to pay the bills).

But September brought my return to work, and it only took a few weeks for a storm to start brewing, and a looooong drawn-out storm it was.

Here is a brief storm summary (in addition to the regular challenges of single parenting a 3 year old with autism).

• September 19 - murder across the street. Didn't sleep well for a few nights.
• First week of October - my son's third birthday, which happens to fall on one of the biggest/busiest days of the year at work. I am beyond exhausted by the weekend. (And his birthday party was still awesome! Camping theme. Here is the cake:)

• Early October - I realize I have some alarming symptoms that could indicate cancer. I am stressed every moment of every day with the possible ramifications. Since it takes weeks to get appointments with my family doctor and get other information, I live with intense fear every day.
• Mid October, my symptoms get serious enough one night, I wonder if they are life threatening and spend the night in the emergency ward. Though my symptoms appear scary, they are not life threatening, and I have just had a panic attack.
• Last week of October:
• I receive some life-altering news about my ex and his life, but the news doesn't come from my ex. I realize I have not been receiving all the information about the activities of my non-verbal 3 year old when he is with his dad. I become extremely concerned about the safety of my son.
• I get the test results back from my concerning symptoms. Turns out its not cancer. Not life-threatening. Relatively easy to remedy I can exhale.
• I get a phonecall from a housing co-operative that I had applied to back in July. They want me to come in for an interview immediately. Within 48 hours I have an interview, am offered a dream 2 bedroom townhouse that will be the family home my son grows up in, in a beautiful, safe neighborhood, close to my work, that I would never be able to otherwise afford. I accept the offer for the townhouse and give my 1 month notice to my landlords. We are moving. To our dream house.
• First week of November:
•  I have to make a very difficult decision and am engulfed by fear about how my ex will respond to my decision. I consult with security experts. I inform my ex and he responds peaceably. Once again, some sleepless nights.
• I also start packing up my home.
• Second week of November:
• My ex's response flares up. We have to arrange an immediate mediation.
• My son's autism worker has to quit. I am expected to advocate for her, and I want to, but I can't with ex issues, moving, recent health issues, and my full time job. Its amazing that I can even make it to work in the morning.
• My ex and I make a holding pattern plan that will stabilize things in the short term.
• Third week of November:
• I receive more jaw dropping / face-slapping / gut kicking news from my ex.
• I get the keys to my new place with the condition that I accept it as is (dirty, and in need of painting and some repairs).
• I drop a huge chunk of change on some new appliances, paint, and labour.
• My son gets new autism workers (Behavioural Interventionists). I feel bad that I don't even know who these people are, but right now I just don't have time.
• I am fearful there is too much change going on for my son. I cry at the thought of him not understanding that we are moving to a new home. His current home (a basement suite) is the only home he's ever known. And he loves his home.
• My son comes down with a cold.
• Its one of my busiest times of year at work.
• Last week of November:
• Every spare moment I can find is spent cleaning and painting the new townhouse, to make it as comfortable and familiar as possible the day my son and I move in.
• Every other moment is spent packing and cleaning the old place.
• My son still has a cold and doesn't sleep well the whole week (so neither do I).
• Last day of November: Moving Day. 2 hours of sleep. Barely ate anything. My son was happy to see objects that he knew, but still tried to 'go home' to the old place. He sleeps in my arms that night, clutching closely to me. I think we were actually clutching onto each other.
• First week of December
• within 24 hours, my son figures out this is our new home. He is happy.
• my son gets pinkeye. He is in a fair bit of pain.
• unpacking takes a long time.
• Second week of December
• my son's cold is still going and I have been up with him numerous nights with very scary coughing fits (That's the part I hate the most about single parenting because I get really scared). I take him in to the clinic and discover he has an ear infection AND bronchitis.
• trying to finish up painting. Unpacking.
• my ex forces me into a surprise situation that is extremely uncomfortable. Takes me a day or two to emotionally recover.
• Third week of December
• Christmas shop? Christmas bake? Paint? Clean?
• sort out inappropriate surprise situation with ex
• my son recovers with the help of antibiotics
• Fourth week of December
• extremely awkward and dreaded Christmas situations with the ex come to pass. I survive. I am not a saint, and I didn't want to be a saint. But I am happy with who I am and what I put forward. Despite it all, I have a good Christmas.
• January - back to work, bills, and monitoring changes with my son's therapy.
• I get out to explore some of the trails and shops close to my beautiful new townhouse.

And with the arrival of the New Year, it seems that particular storm has passed by. Peace and calm have arrived (for at least today), and I am taking it all in. I am learning to embrace it all. In my daily meditations from Fr. Richard Rohr this week, I read that to love God is to love everything, for God is in everything. I know I'm definitely not "there" yet (I don't love everything), but maybe I'm leaning in that direction? Maybe I'm getting better at acceptance?

A few friends have commented on a difference they've seen in my spirit since we moved. There's a peace there. I sense it. And I don't know particularly what it is, except to say that its LOVE. Love from God. Love from family and friends. Love from my son. Love from the incredible nature that surrounds our new home.

 Love lives here.

This is my favorite song these days.
The general gist indicates a romantic love, but could certainly be interpreted into love of life.
And miraculously, that's where I emerge from the storm - in love with life and my son, still struggling most days, and glorying in the messiness of it all.

Sober - Little Big Town

 

I celebrated Thanksgiving (eh!) with my family today.

A few days ago I started thinking about what I'm really thankful for. If I even think about how thankful I am for my son, I start bawling immediately, so lets not go there. Same with family members, health, etc.

But there's something I have been thanking God for every day since the day after labour day.

Heated seats.

That's right. An extravagance for this menno girl, for sure. But they only had 1 manual Kia Soul on the lot when I bought it in April. And it was in black (which I wanted). And it came with heated seats.

I am usually achy in the morning. My chiropractor says its because I never fall into a deep enough sleep to allow my muscles to repair (pre-schooler with autism of the I-don't-sleep variety). And I'm usually panicked and late and utterly at a loss every morning, wondering how I will possibly get thru another day. And before I'm at the bottom of the driveway, the heated seats kick in, like a little love. Warming me. Holding me. Giving me hope that even if I don't make it thru the day, they will at least get me delivered to my office (where my day launches into a life of its own).

I've been reading some hysterically funny notes from single parents of autistic kids who are trying to date. It's hysterical because its so impossible. The life of a single parent of an ASD kid is completely unmanageable if the person also has to hold down a full time job... And then fit in dating, and an
actual developing relationship.... Well. They tend to develop at a snails pace because there is no time, and often fizzle out because they move so slowly, they lose momentum.

Heated seats might better.
They don't need anything from me.
They fit into my commute.
They make me feel good.
 They support me in whatever I do.
They are there for me at the end of a long day.
They sing with me to my fave song "Sunny and 75", making me feel like it really is 75.

My tushy and I thank you, heated seats. There is no one else like you.

(And I only had time to write this because I did so while sitting on a hard white pre-school Ikea chair beside the bathtub while my son had one of his marathon baths).

Dining Alone... And other times you feel like everyone's looking at you.

Today I am dining out alone.

I haven't done this for well over a decade. And I have to say, it is lovely. Of course I am sitting on a lovely terrace, Labour Day weekend in Harrison Hot Springs, BC.

Okay, not the greatest pic, but it was dark in the shadow of the terrace, and my iPad wouldn't capture me AND the view.

I recently read somewhere, that unless you're okay with dining alone, or going to see a movie by yourself, you're probably not truly comfortable with yourself... You haven't fully accepted who you are.

I think that's probably true because why WOULDN'T you be okay with dining by yourself?.... Because mose of us are afraid of being judged... criticized... evaluated and found to have come up short.

Before I was married I used to be paranoid about being judge for my singleness. Ithought everyone was talking about me under thier breath (because I wasn't worthy somehow). Then I talked to a mom who felt the same way, except she felt like people were constantly jduging her because she was a stereotypical mom  of two pre-schoolers who struggled to keep up with the mythical, polished, Supermom image. That's when I realized that we all feel judged all the time, no matter where we are in life.

Just this year I discovered WHY.

Its because we are constantly judging ourselves, and our own fears. And when we judge other people, we're actually just projecting our own fears on others. It has almost nothing to do with them, and its entirely about us.

I am now amused when I hear about others around me feeling judged because whoever is judging them is clearly self critical of a related issue. They are allowing their true fears to be seen. Their criticism is just about their fear, and probably related to a fear of rejection. It has nothing to do with how the other lives their life.

By the same token, when the personon the receiving end of the criticism flips out over the criticism, it simply reflects that they beat themselves up over a fear that they might be what they are jedge for.... Or at the most basic level, what they fear (once again related to fear of rejection).  It is not a picture of the reality of who and what they are in that moment.

Back to dining alone...
the terrace I sit at is an excellent spot to literrally look down and people watch, which to some extent is related to jedging others. I find it intruiging that I notice only those who visually resemble what I might judge myself for. Women who are 50 and trying to look 20. Couple with large age gaps. Overweight or frumpily dressed women. How a large chested woman wears her assets. Extremely polished people make me feel the most judged, and hence I judge them the most. All these reflect my fears and have nothing to do with the individuals I observe.

If you've ever suffered from feeling judged, its a wonderful to arrive at a place where you finally understand what this is all about.

A dear but distant friend contacted me today to tell me that she has entered the process of divorce. I am loaning her all the courage I can. She comes from a similar background as I do where divorce really wasn't an option. Marriage is forever. I know this has put her on an unwanted journey. And dammit, it hurts.

I re-read a favorite quote from Fr. Richard Rohr this wee, and its truth resonates deeply in me, for my journey, and for my friend's journey. the quote is from the book "Falling Upward", and of course I can't find the exactquote now, but here is the essence of it from my memory:

We must allow our pain to transform us by seeing God in our pain. When we don't allow our pain to transform us, we transmit it instead.

“How to bear that which is unbearable.”

Those were the words that leapt off the page of last year’s July edition of ‘O’ that I had gotten out of the library. It was an interview with author, Cheryl Strayed, about her book, Wild.

I didn’t need to know what the book was about; just that I needed to read it. It was sort of like my body and spirit recognized truth right there… the truth that the reason I was having such difficulty moving on with life is that I didn’t know how to bear what felt unbearable to me: the loss of my marriage, my soul-mate, my dream, my love, my self, my pride. There is an element of loss with my son’s autism too, but the root of my grief, the larger iceberg under the water, was the loss of my marriage.

It was the day after I posted my last entry that I rushed out to the book store to get a copy of Wild. It turns out that it’s a memoir about Cheryl Strayed’s journey on the Pacific Coast Trail (PCT), and I couldn’t believe that it was a book about how to bear the unbearable AND one of my few personal passions: hiking. (And I have hiked very small sections of the PCT while en route to less cumbersome trails).

Cheryl’s grief was centered around the loss of her mother, and as a side issue, the loss of her marriage. She decided to hike the PCT, on a whim, to find herself again, to re-connect herself to nature, to truth, to her natural self (and wow, had she ever lost touch with herself!) Hilariously and horrifyingly, the unbearable turns out to be her backpack that weighs almost as much as she does. She knew nothing of backpacking, so brought along everything she might possibly need on the trail. And the loveable thing about her (because I see it in myself) is that she pushes herself to carry it anyway. It’s a pack that muscular 6’2” men can’t even carry, and she’s like, 5’4”.

Cheryl talks about not achieving the mileage she expected to achieve… only achieving about 1/3 of it because her pack was so overbearing. She talks about burning and numbness and bruising and chafing, and toenails falling off. She talks about one step at a time. Sometimes 50 and 100 steps at a time, but sometimes all she could do was to take 10 steps at a time. Sometimes all she could achieve was simply to lean forward. And, somehow, by doing this, not only did she get stronger and wiser, but she walked all the way from the Mojave desert to the Oregon/Washington border!

Close to the beginning of her journey she is charged at by an aggressive long-horned bull (like the kind they run from in Spain). She is so terrified she closes her eyes and blows her scare- whistle. She thinks she’s going to die, but when she doesn’t, she opens her eyes again, and the bull is gone. She finally realizes she is DONE and it is time to pack this journey in and go home. But then she realizes that she doesn’t know which way the bull went. If she gives up and goes back, the bull could be there. Or if she goes forward, the bull could be there. So she decides she might as well go forward since she doesn’t know where the bull might be.

These two incidents rocked my traumatized/victimish world. It helped me to realize that while my journey is painful and numbing, I have to keep moving. Also, like Cheryl, I’m carrying a lot of stuff I don’t need to be carrying. Its time to put it down, burn it, whatever. Furthermore, I have no idea when and where my proverbial long-horned bull is going to come charging out of the bush at me, but I have to keep moving forward, because the bull may or may not come at me regardless of whether I go back, stay still, or move forward. So I might as well move forward. And finally I learned that some days, I might only be able to take 1 step at a time. Some moments, all I can do is lean and stumble in the right direction.

Since I’ve read Wild, I haven’t made any more blog entries. Why? Because I’m too busy living again, and its wonderful.

And.

There’s still days (like Sunday and today)

where I’m only getting in 10 steps all day,

or I push myself so hard to get in 20 steps that my fatigue makes me sick.

Since my journey is 20 – 40 years long, and I’ve got a little one who's counting on me, I need to be kinder and gentler to myself… congratulate myself for making ends meet, providing good nutrition for my son, and lots of hugs (which he requires many of). If that’s all that happens, that’s still a pretty damn good day.