Little to no provocation 

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I can feel the gentle, slow downward descent of my mood. My heart in utter despair. I cry with little or no provocation. I haven’t slept for 3 days. It takes forever to fall asleep. I wake in the middle of the night, lying awake for hours. I awake again at the crack of dawn exhausted. I’m not hungry. I can’t eat without acid reflux. I worry about the things I can’t control. I pace the floor. Any attempts to rest or nap leave me frustratingly wide awake. I wouldn’t wish the hormonal fluctuations of a middle aged woman on anyone. 

It was harder this week cleaning out my grandma’s house. The memories some of the items brought back were almost too painful to bear. When I try to reach out to my grandma for comfort, she is not there. What I wouldn’t give to hear her voice again or to even smell the scent of her perfume on her clothes. All I smell is dust and decay. Emptiness. Nothingness. 

It is incredibly stupid to cry over the meaningless little items that I lost. I can mourn over the stupid little stove, but can’t cry over the friends and family that autism cost me and my family? The childhood family vacations with the whole family that never happened? I can’t even remember one time that we went out to eat together as a family. I have to continue to pray for strength to make it through this process of opening myself up to and dealing with unresolved issues. 

I will make it through. I will be ok. 

Class reunions

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This past weekend my dad had his 50th class reunion. My mom said that she wouldn’t attend with him unless he took his monthly shower. He decided not to. Instead, he went to the restaurant having the reunion, got a to go box, and came right back home. How strange. Hey, at least he was wearing clothes. 

It made me wonder a little about the purpose of a high school reunion. Technically, most people go to high school 4 years of their whole entire life. Why should it even matter?

The first unofficial high school reunion happened about a week after graduation. Most of the new graduates attended the funeral of our first classmate to die. He spent the night out drinking underage at a bar that was known by the name of Double Vision at that time. When he left, he lived up to the bar’s name and then some. About a half mile from the bar, he crossed the centerline and hit another car head on. Thankfully the family in the other car lived to tell that story, my classmate didn’t. I didn’t attend the funeral. To be frank, even though he was popular, my classmate was cocky and mean. I really didn’t like him. I liked him even less when he almost killed others due to his poor decision. My classmates, however, went to the funeral in droves. 

I did attend 2 official class reunions. The first one I attended was the 5 year. At this point, nothing really has changed. Everyone looks the same. You still remember names. Most were doing the typical things that people in their early 20’s do and no one could afford a pricey reunion. 

The second reunion I attended was the 20 year. Only a few people looked similar to the people locked in my mind as forever teenagers with the ratted hair and tight rolled jeans. Who were all these old people? I forgot names. I mistook some classmates as spouses. A majority of attendees were in the popular group, maybe hoping to relive the best years of their lives. I was disheartened that an unpopular girl, who was always nice, seemed to still be ignored by the in group. I was extra nice to her. Overall, I found class reunions to be like the proverbial nudist colony. The ones you want to see are never there and the ones you don’t are. 

Will I attend my 25th class reunion? I don’t know. I am certainly not interested in reliving any of my childhood years.

 I think I would rather run a marathon. 

A little out of range

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This past weekend was long. We spent half of the weekend cleaning out my grandma’s house. The rest of the weekend I did my 12 mile run followed by watching my daughters perform in a summer school musical theater show. It was a little difficult to watch my oldest daughter perform. She had the lead part and as a senior, it was her last summer school show. Her childhood is coming to an end. My mom and Matt came out to the show, which involved some inappropriate public behavior on Matt’s part. Minor stuff, like yawning loudly and getting up to stretch out his legs in the middle of the show. At least they came out, which I appreciated. My in-laws didn’t bother to come to the show, but stopped by shortly after we got home. My daughters asked their grandparents why they didn’t come to the show. They said they were too busy shopping. They were planning on coming out but didn’t show, which is not abnormal behavior for them. I don’t even bother telling the girls that their grandparents were coming just in case. The last time they cancelled out last minute brought so many tears before a show that it wasn’t worth the hurt. I don’t know how they had the audacity to stop by after shopping. It is what it is.

By the time the weekend was over I felt exhausted and a bit troubled. Cleaning out my grandma’s house has forced me to clean out tons of physical and emotional cobwebs. My brother Mark found this oven (pictured above) while cleaning. I recognized it as mine. Inside there were magazine cutouts of finished recipes. Mark said that I must really have liked to cook because the front right burner was wore out. I thought nothing of it. Then this morning it hit me. It started with a small noise at work. Then it took me back. I could hear a horrible grating sound, scratching like nails on a chalkboard over and over. Then I saw Matt’s hand with a big yellow Lego scratching my oven over and over. I think he was loud, screaming. The next time grandma watched us my stove was banished, locked in a shed for 30 years. A few tears escaped my eyes. My heart mourned over the many things I lost.

It never was supposed to be that way, but it was.

Family dynamics of autism

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Growing up, we all had our roles. Even dysfunctional families find ways to function. As mentioned previously, my parents relationship was rocky before having 4 kids in 5 years. I would even go as far to say that my dad probably is within the Asperger’s spectrum himself. Now throw in the violently autistic child and a wife who was trying desperately to juggle flaming torches. 

As oldest, my main task was fixing. I also held the role of caregiver, decision maker, best friend, advisor, and emotional support. I aligned myself with my mother. It was my task to keep the flaming torches in the air. If there was a problem, it was my task to fix it. I was loyal to whatever cause was important to my mother. As an adult, it has been difficult for me to listen and empathize when everything within me tells me to fix. I had to suppress all feelings in order to use my head to fix. It worked a little like email. I kept deleting my feelings until finally my deleted items were full. Then anger, depression, and anxiety flowed forth like spring’s river. My email is working now, but my husband and I both lack empathy in order to survive childhood. I need reminding to listen and not fix all the time. It has been a bit of a marriage struggle, but as a team people have been hard pressed to take advantage of us by pulling on our heart strings or pull the wool over our eyes. So it is not all bad. 

Mark’s task was physically working hard and advocate for my dad. He aligned himself with my dad. If my mom packed up the car with all of her stuff and was heading down the driveway, it was Mark’s task to stop her. He would tell my mom that it was not my dad’s fault, that he was just not good at relationships. He also earned my dad’s love by working hard even though my dad was lazy. For example, my dad will take the lawnmower to the end of the driveway to get the mail (sometimes in his underwear, of course). Or that one time we got a couple of inches of snow, he was too lazy to clean off his windshield and ended up in the ditch instead. 

Mark worked so hard that he blew out his back as a teen. I have never seen anyone work as hard as he does. When I told him that I was running a marathon, he said he could outrun me. I think that I threatened his role as the family brawn. When Mark wasn’t working, he preferred to be invisible. Mark and Carla decided they are going to have a small wedding with no one standing up. Mark said that he was tempted to have our autistic brother Matt be his best man because Matt’s behavior is so bizarre that no one would notice Mark. That was very profound. 

Luke, the youngest, had the role of instigator, comforter, caregiver, and clown. He was a mama’s boy and my dad hated him for it. His main job was to make sure that Matt did not get all of the attention. He was the one who cut the wires on my dad’s electronics and kicked a hole in the wall. When he got older, he was the one who played strip volleyball with his friends in the front yard. Girls running around topless in the front yard.  He also wrestled with my dad in the front yard over car keys which resulted in an overnight stay in the ER for my dad with heart palpitations. After awhile my parents gave up, he started driving at 14. He was also the scapegoat and received the brunt of my dad’s anger, deserved or not. 

Somehow we all managed to function. We are survivors. We made it through with our sanity intact, held by a thread.  We are strong, but not without a few battle wounds. 

Modesty, or lack thereof

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Have you ever seen a 350 lb man mowing the lawn in a Speedo? That would be my dad. He was never much for clothes. I suppose we were lucky that he tromped around the house in underwear versus nothing at all. He is the eccentric man who goes out to eat in pajama bottoms. If you come over unannounced, he would answer the door in his underwear. He didn’t care if people were over. Mom had to remind him to close the door when using the bathroom. Nudity really wasn’t a big deal, it was natural. Almost normal growing up. If you could call how I grew up normal in any way. 

My mom was more modest. She had really bad varicose veins and still does after surgery. She said that 30 hours of back labor would do that to you.  I guess I am lucky to have had 3 c-sections. After 30 hours of labor, my brother Matt entered the world with a broken clavicle bone. Talk about intense labor. My mom would always wear pants in summer. If she wore shorts, she would wear nylons under them so no one could see her “ugly” veins. 

When my autistic brother Matt hit puberty, he had some modesty issues as well. He would often stand at the end of the driveway and expose himself to whoever went by. My grandma had 2 little girls that lived next door. Any time they were around he would drop his pants and wiggle his penis at them which elicited lots of giggles. You probably now understand why I do not embarrass easy or why I never had a lot of friends over growing up. Yes, my brother exposed himself to a couple of friends while my dad waltzed around in his underwear. To make matters worse, Matt would traipse around the house in an old bridemaid’s dress of my mothers. After complaining to my mom about this, she said who is he hurting and just let him. 

On the flip side, no one cared what I left the house wearing. Short mini skirt, no problem. Sometimes I have to ask my husband. Is this too short? Is this too low cut? 

Since I also helped with Matt’s care, part of that included showering him. While other college kids were out partying on a Saturday night, I was showering my brother. Did I mention that he refused to wipe himself? He has tactile sensitivity to toilet paper and napkins. He also will not aim himself while peeing, which created a messy bathroom. Mom always told visitors that the condensation from the toilet was causing the leakage. It was a good possibility that if you got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom that you would step in pee. And that is why I could care less if my husband puts the toilet seat down. That is probably also why when Aunt Grace needed showering and diaper changes when she got old that I showed no hesitation either. What is normal? I am still trying to figure that one out. 

Marathon training, week 11

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Last night I dreamed that I was driving a truck that I had no control over. The keys weren’t in the ignition. I was going about 40 mph in neutral. Someone was behind me and wouldn’t pass me. I felt pressure to have control. To make matters worse, a dump truck was coming towards me engulfed in flames ready to explode. I couldn’t escape.  I awoke in terror. 

The marathon is 2 weeks away. Am I ready? Can I do it? I finished the week with a 12 mile run this morning. My heart told me to do an 18 mile run. I worry that the long runs I missed due to an ankle injury will be the thorn in my side. But the taper period is probably not the best time to add them back in my running schedule which I followed exactly except for my damn ankle.  My head said do a 12 mile run. My head won as usual, which made me wonder how the voice of rational reason can still get me into predicaments. It was a humid run today, not sunny or hot. Just humid. Every breath made me feel like I was drowning. I started my run singing old school rap songs. What do I care what the neighbors think of me. They already think I’m crazy for running! My hair wouldn’t stay back in a pony tail and little sweaty tendrils smacked me in the ears and eyes in the beat of my running feet. I briefly fantasized about shaving my head. Sweat trickled down my back, tickling my skin. Sweat ran into my eyes making them burn. I used my shirt to mop my face. I loved it! 

I wonder how I will handle a week of taking it easy. I have always been an antsy person. I pace the floors. Anxious. Just when I am about the relax, I realize I forgot to scrub the floors. Running has helped with this quality I seem to possess or that possesses me. Will I be able to sit around and relax??

I wondered what I would wear for my first marathon while running this week. I came up with a great idea to custom design my own shirt. I opted to get a purple shirt with the words outrunning my demons in the front. I will have flames running down the back of the shirt. If you see me give me 2 thumbs up and wink. This will also mean that my identity has been compromised and I may have to move to a warmer state. Talking about that, I hope the weather is great too. I have never run a long distance in pouring rain. Can I do it? And if the race is cancelled, can I still put the 26.2 sticker on the back of my car? 

Cooking and cleaning

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Here is the kitchen of my old dollhouse. My grandma added a couple of things to make it more user friendly. I vaguely remember my grandma making the clock out of a Planter’s peanut lid. The light fixture was a button. I think she made the curtains too as they were held back with thumb tacks. What I really liked seeing was the 6 pack big bottles of Pepsi. I haven’t had one of those in a long time. The little girl used to be taller, but she kept falling and knocking things over so grandma cut off her legs. Dad has a pipe and mom is wearing an apron. You probably wouldn’t see that in a new dollhouse.

I will be heading back to help clean out my grandma’s house this afternoon. This time I will take my camera. I will have a few more surprises in store for next time.

My mother, my heroine

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My mother’s life has been anything but ordinary. She was born prematurely in a foreign country. Despite my grandmother taking medication to prevent premature labor, my mother arrived early at a hospital in the Panama Canal Zone, after my grandma flew several hours to see her husband who was stationed there in the Navy. She weighed 4 lbs and stayed in an incubator for a month. This was in the 1940’s and she wasn’t expected to live. 

My mom grew up in a rural community and met my dad in a one room schoolhouse. Her family was poor and she spent most of her summers picking cucumbers for a local factory to help support her family. She didn’t have a lot of time to play and had one doll. As a teenager, her mother died after delivering her eighth child. My mom was in college at the time and spent her weekends helping take care of her 6 younger siblings. My dad went off to Vietnam. He came back a different person. College finals were cancelled due to war protests and bomb threats. 

My parents eloped. My dad went to work on their wedding night, my mom cooked for their sponsors. The night ended with freezing rain. My mom wondered if she made a mistake. My dad started drinking a lot. He was depressed and sat around with a gun in his lap staring off into space. He was going through PTSD after Vietnam. He drove a tank in the war and one day all of his buddies died in that tank. He was the only one that walked away unscathed. He became abusive and mean. My mom wondered if she made a mistake. My mom got pregnant with me. When I was a month old, a tornado was headed towards the trailer park we lived in. Sirens blared, it was time to take shelter. My dad just sat in his chair and stared. My mom decided it was time to pack up and head back home, they were hours away from family. 

My parents lived with my dad’s parents for 2 years while they built a house and started a new life. My dad stopped drinking. My mom got pregnant again. They moved into their new house and planned on having 2 kids. Their plan for 2 kids ended up turning into 4 kids within 5 years. Their second child was violently autistic. My parents fought constantly. My mother wondered if she made a mistake. My mom was very beautiful with plenty of opportunities to leave my dad. A best friend’s husband wanted to plan a hook up with her up north. No one needed to know. Another friend’s husband kissed her. I just found out about this and he was a great guy. Guess who I ran into right after she told me? Other men pursued her, but she ran away from them instead of running away with them. That was one of my mom’s greatest strengths, staying committed to a marriage she was miserable in. This is such a rare quality nowadays.  It is hard to live up to parents who have a wonderful marriage. It is even harder to live up to a parent sticking with it when given ample opportunity to leave. 

My mother was the family breadwinner. She is still working full-time at 67. She was emotionally strong when faced with many difficult life situations. She was there for us when my dad couldn’t take it. She has patience when others have none. She is a hard worker. She handles difficulties with ease. She has been an anchor through all of life’s storms. I am proud and honored to have her as my mother. What a blessing her life has been to me and many others. She has been a lifelong advocate for the disabled and their parents. She has helped many with her empathy and compassion. She has been very generous with the gifts she has been given. She is one strong woman. 

Happy birthday, mom! I love you. 

Blessed with beauty?

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I got my first plastic surgery ad in the mail this year. I tore it up in utter contempt and disgust. I personally believe the plastic should be reserved for the burned, the grossly disfigured, genetic mutations, and Hollywood stars. But I may be biased because I have always been beautiful. I feel my beauty starting to fade a little. But, guess what? I am ok with that. I always worried that I would feel angst about this, but when the time comes it is more of a relief. 

People have always said that I look a little like Nicole Kidman. My golden blonde tresses now streaked with gray. Little blue eyes, high cheekbones, tiny ears, small nose, and full sensous lips. Average height, small boned, thin frame, athletically toned, summer golden brown tan, curvy everywhere except my hips, dainty feet. 

I think that beauty is a really touchy subject. I felt some reluctance bringing it up. What is beauty? Skin deep? In the eyes of its beholder? Inner? It really is not fair! You are either born beautiful or not. No amount of expensive elixirs can change this fact. You have no control. It is coveted, but downplayed as unimportant. Inner beauty is what matters. If that is the case, a blind person may be the best judge of beauty. Because it takes a very strong person to overlook beauty. 

But what is it really like? I received a lot of positive attention over the years and sometimes special treatment. People exclaiming how beautiful I am, that I should be a model. My mom took me to private modeling classes, I got the headshots, was taught how to pose with poise, and was offered the opportunity to be a model. I turned it down and really had no passion for it at all. 

There is a dark side to beauty. It is dangerous. You have to take extra caution regarding your safety.  I have been followed home multiple times. There was a guy that I mentioned previously who passed the semi in the pouring rain on a 2 lane highway in a no passing zone to get my number. Creapy! And another man that followed me 10 miles, when my oldest was a baby in the car, down deserted rural roads. Thank God I had a bag phone in my car. I called my husband and gave him the guy’s plate numbers. The guy saw me pick up my phone and passed me. 

Or that time I went swimming with a friend as a teen and a guy came up and grabbed at me. He wouldn’t leave me alone until I promised to hook up with him later on that night. I didn’t. 

Or my friend’s fiancé who said I looked so hot that he wanted to take me in the bedroom and rape me. He said that in front of a group of guys. I decided not to stand up in their wedding. He was a cheater and the marriage didn’t last. 

Or the pastor when I said my extended family was going through a hard time couldn’t look me in the eye, ignored my requests for prayer, and refused to talk to me. Grow up!

Or the co-worker who sexually harassed me in my summer factory job whenever I looked straight ahead by making vulgar gestures with his hands and mouth. 

Or the time that a blind date took one look at me and physically ran away. After feeling rejected and crying to be told later that he was afraid because he heard I was into modeling. 

Or by trying to defy beauty, pretend it didn’t matter, and saying yes to go out with the ugliest guy in school in utter defiance of beauty to find out it did matter. 

Or being stalked by ex-boyfriends when out with other guys. Like the time my ex had my name announced over the loudspeaker at the county fair to meet up with him. Trying to hide my car. Having a rose left under my windshield wiper when I woke up in the morning. Being watched at work. 

Or being cat called while walking down the street, getting my mail, or running. 

Or going out with friends to be grabbed, grinded on, touched unwantedly, or bought endless drinks. Believe me saying that you are a lesbian to dissuade them does not work. 

Or being verbally or physically attacked by other girls who think their boyfriends are spending too much time gazing upon you. So I ended up being chased by a large amount of scum bags who judged me only by my looks and hated by women that felt threatened by my looks. 

Or receiving special treatment from a handsome, young, married high school teacher who told me how grown up I looked. He always winked at me and called me miss while addressing the other girls by their first names. 

Or the guy that said he would take me to a Poison concert if I would sleep with him. 

Or the time I had to lock myself in my mom’s car to fend off boys with condoms. 

I am ready to retire and am handing the baton down to my beautiful 17 year old daughter who has already been stalked, followed home, and hated by less fortunate girls. Feel blessed if you have a little above average looks. That is the sweet place. Don’t worry about the couple of extra pounds that you need to lose. Rip up the plastic surgery ads. Don’t fall for the trap of promised beauty. It really isn’t worth it! Rejoice in your imperfections because there you will find true beauty. A person who can love you for who you really are. 

Back to school stress

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I woke up crabby this morning. Irritable. Stressed. My 3 kids have summer school this week sporadically all day between the hours of 8 AM and 8 PM. It really wouldn’t be that big of a deal except that we live 20 miles from the school. I made 2 trips to the school today to pick up and drop off kids, my daughter made one trip to school which equals over 2 hours of combined effort. Plus I fit in a 6 mile run and put in a couple hours at work. I feel downright exhausted. Any stress that was removed over the weekend was put back on the minute I walked back in the door. Mom can I?.. Troubles waking up my son early to go to school. I also faced the prospect of confronting a teacher today as well. I hate confrontation. The teacher was not happy that I was having my teenage kids waiting at school between activities. With drop off times at 8 AM, 9 AM, 11:30 AM, and 4 PM and pick up times at 10 AM, 2:30 PM, and 8 PM I didn’t see how this was going to happen. I was angry and spent some time swearing. I did talk to the teacher and she was understanding. Thank God! I haven’t developed my super mom powers yet of being in 10 places at once. 

I’m also getting the back to school ads in the mail. What a racket that is. When it is all said and done, I will probably spend over a thousand dollars on it. You know what, I am going to keep the receipts this year to tell you how much I spend! Great blog idea. Thanks. The sad part is that I don’t think they need half the crap that I buy on their list. Or they lose it. Or, as was the case last year, some supplies were stolen. Lots of times I just buy the cheap crap. No designer notebooks with puppies, kitties, or football players for my kids. School clothes are a little different, I usually go midline there. Cheap shoes and clothes wear out in a matter of weeks. If I am lucky the shoes and clothes will last long enough for the kids to grow out of them. That is not saying much as my son grew a foot within the last year. 

Talking about supply lists, who creates these things anyway? Your child needs exactly 10 number 2 pencils but 3 need to be yellow, 3 green, and 4 red. Buy dry erase markers, but wait they need to be odor free. Buy 9 glue sticks, but only of a certain brand the others won’t be accepted. Accordion folders only, trapper keepers will be confiscated. Hey, aren’t sciccors considered a weapon now? Paper non perforated made from recycled materials. Highlighters, no fluorescent colors. Permanent markers, non staining narrow tip. Gym shoes, non skid laced only. And the list goes on… I think there is a sadistic teacher out there making these lists because they have to put up with our bratty kids all year. They laugh envisioning us at the 30th store grovelling on the floor because the last pink eraser is sold out. I miss the days when mom sent us off on the first day of school with a couple of folders, pencils, and paper and called it good.