Tuesday, February 27, 2018


I just discovered that a bunch of comment notifications were going to an email address I no longer use, and I had no idea they were awaiting moderation. My apologies for not publishing or replying!

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

More Sadness

CW: Death of a Child

I've brushed my teeth, made the bed, and written the hardest sympathy note I've ever had to write. Honestly, I didn't even try to say much... I mean, what's the point? When an old person dies, you can maybe offer a little comfort with sweet memories. There's no comfort here. So I basically just said I know and I care and I'm here if you need me.

I have to try to get some normalcy going, for my own mental health and my son's. This is so hard on him: he feels our sadness acutely, and it's happening at school as well.


I've been remembering when I read The World According to Garp, some time in my twenties. I was struck by how much Garp and his wife missed their dead child. I missed my mom intensely when we were apart, but even though we were very close, I never thought about her missing me. I'm not sure if that's because it was her parenting philosophy not to share such feelings -- very likely; I should ask -- or if I just didn't think children were interesting enough to miss, or if it was because I was painfully aware of how much she valued her time alone.

(One of the worst parenting mistakes I ever made, incidentally, was joking about getting away from my son where he could overhear. That cut him so deep. I shower him with affection, but I don't think he can ever truly believe in it.)

I also value time alone, sometimes desperately need it (and that's always the day that childcare falls through...) but I miss my son with every fibre of my being. The week my husband and I spent in New York was one of the best times of my life, except for how much I missed him. He's an indispensable part of me. Maybe someday he'll live his own life apart from us and I'll have to learn to make do with phone calls and emails. That's good, if it happens that way. I can be happy with that.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

CW: Death of a child, suicide

My husband is reading the last Harry Potter book aloud to me and our son. (We were in the middle of it during the election, then put it away because it was too scary. It's still pretty on the nose but... life goes on.)

So he read the scene in which the death of Harry's parents is depicted. And it was like a blow. Harry's mom giving up her life for Harry... that's not a stretch. Many parents would do it, if they could. They're our hearts walking around outside our bodies, and we put so much into raising them and protecting them and desperately praying, please outlive me. And sometimes they take that life and throw it away.

(I'm aware this is not a kind or sensitive way to talk about suicide. I'm grieved and angry and I have to get those feelings out. Accept it or don't.)

When my son was little, one of the mamas I hung out with had a second baby. She was given a flower name, like her older sister. All the mamas organized and brought them food, and we couldn't wait for our turn to see the baby help out. She was beautiful and miraculous, as newborns are, and her head smelled like cinnamon buns. My husband and I freaked my friend out a bit, by how enthusiastically we smelled her head.

I lost touch with the group of moms but I still ran into my friend and her girls sometimes. I saw the girls performing in a teen improv show about a year ago. It was a lot of fun; they seemed confident and happy. I last saw my friend at open house day for my son's school, beacuse her younger daughter was transferring there. It's small and intimate, a good place for kids who are different and having a hard time.

But not always good enough. I have no knowledge of what this young girl was going through. My son doesn't connect with people in high school and he didn't remember playing with her as a kid, or make any attempt to get to know her again. All I know is either her mother (or God forbid, her sister) had to find her. That it was too late to help her. That everyone in my son's intimate school is reeling. That someone I care about is going through my worst nightmare.

Lin-Manual Miranda very appropriately called it the unimaginable. And yet I can't stop imagining it. How my friend breastfed, and homeschooled her daughters for years. How she spent so many years trying to do what's best for them. How she gave them names that go together, and she'll forever feel what's missing when she says her older daughter's name.

Saturday, July 29, 2017

Finding Neurodiversity in Fiction: When the Moon was Ours by Anna-Maria McLemore

This isn't canon, or even headcanon -- that is, I'm not claiming any of the characters in this book should be read as neurodiverse. But it did strike me as containing a wonderful metaphor, and one wide open for neurodiverse people to embrace, if we want to.

(With one caveat... part of the metaphor is so viscerally unappealing to me, I almost stopped reading the book.)

When the Moon Was Ours is a work of magic realism, a story about claiming one's identity, and a tender romance. It's probably most aptly targeted at a YA audience, but adults will love it too. The plot is so fantastical it's probably simplest not to try to explain it, but here is the relevant part: Miel, a teenaged girl, comes from a family of "brujos and brujas," who have helpful gifts like being able to heal broken bones. But Miel's strange gift is considered a curse: she --

-- ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh! --

-- grows roses from her wrist, beautiful fragrant roses that express her innermost feelings. Miel's father believes that anyone who grows roses from their body -- ugh! -- will ultimately turn on their family, and Miel underwent genuine torture from her family's efforts to cure or exorcise her.

You see.

Here are some sections that particularly stuck with me (all emphases are mine):

"'She loved you,' Aracely said. 'But she got lost thinking that your roses were something outside of you... ' [spoilers deleted] 'She never wanted to hurt you.'

'You really believe that?' Miel asked, and she heard in her own voice both skepticism and forgiveness. A suspicion both that her mother had been trying to hurt her and that she had been justified in doing it. 

'Yes,' Aracely said. 'I've always believed that. But just because she loved you doesn't mean you deserved what she did. Or what he did.'

It takes Miel some time to accept that Aracely is right: that her roses aren't a curse, that her mother was wrong, but that she did act from love.

"Her mother hadn't hated her. She knew that. She'd feared for her. She'd loved Miel, seen her a daughter she could lose to petals and thorns. She'd been a young mother little older than Aracely, panicked and desperate to hold on to the children she'd made.

What mother could resist a hundred tales of roses that had stolen the souls of sons and daughters? What mother could stand against her husband's insistence that their daughter was sick and needed to be cured?"
I hope this doesn't come off as sounding like an apologist for curebie parents, but part of Miel's journey towards accepting herself is believing in her mother's love for her. It helps lift the shame that keeps her from protecting herself against those that threaten her.

There's also a wonderful, complex self-acceptance journey for Miel's beloved friend and new lover Samir, which adds to the richness of the story. I highly recommend it.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Spring and Fall to a Middle-Aged Woman

me: "Oh boy! Today I get to change from our cold weather pillowcases to our warm weather pillowcases!"

(At times like this, I wish I could find a gif from the Simpson's vacation episode, where Lisa says, "Yeah, it's going to be really fun for you changing a different set of sheets" and Marge replies, "You're joking -- but it is!")

Most of my childhood, during which we were both very poor and moved around a lot, was pretty minimalist. I literally had no idea of what a mattress pad was until I met my husband when I was 21. We didn't even have changes of sheets, much less seasonal ones.

Something I've learned slowly over the last 10-15 years is how to adjust my environment. In the place we lived before our current home, my husband would sometimes come home to find me almost passed out from the heat. I had no idea how to deal on hot days.

Our current home is much, much hotter. After a lifetime spent living in virtual caves, I wanted a lot of sunlight, and I got it. But I've learned what to do. At certain times of day, you open this window or close that one. You open and close curtains. You change clothes. You turn on a fan or take a cool shower.

I think it's partially that this is the longest time I've ever lived in one place -- our previous home together being the second longest -- and so I've gotten a sense of continuity that I never had before. "This is what happens in Spring. This is what happens in Fall." And I have money to buy things now -- jackets for when it's cool, jackets for when it's cold, flannel sheets -- and places to store them.

But I think it's also that I'm easier with transitions. Not just the more obvious ones like seasons of the year, but the times of day. I take the time now to think about the weather. It doesn't bother me any more to change clothes or add or subtract them.

I might not even notice all this stuff if it weren't for my resident mini-me. (Who is now more like a maxi-me.) I hope he'll get here someday too.

Monday, December 5, 2016

Deep Thoughts on Safety Pins

Today I saw my therapist for the first time since the election. I didn't really feel much like talking, so we did bodywork designed to help me feel supported and contained.

At one point I got hysterical thinking about my son, and how he's regarded by the people now in power here. And my therapist helped me through with a loving-kindness meditation, emphasizing the safety of my space and connecting it to a matrix of the many other people who are frightened right now, and how we need to help each other feel safe.

Wow, this shit is hard to describe. Anyway, I felt like I'd been giving a missing piece. (I first mis-typed 'peace', a truly subconscious typo.) I'm doing as much activism as I can. My family is giving money, making phone calls, joining action groups. But support for the emotional aspects of living in this time is important too.

And I remembered the poor "safe space" safety pin. I wore one for two days, before it was inevitably ruined and perverted by sabotage from the right and disgusting expensive jewelry versions. And... by anger from people I consider friends online.

And I don't want to blame or shame anyone for their anger. But I can't help feeling that anyone who said "the safety pin does nothing, it's only actions that matter" missed the point. Of course actions matter. They're vital, especially now. But feelings also matter. The safety pin was a way for me to express, "I'm frightened. I'm sad. If you're frightened and sad too, we're together in this. Let's help each other."

It really hurt me that people were so angry at me for making an effort to have that in my life. And I closed off. So I''m glad to be reminded that it's important to connect. It's important to feel for each other.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

How Empathy Works for Me

Yesterday I read this in the Washington Post: https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/early-lead/wp/2016/10/31/a-black-autistic-teen-got-lost-running-a-5k-then-assaulted-by-a-man-who-feared-getting-mugged/

(Warning for the usual sort of non-thinking, inherently-ableist reporting.)

To summarize the story, Chase, a black, mostly non-verbal autistic teen, was assaulted by a much larger white man while running a marathon with his team. His family is having difficulty getting justice for him.

Sadly, this is a fairly common sort of story in America. And I felt the usual feelings about it. Outrage and disgust at the obvious racism that provoked the attack. Outrage and disgust that justice wasn't being served. A cynical relief that at least the poor boy wasn't shot, as so many black and/or disabled people have been.

And then I got to the rest of the story.

Chase has refused to run since this happened. It was formerly his favorite thing. It brought him joy, and a place in a community.

That's when I started to cry. Because I know this. I know what it's like to have nasty people ruin something you love. Sometimes it feels like that's my whole life now. Just one big reaction to trauma.

So I cried more for Chase than I have for people who've actually been killed. Because I know what he's going through.

I was remembering something that happened after 9/11. I was 8 months pregnant when it happened, and I posted somewhere online about how upset I was for the women who were near term or in labor in New York -- how terrifying it must be in the midst of all the chaos and loss of essential services and such. And I got a response so sarcastic I could barely parse it, but I think the message was it was disgusting that I was thinking about that instead of the loss of lives.

Well, the two aren't mutually exclusive. Of course I was horrified and saddened for the people who died, and the people who lost loved ones. (We didn't know for awhile about the people sickened by the smoke inhalation.) I felt a great deal of sympathy for them. But my most immediate empathy went to the people who were experiencing something like I was experiencing.

Similarly, when Katrina happened while I was the mother of a young child, my thoughts were largely with other mothers. I gave money for diapers for the refugees, as well as for drinking water.

Is this weird? Or bad? Or is it unreasonable of people to expect true empathy for everyone in every situation? How much can anyone stand to empathize when there's so much suffering in the world?