Finding Neurodiversity in... Nonfiction: Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life

This is a little trickier than my usual posts, because it's about a memoir. I don't want to create an autistic headcanon for Amy Krouse Rosenthal --

(and let me take a moment to mourn the deletion of feminist aspie's blog and her wonderful post "A Headcanon Called Autism." I hope she is well.)

-- but I do think this book has... let's call it an autistic sensibility. Rosenthal, who sadly died fairly young, had a passion for wordplay and interesting patterns. This is apparent in the very form of this book, which is written as a series of alphabetic entries -- they start with "Amy" and end with "You." It's also apparent in what the entries are about... random feelings about life, odd memorable coincidences, observations. Reading the book is like briefly living inside someone's special interest.

A moment of personal sadness about this book:

"1989 Reads The Day I Became an Autodidact by Kendall Hailey. Writes author and receives letter back."

That's a real gut-puncher for me, because I read that book sometime in the 90s and also was also inspired to write to the author... but never mailed it. 

Rosenthal had a policy of always answering letters and she created numerous situations in which readers of her books could be inspired to contact her and participate in something with her. (For example, one reader got to propose a tattoo design, which they both got together.) So that also makes it a bit of a sad read, since she is no longer here to respond. The entire last chapter is a plea to "You" -- me, the reader-- to recognize her ordinary life:

"I picked at a scab. I wished I was older. I wished I was younger. I loved my children. I loved mayonnaise. I sucked my thumb. I chewed on a blade of grass.
I was here, you see. I was."

I can't read that without crying.

But most of the book made me smile in recognition... of the fun of wordplay (She tried to get her client Kraft to do a show called the Krafterschool Special,) of those embarrassing memories you can't forget, of just being a person in the world.

People Are Exhausting... And Yet

I finally made it to London, a few months ago, solving the problem by taking all my family with me.  It was hard and wonderful and exhausting and awesome. London is probably not my soul's city as I thought it might be, which was a little sad to realize, but better to know, right?

One of the things I've been pondering since the trip is how strange it was to be around such... distant people. Unfriendly isn't the right term, because I could always ask someone for help if I needed to, but people generally ignored each other in public.

I don't remember noticing this in New York. I'm not sure if it's because I felt familiar with the pace there, having lived there when I was young, or because we were always in such busy areas it wasn't obvious. Probably the later. Walking around a residential neighborhood in London, the lack of acknowledging nods/smiles was really obvious.

And if you'd asked me how I'd feel about that, I probably would have said it would be great! Because having to put on friendly normalcy can be really hard at times. And yet, I really found it weird, and lonely.

This came up for me today, because I bought shirts for me and my son that say, "People are Exhausting."   And I almost wore mine today and then I realized, it might stop people from making casual chit-chat with me. And though I hate obligatory "how are you"s, I like a bit of chit-chat. I've gotten good enough at it that it's a pretty small outlay of energy, as long as I'm in an okay frame of mind, and in return I get to feel some harmony with the people around me. It makes the world feel more comfortable.

oops

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!

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.

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.