Out of control

Yes, it’s official.  After 30-odd years of trying, I am finally ready to admit that there are things that are out of my control.  These things include, but aren’t limited to:

• Other people’s actions
• Other people’s reactions
• Other people’s choices
• People who have autism; namely, one adorable 11-year-old I know
• The weather

Local readers will understand just exactly why I tacked on that last one – yesterday our state was positively covered with monster tornados, literally a mile across.  Lots of people died.  The more fortunate ones kept their lives but lost homes, cars, businesses.  The really, really lucky ducks (like me ‘n mine) kept their power, kept their internet, and literally watched the tornados do their damage live and in color on the telly.  It was horrifying, and more than once, as I sat there feeling almost ashamed because I was so glad the storms were going around us, I could hardly hold back tears at the sheer power and horror and chaos wending its way across the state.  And, there was nothing I or anyone else could do to stop it.

This is really, REALLY hard for me.  Things that I can’t fix or manage or suggest my way out of?  Those things cause physical discomfort for me.  Trying to let a situation just happen requires herculean effort.  The thing is, intellectually I do understand that the things on the list above are naturally out of my control – but emotionally it’s a whole other thing entirely.  And that’s where we really live, you know…heart, soul, and gut.  I react as if I were responsible, and you would not believe the trouble that’s caused in my lifetime.

The amount of stress I’ve brought upon myself by worrying about things I couldn’t control is highly significant.  Last night, two of the five things listed above combined into a big ol’ maelstrom of STUFF…and I will admit to you that I was a mess.  The storms had the trees in our neighborhood doing the twist, and the lights would flicker just enough to make me twitch uncontrollably because WHAT IF THE POWER GOES OUT?  And/or the interwebz?  Knowing exactly how Stephen would react to either of those scenarios made me want to assume the fetal position in a dark corner.  But here’s the kicker: I worried enough for 20 people and nothing had even happened yet!  I was making myself sick because I could visualize it all happening so clearly.  Autism’ll do that to you, you know – you live through a few F-5 meltdowns, and you just don’t want to venture into that territory EVER AGAIN.

I couldn’t even enjoy the really nice meal I managed to throw together in between panic attacks.  And friends – when *I* can’t enjoy eating, it’s a big deal.  News flash: you can’t control the weather, no matter how hard you try, or how little you eat, or how piteously you wring your hands.

You can’t control an innocent little boy unable to comprehend understand why power sometimes blinks off, or why a video shows up on the computer YouTube but not the iPad YouTube, or why his teacher took a day off, or that Band-Aids really will help a boo-boo.  He lives in a country mostly created in his own mind, and I am rarely granted a visa to travel there.  Oh, I plan, and use common sense, and make some neat PECS cards complete with velcro. I do my best, but control – real control when circumstances are out of my hands?  Not a chance.

While we’re in the confessional, I might as well admit that no matter how many heartfelt speeches are spoken in love from this mother’s heart – a mother trying to be firm but kind, cool but not a “buddy” – I cannot control my 13 year old and his choice to play xbox instead of, I don’t know, reading a little Shakespeare.  I mean, yes, we make rules and we try to enforce them, but at some point you have to give up ultimate control and hope you’ve taught them well.  At least that’s what I keep telling myself (usually when I’m mid-speech about how studying hard NOW will open up so many doors for you, Kerry!).

There are other situations – professional and otherwise – in which I try too hard, and go way too far down the path of trying to “prove” myself, or make up for what I think might be perceived as shortcomings.  Pointless.  Doing my best is about as far as I need to go – anything else is a waste of time, and most definitely out of control.

So.

I admit that I am powerless over others – and my life has become unmanageable.*

*A caveat: by unmanageable I really mean that I can't continue trying to manage every single little thing, often missing managing the kind of big, important things.  That kind of unmanageable.  Because I’m compelled to tell you that I am one helluva manager, when you need something managed.  Or at least I’ll kill myself trying to manage it.  All by myself, ‘cause I’m a big girl!

You can now see how I got myself into such a predicament.

Technorati Tags: Step One,autism,control

Working the steps

Gah.  I hate all this lingo.  In Codependent No More, Beattie insists that recovery is possible by working through 12 Steps (similar to AA’s Steps) that have been personalized for recovering codependents.

I really am learning a lot about myself from this book, and feel a sense of commiseration, knowing that there are others out there like me.

[There are others.  That reads like a tagline for a new M. Night Shama-however-you-spell-it movie.]

Anyway.  While I’m finding some positive things in studying the book, I feel really weird about the whole “working the steps” thing.  I don’t know – maybe it’s just my initial resistance to change – but it all sounds kind of weird and hinky.  “No, I can’t volunteer for that!  I make my own decisions! I’m working my steps.”  Ewww.  I picture a smoke-filled room with a table in the back loaded with bad coffee and store-brand cookies, crowded with folding chairs holding people in various stages of anxiety.  I walk up to the podium.  “Hi.  I’m Michelle.  I’m codependent.”  A chorus: “Hi, Michelle.”  Ewww again.

If you’re at all familiar with the traditional pattern of the steps, you know that God is mentioned.  A lot.  Or, “God as you understand him.”  So, what if you don’t understand him?  What if you’re not sure what you think or believe?  Sometimes Beattie cleverly uses “Higher Power” as a synonym, but I’m not sure that helps me out a whole lot.  But, because I’m determined to get the hell over myself and this clingy codependent claptrap, I’m going to figure out a way to make this work. 

I have a sense of the spiritual, of the divine – sure I do.  Those moments that stand alone in time – when your heart nearly stops in reaction to beauty (have you seen a sunset in Death Valley, looking out over miles of empty hot vastness, knowing you are but a speck?  I have, and I felt closer to God/Spirit/My Higher Power at those moments)…when a child’s arms voluntarily go around your neck, their warmth and humanity elevating both of you to something more…when a mere human’s brain produces thoughts that become words in a poem, the sum total of which rises off the page and affects you…when a musician’s touch on a guitar produces melody that physically jars you to your core, and you are a different soul than before you heard it…these things and others like them convince me that there is a higher place.  Maybe that’s not how you’d explain it, or see things, or believe things.  But I think that’s okay.

So, to borrow a phrase shared with me by David (and attributed to the late Dr. Eugene Sledge), I will press on, with renewed vigah (Southern accent please), and meditate and reflect upon each step as I come to it – perhaps sharing some insights I’ve found, and perhaps not.  This soul-searching business is extremely personal, as a rule, so we’ll see how transparent I happen to be feeling.

See you in group!

(ugh…)

Technorati Tags: codependency,beauty,Higher Power

The DaVinci Code…pendency

I know, that was bad. I couldn’t help myself. However, it’s entirely apropos, corniness aside.

Have you read The DaVinci Code? I confess that I did. I enjoyed it in spite of myself. Silly conspiracy theories, digging for clues, reading the signs, interpreting codes…I was fascinated.

So: codependency. As much as I’ve grown to detest psychobabble and words that come and go in the world of psychology, this word I can’t escape. It’s me. Completely and totally me. In my 38+ years, I have done three lifetimes’ worth of searching for the reasons why I am the bundle of neuroses you see before you. It started way back when I was a tiny little neurotic, dependent on the love and support of my parents for my total existence as a human – and my parents, God love ‘em, with their baggage and issues…

So, let’s examine the parallels:

Silly conspiracy theories? Yep. It’s my parents’ fault, for expecting perfection and forbidding wandering from the path. It’s my nursery school teacher’s fault for telling me I was smart. It’s because I’m an only child. It’s because I am a klutz, but also a great dancer – how’s THAT for an oxymoron?

Digging for clues? Oh, mercy yes. Not until college and immediately after, but I did some digging. Therapists, counselors, self-help gurus, God, religion… Somewhere in there, I was going to unearth THE ANSWER and when I did it would be so appallingly obvious that I would have myself figgered out in a jif.

And along with those clues, I did some reading of signs: if the sun shines tomorrow, then all this stuff bothering me right now will be okay. If I ace this exam, then my future is secure. If I make it through this horrible experience, then I will NEVER do THAT again (drink too much, talk too much, share too much of myself)…

Worst of all, I began to see patterns. Codes, even. I studied people so closely I made Margaret Mead look like a slacker. I made some amazing discoveries:

• IF [boyfriend looks unhappy] THEN [I have done something wrong] (note: this statement is absolute and “boyfriend” is interchangeable with: “parents,” “friends,” “person at mall”)


• I do not deal with conflict well. I cringe and shrivel up inside when something contrary to what I know is introduced. Gathering data via keen observations, I created the following graph which illustrates my reaction to conflict or differing opinions:

• Overheard in many a high school/college classroom: “This essay is great; you need to cut some wordiness and add more description but overall it’s really good” - translated this means: “You suck, and you’re dumb and ugly.”


• Any bad things that befall anyone I know are all my fault – many people don’t even realize it at times but I step in with my apologies and my secret shame because in the big scheme of things I’m SURE I did something to cause it, and helpfully take responsibility for pretty much anything.


• If forty-seven things need doing to achieve a common goal, I will bust my ass doing forty-six of them, then break down, weeping, when I have to ask someone else to do the last one. Not because I’m so capable or so IN CHARGE…no, I’m just compelled to drive myself into an early grave.


• If Michelle’s [friend, loved one, co-worker] wants to talk about 2 problems, and Michelle is so busy thinking of the 47 things she must get done or be labeled a lazy bum, and simultaneously is thinking of the friend’s 2 problems plus 8 other problems other people have mentioned that are probably her fault, then how many problems are there? BONUS: Why can’t Michelle sit calmly and listen to 1 problem at a time? Why can’t she LISTEN at all without a bizarre compulsion to FIX everything? (I’m pretty sure Fibonacci sequences come into play here.)

I could go on. At some point, I probably will. I’m reading what’s considered the classic on codependency (Codependent No More by Melody Beattie – isn’t that a fine, firm, don’t-take-any-crap title?) and I’ve already met myself on about every other page. No doubt there will be a myriad of topics that compel inspire me to write.

The good news is that supposedly one can recover from this codependency business. Oh, and lest I give the wrong impression, I am not married to an alcoholic or drug addict – many people are codependent because of years of upbringing, then you add any other kinds of conflict into the mix (and we all know how THAT goes with me) and bam. You’ve got yourself a raging case of DaVinci Code-pendency.

Wish me luck.

Authenticity

I had a post all typed up, even hit “publish” on it…it was all about my struggle to eat well – or perhaps my struggle to stop eating so well – and it even had a really hilarious Jabba the Hutt reference, complete with a picture of Jabba himself.

Then a few things happened.

The Jabba picture would not load.  Period.  Big blank white space.

I didn’t have time to mess with it, so I left it, and walked out of my building to go to a meeting across campus.  And I noticed what an incredible day this is, weather-wise.  The sky is that impossible shade of blue that almost hurts your eyes.  The trees on campus looked like they’d been processed by Technicolor.  Students were walking around in their Chaco sandals and running shorts in every possible hue sold by Patagonia, and from a distance, it was like I’d stepped into a Chagall painting.

Which brings me to the third thing.  The unadulterated beauty I encountered suddenly made my self-centered food blog post seem crass and silly (in a bad way).  And I started thinking about why I blog…about why I started to blog…I had all these thoughts and feelings and needed someplace to put them, and this wonderful, free blog provided that and more.  I found a voice.  I found that I could write well, sometimes really well, and that I’d touched a few people.  The first time someone told me they cried while reading what I wrote, I was stunned and so very gratified to know that I’d managed to put my feelings out there as authentically as I could, and that people got it.

I’m not saying I regret trying out some different things here lately.  I enjoy a good laugh as much as anyone, and have struggled to hold in the giggles when I’m reading some of my favorite funny writers’ blogs while at work.  I think (mostly unconsciously) I tried to copy them.

The lesson I learned today is that this whole writing thing only works when I’m really being who I am…

And as soon as I figure that out, you’ll be the first to know.

Those WERE the Days…Weren't They?

Thanks to everyone who commented on- and off-blog about my last two entries. The reviews were mixed – some of you liked them, some…not so much.

But hey, life goes on and my struggle to find a voice continues.

This morning on the way to work I was behind someone who had a tiny little bag hanging from their rearview mirror. I have no idea what it was (air freshener, bag of garlic to ward off vampires) but I noticed it, because I notice and ruminate upon tiny, obscure details while forgetting to put the milk back in the fridge.

Anyway, the bag…

It put me in mind of some chewing gum I used to like when I was a little girl. The gum itself looked like gold nuggets, and it came in a little burlap-ish, drawstring bag. Anybody remember it?

Of course almighty Google has promptly given me a picture.

So, yes, <<< THAT gum.

In the space of mere seconds, in my mind’s eye I could see myself at age 5, holding my grandmother’s hand as we walked from her house, up one street and over half a block, to the little grocery store in town.

Three things were vividly real to me about this memory: the feel of my grandmother’s hand in mine – she would’ve been well past 70 then, and I can still feel the smooth, papery feel of her skin; the dim interior of that little shop that was only in a storefront space but somehow had everything people in town needed to bake a cake; and the fact that my grandmother used one of those little pouches to keep her money in…and she pinned it to her slip.

Do women even wear slips anymore? I’m sure to my grandmother, born in 1895, putting on a slip was as natural as putting on her dress or her shoes. It’s amazing how seeing such a small, insignificant, random thing that only a weirdo like me would even notice brought a flood of memories rushing in…my grandmother in her navy blue dress with white polka dots, money pinned in a Gold Nugget bag, white sweater over her shoulders, snow white hair in a bun on the back of her head… She died the month I turned six, and yet those images and scents and feelings are right there, you know? Right under the surface of the churning chaos of my mind…

My grandmother…her slips and housedresses and sweaters… She never wore pants in her life, I’m sure. Thinking about her naturally got me thinking about my recent obsession interest in “I Love Lucy.” When I was off work for a month, I watched the first 2 seasons on DVD (which I had picked up a couple of weeks prior for a mere $13 each) and was reminded of summers at my Aunt Mary’s, eating Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup on a scarred TV tray and watching Lucy followed by “Perry Mason.”

See? Those WERE the days.

Well, what I really meant in that title is that I feel some sort of nostalgia for those seemingly innocent days of the 50’s. Can you be nostalgic about something you never experienced?

I’ve often said that I was born in the wrong era. I adore vegging out happily watching Lucy re-runs: her house dresses, her aprons, her little kitchen with its plug-in percolator…her evening gowns, her tidy little hairdo, her relentless drive to get into the act… So formulaic, so predictable…and I love it. I want to be Lucy. I want Ethel to drop by unannounced, popping in the back door with her hair in a scarf: “Hi girl!”

<sigh>

But, those days are gone – and it seems like all the gentility, gracious living, and simplicity went with them. I’ll never be Lucy.

Well, maybe I could be.

But I’d be the Lucy who lit her fake nose on fire while trying to disguise myself from Bill Holden.

People Who Fascinate Me, Part Une

Yes, you heard me. "Part Une," 'cause I'm all metropolitan and citizen of the world 'n stuff.

First, let's remember that the word "fascinate" doesn't always necessarily carry a positive connotation. Dictionary dot com says: "to attract and hold attentively by a unique power; to transfix or deprive of the power of resistance, as through terror."

I'm envisioning a series of posts that will feature people who fascinate me for various and sundry reasons. Sometimes I am simultaneously repulsed and fascinated. That whole can't-look-away-from-a-car-accident mentality.

Today, I give you one of my favorite authors, who fits the bill using either part of the definition:

Stephen King

As someone who loves to write, who glories in reading a well-crafted sentence, who frequently escapes on the powerful wings of fiction – I adore Stephen King. Not everything he's written, for sure, but classic masterpieces like The Shining (I read it as an adult and couldn't sleep well for a week), Misery, It, Cujo…these and others will always make my list of favorite books. And years ago I picked up his book On Writing and found it wonderfully written and absolutely spot-on as a how-to manual for aspiring writers.

But let's face it. The man has GOT to be weird at some significant levels. If you've read his books, you know what I mean. He thinks up this stuff.

Okay, so here he looks nice enough. Friendly, like the guy who owns the small town bookshop where you browse for hours:

*bell rings on door*

"Mornin' Mr. King!"

"Hey there kids – c'mon in, just stocking the shelves…let me know if I can help y'all…" (because Stephen King would totally say y'all)

And then you walk down an aisle, turn quickly and see him peeking over the shelf at you…

"Hey kids…do you like clowns?"

And then there's this one.

A little odd, right? An attempt at an intellectual pose, perhaps? Pondering a career change as a body double for Randy Owen from the group Alabama?

But the larger question: what is he THINKING there? What gory, horrible, mind-shattering story just occurred to him, bringing about that faraway, slightly bemused expression?

"Then the clown will *POP* up in the GUTTER, for chrissakes…and he'll grab the boy's arm…and then his TEETH will get all pointed…yesssss….."

Which brings us to:

Are you SEEING this?

He can read your mind, you know. He knows what'll scare the bejeesus out of you and mess your mind up for LIFE.

And something else:

This man is married.

A woman sleeps next to him at night and has borne his children. Sure, the money's nice, but…

THINK about it.

I'll bet she sleeps in a garlic necklace with one eye open.

Oh, I'm kidding. (I think.)

I love ya, Mr. King. You've given me hours of entertainment, sleepless nights, and inspiration to do what I love – you're brilliant, funny, and strong, coming back from that horrible accident years ago. Bravo!

I admire you so much, I even named my son after you! *

*not really

I wish you years and years of productivity and quality. If you could write some stuff better than Under the Dome, that'd be grrreat.

Getting Through the Day

I thought I'd try something new today, and keep a blog document open throughout the day, documenting various and sundry things that tumble through the ol' noggin…and maybe give you a glimpse inside my mind.

If that doesn't frighten you off, then, bless you.

9:34 a.m. Arrived at work after hand therapy*. As nice as it is to trot in here at around 8:30 due to construction on the interstate, it's even MORE fun to come in an hour later and feel like everyone is staring holes in me for daring to have the flexibility to come in later if need be. Also: will they EVER stop constructing or de-constructing or re-constructing the interstate? I'm thinking no.

*Don't get carpal tunnel problems and have multiple surgeries. Trust me on this.

11:24 a.m. Argued with gas company over bill payment debacle. They screwed up, won't take responsibility, and have caused multiple OD fees on my miniscule checking account. Their "experts" say that after reviewing the phone calls I made, they've determined I never even mentioned payments when I called them last week. Right, of course - I called them to ask them the correct time and also which movies are playing this weekend. Note: are there any decent human beings left? The almighty dollar rules all.

12:49 p.m. Fired off email to state public service commission re: gas payment debacle. Holding my breath for a quick, fair resolution.

Riiiiiight.

1:17 p.m. Call from supervisor at gas co. They won't pay the fees because I should've cancelled the payment that I was told didn't exist. She talked to me like I was a moron. I said, "Just do the right thing." Dragon Lady: "Ma'am, we aren't responsible for the fact that you didn't follow up on this. Our phone records show that there was no mention of payment."

I give up.

1:50 p.m. It has just come to my attention that someone else in the office – someone HIGHER up the ladder than yours truly, someone who has the reputation of being saint-like and perfect – made a mistake that could've proven disastrous (in the wild, wild world of academe). Is it bad that I want to dance around yelling out every detail at the top of my lungs?

1:57 p.m. Where are iCarly's parents? I mean, she lives in this weird loft with her even weirder brother, but…where are their parents? Did they explain that in the first episode? If they exist – where do THEY live? Are they fine with their teenage daughter having a webcam show on the internets?

And perhaps even more disturbing…why do I care? I don't watch this show. No one at my house watches it. All my iCarly knowledge comes from commercials that play in between Spongebob episodes.

Note: this question popped into my head as I was heading to the bathroom. And so there you have the randomness and spontaneous firing of neurons that is my brain.

2:43 p.m. I promise not to inflict this upon you each day, as much as I know you'd love to follow my each and every move, thought, and feeling.

I just got through tweaking the look of the blog a bit – because I felt like a change. I was feeling restless and so…I changed it. Took "autism" out of the title, 'cause I wanted to. Put a background image of some mountains and a meadow, 'cause it made me smile.

And now I'm having some yogurt and wondering if anyone is actually going to read this.

3:02 p.m. Stephen's probably home by now. I always stop and notice, and hope he's happy. Yesterday the box for a Blue's Clues video got lost in his room, and David had a time finding it. I was at work trying to figure out how to print out a mock-up of the video box on cardstock, which I was going to cut and glue into box-form, just in case.

Do I try too hard? Probably. But all I could imagine was a night of misery because nobody could find the box for "It's Joe Time!"

But he found it, folded into a blanket on Stephen's bed. No idea who could've done THAT. *whistling*

3:34 p.m. Home stretch.

This is the time of day when I've done most of the stuff that's been hanging out in my in-box, and am trying to look busy while surreptitiously reading a blog or two. My favorite one at the moment is stark.raving.mad.mommy. Fantastic stuff – it makes me laugh. Try doing that surreptitiously. It's like giggling in church. You want to SOOO bad, but you know that the nosy lady sitting beside you will frown and you'll get in trouble.

3:57 p.m. I'm hungry, tired of sitting in this chair, bored with work, hoping all is well at home, and wondering what would've happened if I had stayed in Honors English in the Fall of 1990 and become a famous English professor, teaching the masses and writing Pulitzer-prize winning novels every few years.

Time to hit submit and send this thing to press. Thanks for indulging me on this play-by-play entry.

Guidance Systems Break Down

So...I lied. I AM going to mention autism today, but later in the post, so just hang on. We saw the author of this book, Dr. Miguel Nicolelis, on The Colbert Report the other night. (Note: Right now, The Colbert Report > Daily Show - Colbert's writers are brilliant.) From the publisher's promo: "In this stunning and inspiring work, Duke University neuroscientist Miguel Nicolelis shares his revolutionary insights into how the brain creates thought and the human sense of self—and how this might be augmented by machines, so that the entire universe will be within our reach." And while I truly and honestly DO want paralyzed people to walk again by utilizing a brain/computer connection and an Ironman-esque suit (one of the applications Nicolelis brought up)...if researchers are able to dig into the brain and figure out what impulse leads to what movement and so forth... Why in the hell can't someone, somewhere figure out what's up with this whole autism thing? And FIX IT immediately if not sooner? In blurbs I've read about Beyond Boundaries, I see mentions of things like: "Imagine living in a world where people use their computers, drive their cars, and communicate with one another simply by thinking," (from Daily Kos) and while this sounds pretty fantastical and eerily like a couple of Dean Koontz novels I've read, it's certainly a positive thing in theory, especially vis a vis quadriplegics being able to move again. How about let's also imagine a world where someone figures out how to fix the crazy wiring in brains wracked and jumbled by autism? See, in my head I'm now hearing that last sentence being read by Movie Trailer Voiceover Guy. You know the one I mean... "In a world where people turn on their coffeemakers, set their TiVo's, and balance their checkbooks...just by THINKING about it..." Heh.

A Different Approach

I think.

Looking back, I see that my blog output has been less than prodigious in the last few years. In 2010, I came up with a grand total of five entries - each Pulitzer-worthy, no doubt - but those are slim pickins. There are a few blogs I've come to enjoy reading, and one thing that sets them apart from my happy little wonderland here is that those folks do some frequent blogging. Like, daily, even.

And what about me?

Once every few months because my co-dependent self feels guilty for not writing something, my brain goes to work, trying to find new ways to re-hash the same old stuff that seems to keep happening... Maybe I'll try logging on here more often, and maybe I won't even TYPE the word autism. Because my life is more than autism, you know.

Ha.

Well, it is! My very full life also includes worrying that maybe I'm not being a very good parent to the non-autistic kid I have (who is now a teenager, saints preserve us) or, maybe, my secret hypochondriac is worrying that some weird bump on my leg is cancer, or there's always worrying that the world really HAS gone to hell in a handbasket and there's not a damned thing I seem to be able to do about it. Honestly - have you NOTICED the greed and avarice and seeming lack of compassion or human kindness that has invaded our culture? It depresses me, and I wonder what's the use.

Bah.

I'll leave you with something that has me scratching my head, and it ties in neatly with my bewilderment over the strange malaise/laziness so rampant in our culture...I saw a commercial for this product yesterday. I think it sums up society perfectly. I give you: Easy Feet.



Have you SEEN this thing? You suction it to your tub (or even the WALL, as the commercial gleefully suggests) and you use it to scrub your feet. Because who can be bothered to LEAN DOWN and clean their feet? Even older, less flexible people can sit down in the tub and clean their feet. Can't they? And, if you suction it to your wall...then do you do that Karate Kid crane pose as you scrub your feet, balancing in the tub? Sigh. People are nuts.