Susan Senator

Once you let the concepts of neurodiversity split open your basic assumptions about autism, the crack just keeps widening. Early this morning I took my coffee and book into the living room, to the couch across from Nat. I slurped and read while Nat sat still, in the center of the couch, whispering to himself into the crisp post-rain air.

My current read is not that great, plus the sky is lit up a promising blue and white, so my mind kept wandering. This is my frequent mental state: running from thought to thought, barely stopping to breathe and really notice them. Because of Nat’s presence, and the imminent lack thereof come July 28, the thoughts churning there were about him. As often happens when I think about this, sadness crept over me.

I couldn’t push away the way I felt sorry for him. Sorry because he was going away, and doesn’t really know yet what it means, to leave us and live somewhere else; sorry because I wondered if he felt that something was afoot, but could not put words to it because words are so elusive for him. Sorry because he didn’t have a book, but just sits there, so often, center-couch, staring ahead of him. And that made me feel bad because I realized that he doesn’t really possess much of a way to escape reality, with pleasurable leisure pursuits. (Leisure activities — or “appropriate leisure skills,” as we have come to call them because of our behavioral training — are what most people eagerly slip into to feel content: reading, listening to music, exercising, writing, gardening, doing crossword puzzles; at least, those are my typical leisure choices.)

Nat can’t escape himself the way I can. But where has all my escape gotten me? So often I run away from my real feelings (maybe you don’t think I do, but truly all you know is what you read here, where I work things out on Precious). I have a huge problem with sitting with feelings, letting them in, letting them merely pass, without acting or pushing away. Trust me, I have had some pretty awful consequences with all my running and impulsive action.

Nat, on the other hand, is capable of simply sitting, literally, with himself, his thoughts, his feelings. He exists within himself, within the moment, just about all the time. And he is okay with it. I realized then, how remarkable that is, how brave, how strong. It was the first time ever that I wanted to be like Nat.

My misplaced pity evaporated and I slunk away into the kitchen, uncomfortable, as usual, with these new feelings and discoveries, and plunged with relief into more coffee and my blog.