concise

At Asperger Square 8, a comic strip about the processing of social data (that also summarizes my entire dating history; so perfectly that it hurts).

Walls (part 4 of 9)

(pt. 3)

Again switching metaphors.

I.

The personality screensaver.

We all have one.

A co-worker...or neighbor...or relative...is talking to you. They're relating an anecdote from their week that is completely uninteresting. They're going on and on.

At first, you listen. And...because you're nice...you try really hard. You're paying attention, trying to keep up with the story...but eventually you zone out. Your thoughts drift and you begin to think about work or errands you need to run or whatever. At that point, your own thought stream has taken over and you are completely disengaged from the conversation.

However...when that happens? You don't suddenly slump forward and turn off like a light switch. You are still nodding your head. You are still making sounds: "Uh-huh...right...uh-huh". You are still sending the "I am listening" signals.

Your thoughts are in one place, far away...but your body is connected into the interaction.

That's your personality screensaver.

It's an auto-pilot, basically...a mode we use from time to time as a way of interacting with others when our minds can't focus.

So...imagine waking up one morning and finding that you only have a personality screensaver. You're stuck in it. You can't turn it off. You get around, interact with people...and find that your thoughts are completely disconnected from the moment. People are talking and for you it's just abstract, distant noise. Yet your body is sending all of the correct signals, in spite of you. The detachment you feel...no one can see it. You have no way to express it because your body is locked into it's screensaver...it's auto-pilot.

You, in that moment, are Descartes' nightmare.

II.

That's basically what happened to me in high school. That became my version of AS.

Prior to tenth grade...from elementary school through junior high...I was not really developing socially. I was mind-blind, unable to pick up on social cues. My surroundings grew in social complexity...but I was not maturing along with it.

In elementary school, this led to bullying. In junior high, it was completely unbearable because the maturity gap between myself and others was larger, more painful to see. It was embarrassing, quite frankly. I had no way of understanding the gap between myself and others, but there it was, leaving me isolated, extremely anxious. Not meshing, not clumping...alone.

Then high school: everything goes up another notch in complexity. The gap grows larger. I can't handle it. I'm trying so hard to make friends...failing...and getting so nervous that I have trouble keeping food down. I'm underweight, withdrawn, a nervous wreck.

So that's when it happens. At the age of fifteen, I go into "survival mode": I turn my personality off. I shut it down very hard...and then reboot.

Bloop. New M.

Hyper-vigilant M. Watchful, analytical. All of my energy goes into seeming like others. I bury my emotions, reactions and begin to mirror the body-language of others, as well as pre-scripting my conversation.

(This is an old post and a different metaphor, but it goes into more detail about that process).

In other words: I turn my body into a never-ending personality screensaver. I practice body-language over and over...I suppress my thoughts, reactions...and I mask the difficulties I have with sensory issues. Within a year or two, I have the basics down. I learn how to blend in...how to hide in plain site. For the first time, my body is sending correct signals.

So, to some degree it works. I do become more socially adept...but only at a surface level. I navigate basic, day-to-day interactions well, but nothing more. It all goes back to the same problem, the mind-blindness. Even though I was developing a complicated understanding of social mechanics...my social comprehension was not improving at all. I was analyzing social cues instead of integrating them in a more meaningful, intuitive way.

I did make friends, for the first time. I improved to the point where I could do that.

But I was completely lost in the personality screensaver...very much distant, trapped inside of myself, operating with false personas. I was unable to form relationships beyond a superficial level.

A serious problem when the next level of social complexity kicks in: hormones take over.

People start dating.

Sex...the be all and end all of adolescent curiosity...is no longer a thing of rumor (or myth or surreptitiously viewed late-night Cinemax).

It's a real thread in the fabric of our high school reality.

III.

Flirting took place on too subtle a level for me to figure out. When the personality screensaver took hold, I was operating based upon what I could see. And you can't see flirting. You can see some of it...the touching and all of that...but eye-contact and just...that thing that happens when people flirt...it's not all visible to the naked eye. So I was clueless. Not knowing that a lot of it existed, I was unable to work it into the calculations.

I was only aware of it as an absence.

I remember one day in 11th grade: I was in the hallway. I watched a guy walk up to a girl, someone he knew, and they began to small-talk for a bit. Then, out of the blue, he gave her a quick shoulder massage and walked away.

Blew my mind. I skipped a whole day of class sitting, pondering, trying to figure that one out. I kept thinking, "What happened?" I knew that if I tried something like that...just walking up and giving someone a shoulder massage...I would probably get slapped. So something had let him know: it's okay to proceed. Nothing in their conversation seemed to indicate that, so it was confusing. But I knew it was there..."That was flirting". Something hidden, lying beneath the visible mechanics.

Again...that social gap between myself and others. I could sense it. So painful.

It absolutely killed me that I probably had a better grasp of social mechanics than anyone around me...yet was functioning at the level of someone much younger. The knowledge I slowly accrued was purely analytical. It never coalesced into a practical set of behaviors that connected me into the surrounding social networks.

A disconnect. A wall. A Descartes variation:

I think. Also, I am.

Thanksgiving for the dis-convivial. It's on.

[picture...mysteriously...has gone missing. just imagine me, holding up a box of taco shells and a bottle of champagne.]

woo

Tanya from Teen Autism is officially impressive.

With most of a week to go...she could shoot for sixty thousand.

tailor the holiday

Some families have strangelings that maybe they're not completely fond of.

And the strangelings have not been able to create a family of their own.

So holidays can be an odd time. They are family events. All about sharing, being with others. Not always an option for the misfit toys.

The rule for the disconnected: push the comfort. Don't eat the traditional fare, because that will just remind you of what you're missing. Go crazy. Load up on the happy things, the comfort things, that take you into a zone of merry contentment. Wear pajamas all day, watch off-the-wall films and steep in your misfit toyness.

My holiday film:

Executive Koala (definitely scroll down to the "editorial reviews" for the plot).

My Thanksgiving dinner:

Tacos and champagne.

Bam!

Take that, holiday season.

Walls (part 3 of 9)

Recap: part one...two.

I was trying to get this down to four parts as a way of challenging myself, but I'm needing to add at least one segment. Maybe others. Maybe a lot more.

The goal is to get into the most difficult aspect of all this, you know? Not mess around, just get it out, go for it. Put words to it.

Come on...the most difficult stuff...we know what I'm talking about. Right?

Curiosity is hard to anticipate.

On the one hand, it killed the cat. On the other hand, it answered Alice's question: "Where's that rabbit going?"

Ready?

I.

The older we get, the more complex our social environments become.

Our minds develop...our awareness of others grow. Our body language...like our verbal language...spreads and expands and meshes with those around us. We get connected into networks...groups...others.

Simply put, if we are around people, we are communicating...even when no words are being spoken. Signs and symbols: we express them constantly. Exchange them, share them. We say many things at the same time, with our words and tone and movement.

Unless we don't.

Some of us...our minds aren't picking up on the social cues. Some of us...as the networks around us grow and develop and become more complex...we're staying in roughly the same place. Maybe growing a little bit, developing...but not as quickly as others. We're not keeping up with the newer levels of communication.

"Mind-blindness"...it puts up a shield against the cues. They get blocked out.

You turn into Rudolph...seeing the reindeer games, watching them, but feeling shut out, not knowing how to participate.

One thing about social cues...if you miss them, you're not likely to begin using them yourself. They've remained outside of your thinking...unprocessed and therefore difficult to express.

This is an obvious example...I'll use it anyway. Let's say you don't know sign-language. One day, you're introduced to someone who is deaf. What are the odds that you'll be able to exchange hand-signals with them? That you'll just hold up your hands and spontaneously use all of the right gestures? Won't happen. (Imagine waking up in an alternate universe where you speak...but everyone else is silent and relies on sign-language. That's gonna be a tough day.)

Speaking of language...there's a type of font called "Helvetica". Beautiful word. Here's part of a sentence from the wikipedia description:

"The aim of the new design was to create a neutral typeface that had great clarity, had no intrinsic meaning in its form..."

No meaning in it's form. Turns out, I don't have a syndrome at all. I'm just a walking typeface.

This is true: the first time I read a description of Asperger's after getting the diagnosis, I felt nothing. It was all of this detached clinical stuff. Didn't care, didn't relate. Meh.

First time I read a description of Helvetica? Wave of recognition. Intense, powerful.

Seriously...is it wrong that I feel more emotionally connected to a font than to other human beings? Umm...yeah. That's probably wrong. And I think it's interesting that the first syllable in "Helvetica" sounds like "hell". Feels right somehow.

I'm unable to find layers of meaning in social interactions...but I can definitely find them in words.

II.

From my perspective:

In elementary school, kids are clumping. Forming groups, making friends. I couldn't keep up with any of this. My mind just wasn't socially developing. I wanted friends, I was lonely, but I couldn't make it work. I didn't know how to interact with the other kids. My sense now is that I was trying too hard. I over-did it...over-compensated. Stood too close, talked to loud, was probably kind of obnoxious. Just too needy, too clingy. I pushed people away.

And I knew. That's what hurt the most. I did not understand why there was a difference, but I was still aware: something's different. I cried a lot...felt pain a lot...began to experience depression way, way too early.

During junior high, I probably had the social skills of an eight year old. Speculative, but I'm still confident saying that. What helped is that, by then, I had learned to stop trying. I did not know how to interact with people correctly...but I had learned to stop interacting incorrectly. No more over-doing it. I became emotionally withdrawn...terribly guarded...and (given my restricted body language) blank. I seemed fine. There was no way to know what was going on inside.

High school...as described in other posts...that's when I begin to mimic body language. I take the hiding to another level. Blank isn't enough...I want to seem like others.

And it was very confusing, because I want to hide my difference, keep it stashed way...but the primary need is to stop feeling alone. A total contradiction. I feel such an intense need to connect with others that I brutally disconnect my emotions.

I do the marionette thing.

I memorize movement patterns...eye-contact durations...and conversation scripts. I practice, make adjustments, adapt.

Internally? I'm Helvetica.

Externally? I'm Times New Roman.

Just like you.

strange map

I mentioned a guy in the last post...we'll call him Haircut Dad...who held his child (with Asperger's) in a chair, forced him to have a haircut.

Guy like this...not difficult to imagine what he's thinking. Something along the lines of, "It's just a haircut. What's the big deal?" Maybe he thought the kid was "weak"...or "overreacting". Who knows the specific words he used, but he was clearly unable to grasp: for that kid, haircuts are a very different experience. The dad likely used his own experiences as a frame of reference, which you just can't do. I don't know what the term is for that, but I would call it reverse empathy...where instead of thinking from another persons perspective, you assume that other people are thinking from your perspective. With a mindset like that, anger will always ensue. "Based upon what I know, people should react this way. But my kid is reacting that way." When that happens...when the reality doesn't compute...people lash out.

Going to the extreme that this guy went to...terrible, wrong.

But not getting another person's point of view...feeling frustrated as a result: that happens. That's human.

To approach it differently: let's call the dad's sense of a haircut "point A". The kid's "point B".

Moving, mentally, from point A to point B...that's empathy.

Forcing point B into resembling point A...that's violence.

Getting stuck between the two...wanting to get there, not making it...that's frustration.

And good people get frustrated. That's a part of getting there (making guilt completely unnecessary. Stop that).

Which leads to the other point: empathy, in my opinion, is not necessarily the answer. That may sound weird, but it's true. Empathy is more of a goal that you work towards. It's a good goal...one of the best you could possibly have. But to think from another persons perspective- it requires that the other person be able to articulate their inner experiences. That is absolutely necessary for empathy to be real. In situations where a person is unable to do that...it can take time to understand their reality. A lot of it.

Without that internal information, the most compassionate person in the world can fail to empathize. Because it's hard. Because no one can magically appear at point B, as frustrating as that is.

(I say "they have to articulate their inner experiences"...that's not necessarily true. People communicate in all sorts of ways without words, but it can still take time to understand the other person, decode their personal language.)

So, going back to Haircut Dad: it wasn't necessary that he empathize. He didn't have to know precisely what a haircut felt like to his kid. He just needed to know: it's clearly a different experience. That would have been enough. That would have been: "Point B frustrates me. Confuses me. How do I get there so that I can understand it?"

Again, as long as someone isn't asserting the absolute dominion of their perspective, it's okay for empathy to be a long term goal.

A few days ago, Jess Wilson posted a great example of a fictional character "getting it"...doing what Haircut Dad was unable to do. This post captures it perfectly. Someone feeling angry with their kid, applying unfair expectations...but then realizing, "Difference isn't so bad...there's room for it."

Not at point B, perhaps...but not insisting on point A.

A discovery of something nice:

Being there is empathy. Getting there is love.

I promise you: most of us will take love over empathy any day.

scissors

December 2007

The Doctor asks what I do about haircuts. I tell her that I can deal with going somewhere and getting it done, handle it...but a few years ago I just bought clippers and started doing it myself.

She says, "I've got a client right now. One of the little ones..."

There's a long pause. She leans forward and looks at the floor. Thinking...emotional...but smiling.

"Wonderful little kid. Just turned six years old. Very articulate, bright, but struggling. He was going through this phase where any little change could push him over the edge. The sensory issues...there was just so much confusion for him, and he would become violent. He was beginning to hit and bite family members. He was beginning to scream constantly. So I meet with everyone. I do the screenings. I diagnose Asperger's. We start therapy. And in this instance, I'm going into the community...meeting at his house, at school. If he has to be in a public location, we'll arrange it so that I can meet him and his mom there. And at one point we're trying to help him get a haircut. I meet them at the barbershop on 8 different occasions and all I'm trying to do is establish that comfort zone. 'You do not have to get your haircut today. There's no pressure, okay?' We really focus on that, the comfort zone...with something as small as a haircut, it can take a long time to prepare. It can take years. So we're working on that...but then, on the 8th visit, the mom doesn't bring him. It's the dad."

She breathes out, closes her fists.

"The dad...he sits off to the side and watches for awhile. He has his arms crossed and...you know, you just knew what was about to happen. You could see it coming. I'm working with the kid and we're just talking. We're not even focusing on the haircut. Eventually the dad gets frustrated, starts shaking his head. He storms over...picks the kid up...and forces him into the chair. He squeezes the kids arms against his body so that he can't move and he holds him there. He tells the barber to go ahead and holds the kid rigid until the haircut is finished. He pins him still the whole time."

She taps her foot, unclenches her fists.

"What did you do?"

"In situations like that, there's almost nothing you can do. There's a legal threshold you look for. Short of that, you really have no options. You can calmly address the parent, try to de-escalate the situation...but if they're angry and ignoring you...I mean, that's it. You cannot confront. If a kid is frightened and confused already, and then they see the adults arguing, it makes things so much worse for them. What you really do in that situation is: you start thinking about the next meeting. You continue therapy. And with the haircuts...I mean, the small amount of progress we had made, that was gone. The forced haircut undid all of it, the kid was understandably thrown by that. So anyway, sometimes what you do is, you start over. You work on something for a long time and if necessary you go back to square one, and you work on it again and again, over and over, for as long as it takes. It's not always, 'How do we make progress?' Sometimes it's just, 'What does this kid need?'. You gotta set the framework aside for a bit, protect that little heart. That's always what you go back to. You okay?"

"It's tough to hear about. Did the dad show up at other sessions?"

"No. It was the mom after that. At a later time, the dad sought a separation...I think left the state. He let it be known that he did not want a relationship with the child."

Walls (part 2 of 9)

From September, 2007.

Doctor: The new office is almost set up.

M: The Willy Wonka room.

Doctor: Not like that. But...I'm thinking you'll hate it. Before I move into it, I want to walk you over there, get your impressions.

M: I'll really be fine with it.

She pauses, waits.

Doctor: Pink and orange.

M: I am very flexible.

Doctor: It's bright.

I say nothing.

Doctor: Okay. Just wanted to check. You've refused to discuss sensory issues for...what? Almost two years now? Every once in awhile I want to test the waters, see where we are with that.

I drink coffee.

Doctor: Okay. If you'd rather not openly discuss it...

M: I'm just unable to identify certain things, in terms of how I describe it. It's...I don't know. Hard to explain. And I do not want to get caught up in a labeling game, I hate that sort of thing. I don't think everything fits into a neat little box.

Doctor: But...

M: It's confusing. I'd rather just talk about the day-to-day realities of it and avoid categorization.

Doctor: One way to deal with the confusion is to accurately identify what's going on. You mentioned "anxiety", for example. That might might explain certain things. But it would not explain the visual awareness. You are observant in such a way that it can really have a serious impact on social interactions.

M: I would define "observant" as: making relevant observations. And instead of that, I'm just picking up on a lot of randomness. And look...what you're wanting to do here is attach everything to the Asperger's. It doesn't seem necessary. What if I'm just easily bored? When I'm listening to someone talk and noticing book ends or doorknobs or thumbs or whatever, why not label it "a lack of attention span"?

Doctor: Label what? The bombardment of sensory impressions?

M: Why am I thinking of Socrates right now?

Doctor: Let me ask: do you know what a social interaction is like for most people?

M: Ummm...I could guess, but I don't know. I would just assume it's like...looking. That's my "observant" response. "Looking at the other person". That's all I got.

Doctor: For most people, the mind tends to filter out extraneous visual data. It organizes and prioritizes what it's perceiving. And when you began here, you denied to me that there were sensory issues. But it was obvious...

She gestures around the room.

Doctor: A lot is getting in. Which has to make a social interaction sort of tiring, right? Having to focus so much? Concentrate?

I start grabbing throw-pillows and fluffing them.

Doctor: Okay. We can go back to pretending. I'm just wanting to make the point that if we can openly discuss this...and just call it what it is...then we can also discuss coping skills. If you can stop feeling like you have to hide all of this...stop deferring so much to the people around you...

M: I just don't want to be one of this people.

Doctor: What "people"?

M: Entering a room, making demands, requesting changes for my sake.

I clench my fists, rub my eyes.

M: It feels so private to me. I'd rather deal with it and say nothing.

Doctor: That mindset..."saying nothing"...has disrupted every aspect of your life. Your job, your relationships...that's a problem. And if it's difficult to discuss, you can use these sessions as practice. That's why I'm emphasizing the office change. I'm thinking it'll be a good opportunity to practice verbalizing your reactions. Maybe next week...we'll walk over, look at it...you can give me feedback.

M: I'll sing the Oompa-loompa song.

Doctor: Moving on. I'm dying to hear about the event. This was at the library? Did you go?

M: Yes. It was a lecture series. I went but I don't think I did terribly well, in terms of mixing it up, socializing.

Doctor: Did you interact with New People?

M: I tried! I wasn't able to, though. The set up was: one lecture, ten minute break, then another lecture. During the breaks, people would stand around and converse, and that was my intention. To mingle, throw out a lot of small talk. Anyway, it didn't work. I couldn't pull it off. The people kept lumping together into dense little circles and I couldn't mesh. I could never infiltrate any of the groups. Everywhere I go, that's the biggest single barrier...that clumping thing people do. It's infuriating. I try to stand on the edge of them sometimes, see if the collective will absorb me, but it never happens.

Doctor: The clumping is never good.

M: They should invent some kind of social anti-coagulant for people like me...something you can spray in the air at get-togethers. Sssst. There we go.

Doctor: There was no one you recognized? You tried several book clubs a few months ago, none of that group was there?

M: I didn't see anyone. Even if they had been there, those weren't people I ever meshed with. I never talked with any of them one on one. I really suck at this.

Doctor: This was not supposed to be an instant success. It was supposed to be practice. I think the fact that you went...that's a lot.

M: Doctor, come on. This is the library. How hard can it be to mingle? It's all of these nerdy, bookish people and I still can't hack it. It's frustrating. An event at the library...that's like a debutante ball for the socially awkward. But instead, for me, it was this big game of Red Rover, where the extroverts are all linked up in protective groupings. I seriously considered tackling someone in order to make a space.

Doctor: That would've made an impression.

M: It can be my other new strategy. Target the elderly...find the weak links...boom.

Doctor: Again, we're at a stage where just getting out there and getting used to new settings, that's a big deal. You haven't done that in awhile. And these were people you were unfamiliar with. No one likes to be in a room full of strangers. I think most people would have found that to be tough.

M: Most people do fine socializing.

Doctor: That's because most people are able to stay in settings where there are at least a few familiar faces. Through work, or friends, or church...wherever people go, they usually know someone. But you've isolated for a lot of years. When you go out, you don't have the network that a lot of other people have. So, that will mean being surrounded by New People. Anyone would find that to be a daunting situation. It's like I said, no one likes being in a room full of strangers.

M: Okay.

Doctor: The difficulty level here is in keeping with our expectations. It's uphill. We know this. We can deal with this.

M: Did you...what is that?

A little fuzz-ball is floating by my face.

Doctor: I don't know.

M: It's a fuzz-ball.

Doctor: There's another one on your shoulder.

I pluck it, blow it away. It circles and lands on my face.

M: Gah. It tickles.

Doctor: You fluffed the pillows. I think they leaked. There's more.

M: That is clearly an attack formation. We may need help.

Doctor: Ahh! They're distracting us! I can't concentrate.

M: Sweet. Now I know how to get you off topic. If things get intense, I can just fluff the pillows.

Doctor: One of those pillows used to have a big tear in the side. And the clients here for anxiety issues, they just went after it. They would be nervous and need something for their hands to be focusing on, so they would just fidget with the pillow, pull at it, compulsively yank out the stuffing. It made me realize that I should probably have a slinky in here or something, an object people can tinker with.

M: It might have saved the pillows at least.

Doctor: Um...left side of your shirt there...

I swat and brush.

M: Thank you. I think I'm unfuzzy now.

Doctor: What were we discussing? Oh, I remember.

She sits up straight.

Doctor: How amazing it is that you've been getting out more. It is so difficult to make changes. It is incredibly difficult to socially isolate for 7 years and then make changes. Throwing yourself into tough situations, making so much progress...

M: I missed the part where I made progress.

Doctor: I knew you would focus on that word.

M: Was it the first book club, where I sat there like an moron and mechanically uttered small talk? Or the other book club, where I did the exact same thing? This weekend I tried to mingle and couldn't do it. I couldn't mesh with anyone. If I were a lot younger, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. But I'm in my fucking thirties. I can't even begin to tell you how embarrassing it feels. Let's talk about what the task is, because I can focus on that. I can work on things. But please, if I have to pretend that failure is progress, then I'm in trouble. I can't sit here and pat myself on the back when I know what I've accomplished so far.

Doctor: Which is?

M: Nothing! Wait, that's not true. I've accomplished "trying". That feels good. To know that at this point in my life, such basic, basic shit requires "trying"...yes, that feels really good. The fact that I'm socially incompetent, that's not what matters. The important thing is that I can "try" and then give myself a gold star.

The Doctor is smiling.

Doctor: I know how to trigger that response, M. If I want to hear hopeless statements from you, all I have to do is use the word "progress". You immediately become upset. I wanted to use that word to see what would happen.

M: *sigh* It's pretty consistent.

Doctor: Every time.

M: I guess it's sort of counter-intuitive. I'm here precisely to work on things, to get better at certain things. And if anything goes well, I can't handle it. It's like this perspective issue. Not that anything recently would constitute "progress", but I am out, doing more, interacting more.

Doctor: Which is good.

M: But it provides me with this little status check. It's like...I gain perspective. I realize, "I'm 32 years old and I am still having to think through each moment of every interaction." All of the reasons I've isolated, had so few relationships...when I go out and try new things, I'm reminded of the specifics of where I'm at.

Doctor: You are face to face with who you are. When you isolate...or, when you socialize but rely on mimicry...you are able to ignore the difficulties, temporarily.

M: But that's almost preferable. When I see where I'm at in life, I feel humiliated.

Doctor: You're not where you want to be. The discrepancy between where you are now and where you want to be- that's where the humiliation comes in. That's why I wanted to mention progress...I wanted to see where you were with that. I was wondering: is he willing to give himself credit for what he's done? Or is he going to keep thinking, "I'm not there yet" and feeling humiliated?

M: Had you asked me directly, I would have just told you: I loathe this, the way I am. I feel so alone...yet when I try to meet people, I just mill around like an idiot. I stay so walled off.

Doctor: The difference is that now you know why. You understand what's happening...you lack body language. You have trouble perceiving the body language of others. The diagnosis gives you some leverage against all of that, a way to identify what's happening and why. You just have to make sure that, as you're navigating all of this, you're giving yourself a little credit. If you do that, it can allow you to see that things can change...the future can be different.

M: Not to a degree that matters. I mean, if it improves, that's great...but it's still a future that contains me in it.

Doctor: M. Try to catch that. There's that sense of humiliation. That's coming from the discrepancy. Catch that, label it, try to keep yourself from falling into it. Because if you are angry or upset...I think that's understandable. You have every right to be angry. But the humiliation is not necessary. That's just coming from a need to suddenly "be better". Stop that. It's not going to happen that way. It's going to take more time.

M: Grr. I don't know what it is about the word "progress". I've had assignments, tasks...I've tried to just narrow down my thoughts, focus on those, ignore how much I do not want to be this way. I feel like I can get through this stretch of time, but if I think about "progress", or the future, it's too painful.

Doctor: I've noticed that you've avoided certain topics. I take that to mean that you are really trying. You know? I think about what you're doing here and it just...

M: I am three seconds away from fluffing the pillow.

Doctor: Not necessary. Hee. Next week...I say we look at the office.

parenthetically

I've been trying to figure out the best way to post these sessions. I'm not sure if it will work, but the plan is to put them up three or four at a time, grouped by category. Like the one's I'm putting up now, "Walls": these were four consecutive sessions that covered both social difficulties and the way sensory issues impact my romantic endeavors. They ended up being a broad overview of both these issues.

The problem is that these sessions were late in the process, after I had been seeing The Doctor for almost two years. So we reference a lot of things that I have not yet described here in the blog. References like this will seem out-of-the-blue, or ambiguous, but I think the overall point is still being conveyed. Er. We'll see.

The alternative would be to post all of the sessions chronologically. The problem there is that I have eighty or ninety of them. It would take a long time, but the bigger difficulty: that would make it hard to focus and emphasize what's relevant to Asperger's and what's not. It would be information overload...the quantity of it would drown out the content. So, from that large mass of sessions, I'm trying to focus on the ones that really get at a core idea or experience.

Anyway, just wanted to mention why these are posted randomly, out of order.

How these are written: I go to therapy. Immediately afterwards, I write out a broad outline of what we discussed. Then, over several days, I go through and fill in the outline with dialogue. It's not word-for-word, but it's relatively close. My goal was always to have a reference for my thoughts and feelings. I have a hard time articulating emotions...so when I try in therapy, it helps to create a record of that, something I can refer back to when necessary. Same thing with understandings of myself. I have a very hard time connecting internal experiences together, getting a sense of who I am (a problem compounded by the fact that I have trouble forming a self-image, remembering what I look like). So if I make an effort to verbalize a personal thought or reaction, it's another good thing to write out, practice getting into words. Therapy has allowed me to verbalize things I've never told anyone...and this journal puts it all in a form that I can refer to when needed. If I have trouble articulating an experience or remembering what it felt like, I can reference this journal, hopefully develop a better understanding of myself. A counter-balance to the static, something I've been needing.

Walls (part 1 of 9)

This is from September 2007

The Doctor opens the waiting room door.

Doctor: Come on back. I have to warn you...the room has changed.

We enter her office.

M: Woo. New lighting fixtures. They're recessed into the ceiling...handsome. The ceiling tiles are new. Even the little black strips dividing them are new...look how shiny they are. I wanna get up there and rub on them.

Doctor: What do you think?

M: It's a very studious look.

Doctor: It's nice to have the fluorescents gone. Those things are harsh. This is much more subdued.

M: So you like it?

Doctor: I think so. They just finished it a bit ago. I haven't had a chance to absorb it yet. It looks nice. What about you? It's a change. It's a difference.

I shrug.

Doctor: You never talk about this with me.

M: I am very accepting of change.

Doctor: If the stapler moves an inch, you notice.

She gestures at her eyes.

Doctor: A lot is getting in. A perceptual intensity like that can make change uncomfortable.

I stare and wait.

Doctor: Fair enough. I ask because I'm about to change offices.

M: Right when they put new lights in this one?

Doctor: I know! It doesn't seem fair. But it's for a good reason. The Childcare Center is about to open and I'll be moving my office there.

This is a new wing that they've recently added to the building.

Doctor: They let me see the office the other day for the first time and I thought, "M won't like this." It's bright. Even with the lights down, the colors on the wall are bright.

M: What are the colors?

Doctor: And the room is not quite as big as this one.

M: But what are the wall colors?

She pauses, scratches her nose and mumbles the answer.

Doctor: Sort of...you know, orange and pink.

M: Nope.

Doctor: A subtle orange and pink. Very low-key.

M: Low-key orange?

Doctor: I know. You'll find it to be intense.

M: No, no, I'm teasing. I'm sure it will be fine. It'll be weird. This sounds like Pee Wee's Playhouse.

Doctor: Not like that, but it's very child-oriented. Kids like bright colors.

M: Am I now your only adult client?

Doctor: I see a few adults. Because of the influx of kids with spectrum issues, I've mostly transitioned to that age group, but I still see adults. Which makes the office thing difficult. I'm hoping I can arrange something before the switch. I'm trying to see if I can reserve this room for adult clients, but I have not heard back yet. As soon as other staff learned I was moving, they swooped in. They're fighting over who gets this office.

M: You should auction it off, make a little cash on the side.

Doctor: I've had three other psychologists roam in this week, start measuring walls.

M: Yikes.

Doctor: I don't know who, but one of them swiped my pencil sharpener. It's missing.

M: Didn't someone steal your hole-puncher awhile back? It's like survival of the fittest here.

Doctor: Well, they didn't steal it.

M: I'm trying to remember. You found it in a closet, this really nice hole-puncher...and someone saw it on your desk and claimed it was theirs. "Hey, I was looking for that." Even though it was in a closet, collecting dust. They didn't fool us.

Doctor: No.

M: We knew better.

Doctor: So. I just wanted to mention this, because we might be meeting in a different office. The center opens in about a month, so I'll know by then.

M: Okay.

Doctor: I notice you don't have your coffee cup today. Your social prop.

I shake my hands.

M: It doesn't feel right. I'll probably have it next time.

Doctor: Okay. Anything going on this week?

M: Not really. I've been back to work. I had been taking a lot of time off. I ended up stockpiling a lot of vacation and I needed to use it.

Doctor: Do anything fun?

M: I zoned out watched a lot of bad television. I noticed that the day-time programming is switching from bad judge shows to bad psychologist shows. I think I saw three or four different advice shows.

Doctor: Dr. Phil?

M: I did watch Dr. Phil. Specifically, I watched him yell at rednecks. Seems to be his thing.

Doctor: The rumor is that he has a team of psychologists behind the scenes...handlers spoon-feeding him everything.

M: I just hate how desperate he is to push this one image of himself. He wants to really convey the fact that, "Hey, I'm a straight-shooter. I call it like I see it." Okay. We get it Dr. Phil. You made your point. Your shtick is very clear to us.

Doctor: Well, that bluntness...if a client is coming from a stressful home environment, that's a tone they are already hearing. Even if he makes a relevant point, he makes it in a tone that replicates the confrontational attitude.

M: I thought the whole point of grad school was to weed out guys like that. What is a Dr. Phil going to present in his dissertation? "Umm...I don't really know what I'm talking about. On the other hand...I can totally badger a hapless redneck." That's good enough apparently. Fuck it. Here's a PhD.

Doctor: What about the week? Have you socialized?

M: Yes!

Doctor: With New People?

M: No. I just went to lunch with my old roommate. New People...that happens over the next few days. I go to this library event on Saturday...it's a bunch of lectures or something.

Doctor: Perfect. Let's focus on that.

M: Okay.

Doctor: This is a series of lectures?

M: Right. I assume that in between the lectures, people will mingle. It will be a chance to interact with New People and work on some of the stuff you've been telling me.

Doctor: And what have I been telling you?

M: Stuff.

Doctor: We're focusing on two primary difficulties: 1. pre-planned body language, designed to prevent people from knowing you and 2. mirrored verbal communication. Over a period of time, you taught yourself the basics of non-verbal communication, but you did so with a goal of invisibility. Your genuine personality and reactions are obscured by artificial social cues, the marionette. What I want is for you to develop counter-balancing social cues. For every gesture that makes you seem closed off, I want you to develop a replacement gesture, one that conveys openness. I want you out there, interacting with New People, making small, minor adjustments.

I wrap my arms around myself, try to get lost in them.

Doctor: It's going to feel strange. It will be unpleasant. It will take getting used to. We've been practicing...I'm seeing progress.

M: It's hard.

Doctor: Very hard. But how many years did it take you to learn the marionette?

M: I don't know. A few.

Doctor: Did it feel comfortable at first, talking yourself through body language?

M: No.

Doctor: Okay. Keep that in mind. Remember: you established a goal of learning the marionette...and you did it. You succeeded. This is just a different version of the same thing. You can do this.

M: What am I supposed to do this weekend? What should I work on, specifically?

Doctor: Your eye contact needs to become more flexible.

M: Doctor, my eye contact is fine. I know how to count it out so that it's not noticeable.

Doctor: It is okay. But it's inflexible.

M: I can't...I don't know if I can change it. I've never been able to exchange eye-signals, if that's what you're getting at.

Doctor: I understand. I'm not suggesting you learn all of the possible variations. All I want is for you to make slight adjustments.

She walks over and sits next to me.

Doctor: Your eyes didn't change. You're in a fixed posture and if you're not reacting to the people around you, it can be perceived as a disinterest in conversation. Look at me. Let's keep practicing like we've been doing.

She walks around, sits different places. She small talks about the weather, about books. She watches and offers feedback. She sits next to me again.

Doctor: Okay. Here's one of the things I've noticed: you indicate that you are listening with this pre-set routine of nods and facial expressions. And it's very effective. I never have the sense that you aren't listening. Here's what you do...

She makes eye contact for a second, then glances at the floor while simultaneously nodding her head.

Doctor: See? You are conveying the appropriate signals- "I'm engaged in the conversation"- but the eye contact is weak. You've learned that if you put the emphasis on certain movements and gestures, you can get by without the eye-contact.

M: But if I can take the focus off of my eyes and get away with it, what's wrong with that?

Doctor: People communicate with their eyes. If you are locked into counting routines, you will miss those cues.

M: Er.

Doctor: Women flirt with their eyes.

M: I thought people did that with their hands.

Doctor: Sometimes, but eye contact tends to happen first. And if that isn't reciprocated in some way, the person may take that to mean you're not interested.

M: I don't see how I do this.

Doctor: You practice. You stop lapsing into the marionette routines. You change things up and practice. Look at me! Can you greet someone with a smile?

M: Not effectively. I can throw out a frown like you wouldn't believe, though.

I make a growly face.

Doctor: Just work on the eye contact this weekend. Go out and try small, tiny things. Make eye contact. Avoid old habits. Also- and this gets back to the second big difficulty- you have got to stop managing the conversation. Do not use questions to steer. If you are asked a question, do not give mirrored responses.

(this post, the alpha-male conversation, demonstrates the mirrored evasions)

Doctor: You are detaching yourself when you do that. You are taking yourself out of the conversation. You have to be more open, more forthcoming.

M: I can't do that.

Doctor: Why not? Like this weekend, if someone asks you questions, why can't you just answer them?

M: Because I am there to consciously practice communication skills. How can I be genuine without saying something completely embarrassing? "Are you here for the lecture?" "No. I'm here to seem life-like". I will do well to the degree that I come off as normal.

Doctor: Obviously you don't want to say, "I'm here to practice eye-contact". But you can discuss the event, you can converse and you can be honest.

M: I'll be at such a huge disadvantage. I'll be in a room full of people who do not have these difficulties. I don't see how being more open helps at all. I am so fucking sick of all this. I need to minimize my differences.

Doctor: Wrong. The more open you are, the better you will do. Trust me.

My arms stretch and stretch and wrap further around me.

3a.m., November 8th

When we cleaned out grandmother's things last year, we sorted through a lot of the debris from her life. Shoes, pens...calendars, combs...scarves and pressed flowers. That sort of thing. The one item that stood out, stuck with me: a verse from the book Revelations that she had written on the back of an old water bill.

I can never figure out which hug is coming. It's a math for which they have yet to invent a calculator.

Things on Tortillas. My food lately. Tortillas: the tabula rasa of food.

Secret habit: I like reading wikipedia entries on mundane topics. The more unimaginably dull the topic, the better. One of my all time favorites: this one. I love the sentence, "Some warehouses are completely automated, with no workers working inside". A perfect example of beauty in unexpected places. Possibly a better example: this one is just describing a type of support beam...but look at the illustration on the right. It's evocative, surprisingly beautiful. (A strangely creepy one? The innocuous sounding Number Stations.)

Umm...that's it. I have nothing. I'm trying to work up the courage to start posting on Romantic Mishaps. I keep nearly doing it and then posting crap like this. Next post? Photos of carpet samples? We'll see.

secret texture

I like slowly, slowly, slowly eating chex mix. Sometimes placing individual bits in my mouth (the pretzels tend to be soft...those little square things are super crispy...those little round bread chip things are, yikes, loud to chew. Boom! They're my favorite)...other times I throw in a random pile, close my eyes and bite and feel all of the different layers of resistance and sound. An inward excavation. I tell you, it wears me out. It's exhausting.

I could just eat it without much of a thought to the textures, but it's too tempting. I get caught up in it. It becomes this arduous, time consuming thing. One time a bag was going so well that I had to call in to work. I told them, "I can't make it today." They said, "Why? Are you sick?" And I said, "No. I'm just really into this bag of chex mix. Mmm...delicate crispy squares".

That didn't really happen...yet. We'll see.

people-sketch: grandmother at the end

I.

June 2006.

I'm going through my routines. Sleeping...working...reading. A lot of nothing in between.

Then mom calls. She says, "Grandmother fell...lost consciousness".

She was doing well before the fall. Alert, strong, living independently. Then she just dropped, went into a seizure. No apparent cause.

When they revived her at the hospital, she was severely disoriented. Delusional, hallucinating. To her? It's 1964. Regaining consciousness, she asked "Oh where is it? Where's my baby?"

She's examined, observed. The doctors say, "It's head trauma from the fall. She'll recover."

Their assurances give us hope, comfort. Unfortunately...she never recovers.

II.

A few days after the fall, I make it into town. She's in the intensive care unit. Various family (her kids, grand-kids) have been staying with her in shifts. I've worked graveyard hours for years...I'm acclimated to overnights...so I agree to stay with her from midnight to six.

When I show up, the nurse says "She hasn't slept in three days. She's really struggling". I take a chair...sit in the corner...and wait.

She's agitated, restless. Her eyes dart around the room, occasionally rolling back into her head. She talks a lot, rambling. Most of it's gibberish, but occasionally she asks "Where's my baby? Oh what happened, where's my baby?"

She cries a lot. At one point she looks out the window and says, "How about that. I've never seen such pretty snow."

It breaks my heart. The skies are clear. It's 79 degrees.

At one point she goes angry. She starts thrusting her arms out and reaching around, still talking about the baby. Nothing I say seems to comfort her, so I just hand her a pillow. I say, "It's sleeping." She cradles it and strokes the top of the pillow. She says to it, "You just sleep, you little angel. You're my little precious."

I sit and wait.

I hear beeps, footsteps, nurse-talk. I've had so much coffee I'm nauseous. The TV is on, muted; I see images of fires and floods, a dog on a skateboard.

Grandmother cries and says, "Oh what happened?"

III.

May 2007

Mom calls.

"She's not doing well. You need to come home. They're telling us..."

She pauses, voice breaking. "They're telling us a day or two."

I go home.

Grandmother has been non-responsive for three days. She has specified in a "living will" that, should she enter a vegetative state, her life is not to be prolonged through mechanical efforts. No feeding tubes, in other words. No assisted breathing.

She's in a nursing home, has been for six months now. For the past week, family members have been sitting at her bedside in shifts. Like last time, I take the over-night hours.

IV.

I walk into her room at 10p.m. My entrance causes a flock of uncles to grunt...stretch...and leave. A nurse brings coffee and says, "Hit the button if you need us". I pace the room, sip coffee, look at the walls. It's hard to look...but finally, I look.

Grandmother.

Her skin looks white; thin; draped over bones. Her breath has a painful but regular rhythm: it jerks inward, sharply, and then releases very, very slowly. I sit and stare at the pages of a magazine. I stare at her. Saturday night becomes Sunday. I drink more coffee and wait.

At 3a.m. her inhalations begin to soften. She breathes in slow now, then exhales so quietly that it's difficult to hear it. Then the inhalations are difficult to hear. At 3:30a.m., I can't hear breathing at all. I page the nurse. She comes in and checks her vitals. She says, "She's alive, sweetie. She may have one more hour. You need to call your mom."

I call mom. She calls others. One hour later the room is filled.

Mom and her brothers sit along one wall. They have stoic faces, watery eyes. Two cousins stand at the end of grandmother's bed. I sit on one side of her and the nurse sits on the other side, monitoring her breathing.

It's quiet for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

Then the nurse says, "Okay. Okay." Then she pauses before saying, "That was her last breath."

It's like the oxygen goes out of the room. A cousin, startled, yells, "What?!" The rest of us just sit and tear up and breath harshly.

The nurse leaves and brings back a doctor. He does doctor things, confirms that grandmother has passed and tells us that the coroner is on his way. At 5a.m. the coroner arrives. He takes pictures of the body and talks with my mom and her brothers in a separate room. I'm told later that he asked if everyone was satisfied with her treatment at the nursing home. Everyone says "yes".

I walk out to the parking lot and stare. I watch squirrels...clouds...grass. Mom walks out, looking dazed. We go to a diner.

We eat, drink coffee. Mom asks "Are you okay?" I tell her that I am. I ask if she's okay (it was her mother). Mom says, "Honey...I learned about death a long time ago. I'm okay. Death I can handle."

I don't know. I worry that it's a facade.

We go home. Mom eats muffins that a friend of hers had brought over the day before. Even though I'm stuffed from the diner food, I eat them too. These muffins...they're the first wave in an ocean of food to come. Not long after breakfast? A casserole arrives. Then another. Then another. The doorbell rings continuously. By noon? Seven casseroles are on the kitchen counter. At first mom thinks this is nice, but by 2 pm, when even more casseroles have arrived (along with numerous buckets of chicken and a variety of desserts: cakes, pies, more muffins), mom's opinion changes. "Nice" becomes "alarming". The stuff is piled everywhere. When the fridge fills up, we start using the freezer. When that fills up, we begin to eat as much as we possibly can. I tell mom that we may have to assume false identities and leave the country.

V.

The next morning I wake up and have breakfast with the parents. We're in the living room. Dad chews with his mouth open and watches the hunting channel. Mom sips coffee and works the crossword. Out of the blue, mom asks, "So, M...how is your social life?"

I see dad tense up. Mom puts the paper down and waits for an answer. I say, "It's great. Can you hand the me the sports section?" Mom says, "No".

Dad lowers the volume on the TV.

"I'm your mother. I have a right to ask about your social life."

Whee. Good times.

"It's okay," I reply. "I socialize. Hit the town. See people."

Mom says, "Names."

I say names. Mom says, "Your roommates don't count. You've known them since college, and that was ten years ago. I'm asking if you've made any new friends, M. I mean...do you have any friends at all? Any new ones?"

I get angry, but say nothing. I mumble "No." I walk over and grab the sports section. Mom sighs and goes back to the crossword. Dad turns up the volume on the TV.

The silence that binds us...it resumes.

VI.

The rest of that day consists of: visitors strolling in, depositing casseroles, hugging my mom and strolling out; dad randomly mumbling supportive things as he continues to chew and watch TV; my brother flying in from out of town and lapsing into dad-like passivity; me sitting on the porch and watching birds scream at one another; mom working the phone non-stop, talking to friends and relatives, spreading the news. Events have transformed her into a weird tele-marketer. Instead of credit cards or life insurance, she peddles grief.

VII.

Third day? Second day? I've lost all sense of time. 18-wheelers drop off shipments of casseroles. Chicken is airlifted in by the crate. I blink and a dozen pies exist.

The entire family will meet today at grandmother's house. We'll have lunch together and finalize funeral plans.

At noon, aunts, uncles and cousins converge. To get inside the house, you have to maneuver past chickens and geese. The geese, if you're not looking, bite at you. Goats behind a fence stare and make stereotypical goat-sounds. Once inside, my mom and her brothers hug. The rest of us make awkward, pseudo-affectionate gestures and pretend to like one another.

The funeral service will be held at the church she attended for more than fifty years. A younger cousin is now the preacher there. He pulls me aside and asks if I'll speak at the funeral. I'm caught off guard and say, "No". He says, "You were the only one who could make grandmother laugh. I was hoping you could speak briefly and just...I don't know. Lighten the mood a little. Say something funny." I say, "No." However, he is delivering the eulogy and I suggest that I write an Amusing Anecdote for him. He agrees.

My brother walks up and asks for money, "Only a hundred dollars". I say, "You're operating on the assumption that I have money. And that, were such money to be in my possession, I would give it to you. Both assumptions are false." He stomps off.

My family. These are southern people...strictly evangelical. No cursing. No dancing. No alcohol. However...I see the uncles step outside in rotations, "For a bit of fresh air". When they return, each uncle is flushed and smiling. Hmmm. There's a hidden stash of booze somewhere. It cracks me up.

I see a cousin staring at the food table and looking confused. She is not a southerner. Explanations are necessary. "Eww...what's that?" she asks. It's fried okra. I thought that was available everywhere, but apparently not. I say, "You can eat that." She looks at the next dish and says, "What is that?" It's hog jowl. It brings luck. It's traditionally eaten on New Years Day, but some families also prepare it after a death. I say, "Don't eat that." We work through the dishes...the weird meats...doing the education thing. Slowly, cautiously, she builds a plate.

As we sit around the table and eat, people begin to tell grandmother stories. We don't tell the sweet stories or the heart-warming stories. We tell the inappropriate ones; the funny but mildly offensive ones that are never to leave the room. Highlights include: wacky places we found grandmother's wig; wacky places we found grandmother's dentures; grandmother versus the ill-tempered rooster; grandmother versus the door-to-door Mormon, and so on. The tears come tomorrow. Today? We're just laughing, remembering...having a surprisingly good time.

The funeral discussion happens, decisions are made. People get quiet, introspective. We leave.

In the car with my parents and brother, we ride in silence. At home, more casseroles have magically appeared. Mom says, "I thought we locked the door".

VIII.

The morning of the funeral.

I eat breakfast with the parents. Everything is quiet for awhile. Suddenly mom turns pale. She sets her muffin down and bursts into tears. She says, "I can't do this. Oh god help me, I can't be strong for this."

Dad looks startled (which is how he looks any time emotion is expressed: like a gun went off in the room.). I sit next to mom and say, "You don't need to be strong for this. Don't try. Just weep and cry a lot, okay? Make a big mess of yourself. Dad and I will drag you wherever you need to go. Or...I can make a grieving-papoose and strap you into that, carry you around." Mom laughs, cries and says, "You're weird."

The church is packed. They have to set up rows of folding chairs in the lobby. I find preacher-cousin and give him The Amusing Anecdote. He gives me a thumbs up as he skims it.

Before the service, a lunch is being served in the church's banquet hall. People are supposed to mingle, greet family members and eat. Funerals and food...death and eating: it's an odd mix. I imagine Freud strolling through the banquet hall, scribbling observations in a notebook.

I grab a piece of pie and meander. Essentially the room is one big hugging factory. It's a fucking nightmare. I am hugged so many times by so many people that I lose the ability to distinguish the individual faces. I just see one long, blurry face and a row of flailing arms. I flail back in what I hope is a hug-like manner. After about ten minutes the stress overwhelms me. I hide in a bathroom stall...breathing slow, pulling my hair, waiting it out.

In the lobby, I see people migrating from the banquet hall to the church. My brother walks up to me and says, "I think the number of people here is a real testament to grandmother's character."

I stare at him...blink...and say, "If I pull the string on your back, do you say other funeral cliches? She's in a better place now? She isn't suffering anymore? Let's see." I mime pulling a string on his back. He stomps off.

IX.

The funeral service begins. We sing grandmother's favorite hymn. We pray. And then my cousin gets up to speak. It's a tense moment because he was very close to her and no one expected that he would actually do this. He has an assistant preacher that could have spoken, yet the cousin insisted that he could handle it. And he does. That he is crying before he even gets to the podium...that he has trouble speaking through the tears...it only makes the service more genuine and heart-felt. He avoids cliches and just talks about her in a very simple and straightforward manner. About halfway through the eulogy, he goes into The Amusing Anecdote.

People laugh. The cousin winks at me. I'm relieved.

When the speaking is finished, we sing another hymn...and then they open the casket.

It's brutally quiet.

Non-family are supposed to walk past first and then family. Everyone made it through the service pretty well, but now mom breaks down. When it's her turn to walk to the casket, she can't stand up, she is sobbing too hard. Dad and I can't get her up. We take her arms, try to lift her, but make no progress. She's too upset, so we stay seated. Preacher-cousin tries to help...but as soon as he touches her shoulder, he breaks down. Aunts, uncles and more cousins gather around, try to help, and it's like a domino effect with emotions. Everyone just collapses around my mother, sitting on the church pew...some crying, some just staring at the floor.

I feel guilty about not crying. Due to the way I experience social anxiety, I'm in too much physical discomfort to feel very much. I've gone numb. I consider faking it. I squint an eye really hard and try to get a tear out, but nothing happens. It's frustrating.

Eventually we clear out. In the lobby, people mingle again, but now the tone is different, more subdued. People speak in monotone whispers. I get pulled aside repeatedly and asked, "How's your mother? Is there anything we can do?" I never figure out how to answer that. I shake my head "no", but some part of me wants to say, "Yes. Go back in time and give her a better life."

X.

The graveside service is quick. A different preacher speaks, but no one can hear him: rain is coming down hard. The canopy thing we're standing beneath only amplifies the sound.

She's buried next to grandfather (he died a long time ago).

The preacher finishes...we drop roses into the grave...the end. And for me, this is the saddest part of the day...when everything is over. The friends and co-workers and neighbors are gone. It's just family now, and a casket. Mom and her brothers link arms and stand next to the grave. They aren't crying anymore, but somehow it's worse. Their shoulders are stooped. They look lost and worn down. Their mother is gone.

Then more people leave. Mom, dad, myself...we're the only ones remaining. I watch mom walk away from the casket, into the rain. She walks to the grave of her sister and kneels at it. She whispers.

Then she walks to the grave of her other sister and does the same thing.

Then she walks to the grave of her first child and kneels at it.

She whispers and strokes the grass.

She gets into the car. The three of us just sit and listen to the rain.

No one talks. We wait for a bit, staring through the windows.

We leave.