Many people, one life, finding purpose.
I'm fully aware that this isn't some profound statement, but we really are different people over the course of our lives. At the same time, we're the same person for the duration, too, of course. I certainly am (more or less) the same person I was 20 years ago, and even beyond that, back into my adolescence and childhood. But did I ever think, back 20 or more years, that my purpose in life would be the caretaking of an intellectually disabled autistic child? Hell, no.
And, no, that's certainly not my only purpose, either. There's much more to who I am, and I could go into all of that, but I'll refrain for now. This is certainly not who I thought I was meant to be, though, years ago. It never would have even occured to me that this would be my raison d'etre. I thought I was going to be a philosophy professor, but that was after I decided against social work, and discovered that I'm really fucking good at philosophy. Or maybe a paralegal. Or maybe even a nurse, except I'm no good with science and math, so that was out. I spent a shocking number of years as an adolescent convinced that I was meant to be a Catholic nun, but only if I was still allowed to go see Broadway shows. Speaking of which, I also spent a bit of my adolescence dreaming of the Broadway stage, wanting it more than anything, but eventually realizing my place is firmly and happily in the audience.
Eventually, I realized, much to my dismay, that I cannot be a part of the workforce. My anxiety and other mental illnesses will not allow it. I still resent this fact, but I accept it (and here's hoping that Social Security agrees; still waiting to hear the results of my hearing). I've dabbled in volunteer work, because I want to give back to the world, but mental illness has gotten in the way of that, too. I do still volunteer online on a rape survivors' message board, as a moderator and supportive person in the self-injury section of the message board. I'm able to do this without triggering my anxiety too much, and it means so much to me to be able to help and maybe even inspire others who struggle with issues of self-harm. Volunteering in this way also helps me maintain my own recovery from self-injury, going on almost 13-years strong now.
I'm also an auntie, and I can't speak with enough pride about my nephews Josh and Gabe. I can only hope that maybe something of me and my presence in their lives has helped to contribute to the stunningly brilliant and kind young men they are today. They are just such amazing individuals, and their intuitive kindness shows nowhere as well as it does in their relationships with Nate. They are patient, gentle, fun, and just the best cousins a kid could ever ask for. Nate loves them dearly, and so do I.
And we come back to Nate. Sometimes, when I want to die, I justify it with the thought that everyone in my life would be better off without me, would move on without me eventually. I can't believe that Nate would. No matter how I've sometimes tried to convince myself, I cannot believe that Nate would ever move on or be better off without me. I don't know that Nate would even understand if I was suddenly gone, and I imagine (and know) the effect on his life would be devastating. Perhaps this is true for others in my life, but mental illness lies, and tries to convince me otherwise at times. But, as powerful as my mental illness is, it cannot convince me that Nate would be okay, ever.
Because Nate has somehow become my purpose. I'm Momo. I'm not a mom (although, Kim tells me I should consider myself a second mom, that I should consider Nate my child, and that I should never let anyone tell me otherwise; she told me so just today). For years, I didn't even want to be a mom. Then, I wanted to adopt. Then, I wanted to have my own child, only because I'd found out how convoluted and ableist the adoption process is. Then, I realized that having a child of my own was just not in the cards for me, and it hurts, but I accept it. But, really, Nate couldn't be any more my own child than he already is. When Kim was on fertility meds, and she and Joe were TTC, I did Wiccan fertility rituals with Kim every full moon. This was a way for me to feel involved with the process, and it worked! Nate was a rainbow baby; a beautiful, healthy baby whose only complication was an eye infection as a newborn. We didn't realize he was Different until he was about 3 years old (although, hindsight really is 20/20 when we look at old home videos). We brushed it off until we couldn't anymore, when he was 4 and was diagnosed as autistic and as having a global developmental delay. And probably ADHD, but he was too young to diagnose at the time (indeed, he has severe ADHD).
They explained to us that if he didn't eventually outgrow the global developmental delay, it would mean he had an intellectual disability. "What's that?" I asked. "It's what we used to call mentally retarded," the psychiatrist explained. I started crying. And I'm ashamed of the reason why, but I'll tell you anyway, because I'm an honest person. I cried because I was A Gifted Child (TM). I cried, because I had so many ableist views of people with intellectual disability. I pitied them, and I strived to be kind to them, but they were so different from me. How could I ever relate to Nate if he was intellectually disabled? How would we ever have any sort of relationship?
Who the hell did I think I was? Too smart to be able to relate to someone with an intellectual disability? Get over your fucking self, Kelly.
Thankfully, eventually, I did get over myself. Because, yesterday, Nate was officially diagnosed with an intellectual disability.
In fact, I relate to Nate exceptionally well. Kim and Joe joke that they are "chopped liver" next to Momo. I'm his favorite person to play with. He cuddles with me all the time. We talk, we giggle, we have inside jokes. We practically have our own language, or at least our own ways of using pre-determined words (for example, "special snack" means soft pretzels, tortilla chips, and nacho cheese). Full disclosure: I've begun wondering if maybe I'm not not autistic. But, then again, I also strongly suspect that Joe's autistic, and he struggles to relate to Nate. At any rate, my confusion relating to my own neurodivergencies is a topic for another day.
So, here I am. Kelly, made up of all the people I've been, or people I've felt sure I should be. The last thing I ever expected to be was Momo to an autistic, ADHD, intellectually disabled child. The last thing I ever expected was for Nate to be my purpose in life.
And, yet, I've never been more fucking sure that I'm exactly who I'm supposed to be, right now, at this moment of my life. This is indeed who I was meant to be.
And the best way I can sum this up is thusly: Thank you, Nate. Thank you.
These rambles were inspired by, of all things, a pop-up advertisement on a crossword puzzle game I was playing on my tablet. The ad said: "Your purpose is nursing." Well, maybe if I didn't suck so much at math and science.
And, no, that's certainly not my only purpose, either. There's much more to who I am, and I could go into all of that, but I'll refrain for now. This is certainly not who I thought I was meant to be, though, years ago. It never would have even occured to me that this would be my raison d'etre. I thought I was going to be a philosophy professor, but that was after I decided against social work, and discovered that I'm really fucking good at philosophy. Or maybe a paralegal. Or maybe even a nurse, except I'm no good with science and math, so that was out. I spent a shocking number of years as an adolescent convinced that I was meant to be a Catholic nun, but only if I was still allowed to go see Broadway shows. Speaking of which, I also spent a bit of my adolescence dreaming of the Broadway stage, wanting it more than anything, but eventually realizing my place is firmly and happily in the audience.
Eventually, I realized, much to my dismay, that I cannot be a part of the workforce. My anxiety and other mental illnesses will not allow it. I still resent this fact, but I accept it (and here's hoping that Social Security agrees; still waiting to hear the results of my hearing). I've dabbled in volunteer work, because I want to give back to the world, but mental illness has gotten in the way of that, too. I do still volunteer online on a rape survivors' message board, as a moderator and supportive person in the self-injury section of the message board. I'm able to do this without triggering my anxiety too much, and it means so much to me to be able to help and maybe even inspire others who struggle with issues of self-harm. Volunteering in this way also helps me maintain my own recovery from self-injury, going on almost 13-years strong now.
I'm also an auntie, and I can't speak with enough pride about my nephews Josh and Gabe. I can only hope that maybe something of me and my presence in their lives has helped to contribute to the stunningly brilliant and kind young men they are today. They are just such amazing individuals, and their intuitive kindness shows nowhere as well as it does in their relationships with Nate. They are patient, gentle, fun, and just the best cousins a kid could ever ask for. Nate loves them dearly, and so do I.
And we come back to Nate. Sometimes, when I want to die, I justify it with the thought that everyone in my life would be better off without me, would move on without me eventually. I can't believe that Nate would. No matter how I've sometimes tried to convince myself, I cannot believe that Nate would ever move on or be better off without me. I don't know that Nate would even understand if I was suddenly gone, and I imagine (and know) the effect on his life would be devastating. Perhaps this is true for others in my life, but mental illness lies, and tries to convince me otherwise at times. But, as powerful as my mental illness is, it cannot convince me that Nate would be okay, ever.
Because Nate has somehow become my purpose. I'm Momo. I'm not a mom (although, Kim tells me I should consider myself a second mom, that I should consider Nate my child, and that I should never let anyone tell me otherwise; she told me so just today). For years, I didn't even want to be a mom. Then, I wanted to adopt. Then, I wanted to have my own child, only because I'd found out how convoluted and ableist the adoption process is. Then, I realized that having a child of my own was just not in the cards for me, and it hurts, but I accept it. But, really, Nate couldn't be any more my own child than he already is. When Kim was on fertility meds, and she and Joe were TTC, I did Wiccan fertility rituals with Kim every full moon. This was a way for me to feel involved with the process, and it worked! Nate was a rainbow baby; a beautiful, healthy baby whose only complication was an eye infection as a newborn. We didn't realize he was Different until he was about 3 years old (although, hindsight really is 20/20 when we look at old home videos). We brushed it off until we couldn't anymore, when he was 4 and was diagnosed as autistic and as having a global developmental delay. And probably ADHD, but he was too young to diagnose at the time (indeed, he has severe ADHD).
They explained to us that if he didn't eventually outgrow the global developmental delay, it would mean he had an intellectual disability. "What's that?" I asked. "It's what we used to call mentally retarded," the psychiatrist explained. I started crying. And I'm ashamed of the reason why, but I'll tell you anyway, because I'm an honest person. I cried because I was A Gifted Child (TM). I cried, because I had so many ableist views of people with intellectual disability. I pitied them, and I strived to be kind to them, but they were so different from me. How could I ever relate to Nate if he was intellectually disabled? How would we ever have any sort of relationship?
Who the hell did I think I was? Too smart to be able to relate to someone with an intellectual disability? Get over your fucking self, Kelly.
Thankfully, eventually, I did get over myself. Because, yesterday, Nate was officially diagnosed with an intellectual disability.
In fact, I relate to Nate exceptionally well. Kim and Joe joke that they are "chopped liver" next to Momo. I'm his favorite person to play with. He cuddles with me all the time. We talk, we giggle, we have inside jokes. We practically have our own language, or at least our own ways of using pre-determined words (for example, "special snack" means soft pretzels, tortilla chips, and nacho cheese). Full disclosure: I've begun wondering if maybe I'm not not autistic. But, then again, I also strongly suspect that Joe's autistic, and he struggles to relate to Nate. At any rate, my confusion relating to my own neurodivergencies is a topic for another day.
So, here I am. Kelly, made up of all the people I've been, or people I've felt sure I should be. The last thing I ever expected to be was Momo to an autistic, ADHD, intellectually disabled child. The last thing I ever expected was for Nate to be my purpose in life.
And, yet, I've never been more fucking sure that I'm exactly who I'm supposed to be, right now, at this moment of my life. This is indeed who I was meant to be.
And the best way I can sum this up is thusly: Thank you, Nate. Thank you.
These rambles were inspired by, of all things, a pop-up advertisement on a crossword puzzle game I was playing on my tablet. The ad said: "Your purpose is nursing." Well, maybe if I didn't suck so much at math and science.