Climbing Walls

Before Bug ever had a diagnosis, I felt like one might be coming. Mother's instinct, maybe. I'm a big reader, so I read articles and stories from and about other parents who went through referrals and tests and diagnoses with their own children already. One thing stuck out to me: every parent, at some point or another, goes through the stages of grief when their child receives a life-changing diagnosis. I knew that, and yet, after diagnois, I had no idea how those stages of grief would affect me - because they affect everyone differently.

You see, I thought I went through them pretty quickly. I thought I was ready to be optimistic and make oodles of positive changes and roll with the punches and not let the difficulties get me down....

But then they did, over and over. Week after week and month after month. And it wasn't until recently, when I felt a definite, remarkable change in my mood and our home environment, that I realized it took me much longer to grieve. To say the months since October have been a roller coaster is an understatement. I've changed and grown in so many ways I can't describe, and those changes and growth are still happening.

I think I'm finally at a point where I can do my best to share some of my changes and growth with you. I've wanted to share for so long, but it just never really felt right until now. Until today, actually.

I've split this post for length, so click on through to read more.

One of the first challenges I struggled with around diagnosis is what we've decided to call at our house "the invisible wall". One book I'm reading (10 Things Every Child With Autism Wishes You Knew) describes this wall much more elegantly than I can:

"[There are] times when the rest of the world seems intent on letting you know that your child is different and apart. Often there's no conscious malice; it happens because the mainstream population is streaming about their business in meanstream fashion, which doesn't or can't include your child."

I felt that invisible wall close in around me every time I heard a toddler use a full sentence; every time I heard people talk about going out to a sit-down meal with their families; every time I saw a child walk up to his mom, give her a kiss, and say "I love you" without prompting. That wall kept me in my house, it kept me from speaking my mind even to family members, and sometimes it felt like it was stifling my every breath.

But it wasn't the wall's fault - it was mine.

With the help of an old/new dear friend, I'm learning that I am in control of the invisible wall. I can choose to get cozy next to it and wish I was on the other side, or I can climb myself over it. It's always going to be there, but I can control how it affects me. Just like a real-life wall, my invisible one is just a thing. There are ways over it, because I have wall-climbing tools at my disposal.

Climbing that wall isn't easy. Sometimes (increasingly more often), the wall seems more like a simple curb that I can step over. But other times, it's foreboding and it takes all I have to decide to try and climb it and meet the people around me on the other side.

One other thing I'm learning is that talking honestly about my life - autism and all - won't make more walls. In fact, it might break some down. One thing that has kept me firmly cozied next to the wall is feeling like I can't talk about all the challenges autism has brought us. I don't want to seem like I'm complaining, or that I want attention. But, autism is entwined in our lives so completely that I feel like I'm not myself if I don't talk about it. It's not all bad things either: autism is teaching us patience, love, faith, optimism, joy, and so many other things I can't yet put into words. I want to share these things.

So, I'm going to. Starting here. I'm not nearly as open and well-articulated in person, but I'll try to start sharing there, too. I'm climbing my invisible wall every day, and hopefully by sharing how I do it, I'll help others climb their walls as well - whatever they may be.