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My Son and I Don’t Do Well with Chaos—and That’s Okay
We hate surprises. What we need is to be able to set our expectations properly.
This isa monthly column byKatie Rose Pryalabout family life, mental illness, and raising disabled kids as a disabled parent.
Because of that pressure, because of that chaos, I cried every single Christmas from the time I was old enough to know what Christmas was until I was old enough to no longer care about pleasing everyone around me.
You might think that my parents, when confronted by their child weeping under the Christmas tree, would ask, “What’s wrong?” or would try to comfort me. But they were so stunned, so flabbergasted, by my Christmas tears, my reaction the opposite of what they expected, that they usually responded with aggravation or anger. “Why are you crying?” my mother would ask, an edge to her voice.
I take him to sit outside, around the corner from the entrance, behind some shrubs. He leans into me while he sobs. He feels like he might die because of this misshapen day. But I don’t shame him for his pain. I hold him, I tell him it’s okay to cry, and I tell him I will make it right.
Katie is an author, speaker, an expert on mental disability. She is autistic and has bipolar disorder. She's the author of more than fifteen books that center mental disability, an eclectic mix, including an IPPY-award-winning series of romantic suspense novels and four essay collections on mental health and trauma (two of which won national awards). After earning her master's from the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars, she earned her law degree and doctorate in rhetoric. She works toward accessibility for everyone. A professor of writing, she lives in Chapel Hill, NC, with her family and horses.
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I’m not looking for a cure—not for my kids, and not for me. Any treatment we choose is merely a tool to help us enjoy our lives.
I think about the many invisible struggles, the empty places I have had to fill for my kids. The bridges I’ve had to build.
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Every day, when my kids come home from school, the first thing I ask them—like most parents do—is about school. But unlike most parents, I do not expect my kids to say that school was fine.
I have such immense anxiety. It sweeps me up into its furious winds. And my kids are at the middle of the storm.
Unwritten social rules might as well not exist for me. The only reason I can read them at all is because I’ve forced myself to learn them.