Everybody’s boy is seven today.

Yesterday afternoon was hard.  He was very agitated and impulsive.  Something was wrong and I knew what it was.  I wasn’t sure he could place his finger on it though.

“Peter, is today a tricky day?”

“I am scared to be seven. I do not want to be old.”

Just what I thought it was.

So we talked.  We talked about how it’s my birthday too and that I’m 35 and that thirty-five is 7 times five.  That I am FIVE times older than him.

After that he was not scared anymore.  Of course the conversation sent me spiraling into my own mini mid-life crisis, but I was due for one of those anyway. It had been almost 10 days since the last one.

On Wednesday evening I read a piece as part of the cast of Listen to Your Mother Raleigh-Durham.  It was entitled “Almost Six, and it was a timely reminder of how fast life moves, how precious and universal the loss we mothers feel as our children grow bigger and bigger, more and more independent.

At almost seven, I saw so many times pure empathy and love from my child.

A few weeks ago we went to a local “fun-place”,  The kind where you spend $130 in less than two hours and walk out with another stuffed animal, but notably the most expensive stuffed animal ever.

I’m going to cut that thing open and get the diamonds that must be hiding inside of it out next time he puts it down.

But it was fun.  So fun.  Such a great Mommy and Son day.

When “shopping” with his tickets at the counter he poured over his options for probably twenty minutes.  I cannot mind this trait as I am the most indecisive and -second-guessing shopper ever,  He eventually chose the diamond-packed dinosaur.  You can keep your tickets on account which is what he usually does so I reminded him that we could save up for the iPad he wants, not at all ready to explain that at $130 per visit and an average of 900 tickets won each time.  That iPad would cost over $34,000.

Plus he totally already has an iPad.

Instead of saving for the diamond-encrusted iPad.  He decided to look some more.  Then he asked me what I liked.

“Me?  I don’t know.  I like that Hello Kitty keyboard. But that’s why I am not choosing YOUR prize.”

He chose the Hello Kitty keyboard.

Okay, I thought.  It was a steal at only 900 tickets/$130.

In the car as we headed towards home he asked me who we knew that liked Hello Kitty.

“Hmm…well my friend Emily likes Hello Kitty and I think maybe your friend Morgan does too.  Why?”

“I am just thinking about this Hello Kitty keyboard, Mommy.  Okay?  I am thinking.”

Buyers remorse?

We stopped by grandma and grandpas house.  He ran in the house and whispered – not at all secretively – that he got Mommy’s birthday present and it was a Hello Kitty keyboard.

Here is the part where I tell you that from the moment he “bought” it, I knew.  But it didn’t make it any less special when he rushed home and asked me for wrapping paper and a GREEN bow and then hid away in his room while he conducted his covert operation.

Or when he hid it in his toy box and told me that there was a present there for someone but I could not know because it was a secret.  Or when he told everyone that came into our home over the past two weeks and showed them proudly.

Or when he brought it out and proudly showed his friends, and one of them said when he went back inside to replace it in the toy box.  ”Peter’s Mom, don’t you know that present is for you?  You are sitting right here, you heard him right?”

I grinned at her and said,  ”Oh yes, I do know.  But he doesn’t know that I know so don’t tell him okay?  He wants to surprise me.”

A few days later we were driving again and he said “What are you getting me for my birthday?”

“Dude, I gave you life.”, I joked.

“Life, life, life – every year it’s life.  I want something else this year. I want the gift of love.”

God he’s adorable.

So I got a box.  I put the Mega Man stuffed toy I had purchased for him on Amazon in it…and last night I cut out probably 100 red construction paper hearts.

And I wrote on them, Mommy loves Peter.

This morning Daddy and I woke him up by singing Happy Birthday.

He jumped out of bed.  ”It’s our birthday, Mommy!”

He ran to the toy box.  And presented me with this.

“The green bow is because green is your favorite color.  Open it, Mommy.  It’s your birthday.”

I was actually surprised at how surprised I was.  I gushed and cried and told him how sneaky he was and how sweet it was of him to think of the perfect gift for me.

I am using it right now; as you would expect.

Then I gave him his gift.

“It’s a Mega Man plush!  Oh I love it, Mommy!  Oh and look at all these hearts!  Mommy, you made these for me?  You gave me the gift of love!  Thank you, Mommy.”

Actually, my darling son, you gave me the gift of love.

Happy 7th Birthday, Everybody’s Boy.

I can gain and lose the same 50 pounds twice.

I can write 209 blog posts.

A child with no words can become the child talking graphic design with the adults working at the local comic book store.

416 private Occupational Therapy sessions.

454 private Speech Therapy sessions.

3,600 Special Education school hours.
- 160 in-school Speech Therapy sessions
- 180 in-school Occupational Therapy sessions

104 private Behavioral Therapy sessions.

54 weeks of TEACCH, structured teaching.

Specialized gymnastics, social groups, summer camp, music therapy, adaptive swimming, baseball, soccer and basketball.

In case you are wondering, it’s diagnosis day here.  Five years ago today a psychologist told our family that we had a beautiful son who also had Autism.

So we got to work.  Grandma, Grandpa, Mommy, Daddy – but most importantly Peter.

I remember pining for the day I’d hear the word Mommy.

I still have to stop myself from signing “all done” or “thank you” on the odd occasion I have to prompt for those things.

A friend of mine who has an adult son with Autism told me once that it doesn’t get easier, it gets different.

Lots of professionals have told us that our child is profoundly affected  by Autism, despite the fact that he is extremely “high functioning“.

And as much as I didn’t want to believe them, as much as my analytical mind struggled to reconcile the concept, they are right.

He struggles.

We struggle.

But he works hard.  He works harder to quiet his mind and focus on a task for five minutes than most of us do in a whole day.

And he works hard because he wants to.

He wants to learn.  He wants to calm himself.  He wants to be a friend.

If I could change things, make his life easier, I would take his pain in a second.  But I also cannot imagine a world without this Peter.  This eccentric and eager child endears himself to the world effortlessly.  This child will succeed where I have failed.  This child will change the world in ways unimaginable.  This child has fight and spirit and Autism is not his handicap.

Five years ago I sat in this very room at my computer and sobbed because I did not know what the future held for my son.

Today I sit at the computer, still not knowing what the future holds for my son, but with a quiet heart.  Because I know that whatever it is – it will be okay.  Because I know that he won’t stop working and neither will we.

Because I celebrate his uniqueness.  Because he is my super-hero.

Because if he can do this in five years, the next 15 are going to blow you away.

Sometimes you just can’t champion everything, you know?

Sometimes you just have to step back and say “maybe next time”.

We’re on to May.  My favorite month.  Our shared birthday is in May.  My mom is visiting.  I’m going to be in Listen to Your Mother.

I like May. It makes me smile.

Something else that makes me smile?  Welcoming my second blog.  www.debbytorres.com

Everybody’s Boy is not going anywhere.  I just thought that there were certain posts that needed their own home.  Posts not specific to parenting or Autism, mostly.  So going forward those posts will live at the new blog.  You can follow that blog on Facebook as well.  The Facebook Page is also where I’ll share updates on publications, speaking engagements, press stuff.  So if you want to keep up with my work go here and click “like” (I’ll wait).

Oh hi, you’re back.  Now, I hope you’ll take the time to read today’s post.  It’s one I hold dear to my heart.

I posted tonight about my upcoming birthday.  The big 3-5.  I hope you’ll check out the new place (still needs some touch up paint and a few pictures on the walls but we’ll get there).  Have a seat on the folding chairs in the dining room and grab a slice of cold pizza from on top of the pile of boxes. I’m still unpacking. But it already feels like my second home.

But it’s not raining. The view from here deceived me.  My mind cobbled together an expectation left unfilled.

It looked like it was raining.  It sounded like it was raining.  It smelled like it was raining.  It was not raining.

Everything about our experience with Autism is tainted by illusion.

So I guess this is my 2013 Autism Awareness post.

My son is perfect. It’s his Autism that is unpredictable and complex. I look at my son and I see empathy, passion, and potential.

They say he’s “high functioning”.  I abhor that distinction.  Clinically it means he isn’t cognitively delayed.  That’s all.  No one knows that.  Everyone thinks it means he has a “mild case”, or that he’s not as “affected”.  ”Is he high functioning? Oh thank goodness!” – I cannot tell you how often I hear that.  Or how tired I am of explaining that it’s still hard.  It’s just a different kind of hard.

But don’t let me distort the view from where you are sitting.

I spent yesterday morning running to work and then to the school for a crisis meeting with the school psychologist and EB’s teacher.

He’s falling apart.  Rapidly.  His behavior is aggressive and volatile – he is a threat to himself, his classmates and the staff. He might not be able to stay in his school if this continues.

My son is in crisis.  I cannot even bring myself to write some of the behaviors that he is exhibiting.  I want to protect him with my words, because I don’t want you to think that list of behaviors is him.  That list is not my son.  My son is amazing, but my son is fighting a war – a war within himself.

He’s not functioning right now.  High or otherwise.

Looks are deceiving.  Labels are dangerous.

My son is high functioning enough:

• to know he is different;
• to want a friend;
• to have complex thoughts that he cannot articulate, that he cannot understand, that cause him great fear and anxiety;
• to feel rejection;
• to feel anger and fear;
• to know what he needs to do, but not know how to do it when he is sad/frustrated/angry/scared/excited;
• to want to make the people in his life happy, and to feel like a failure when he loses control;
• to beg me to make his brain go away, or to have it be nice to him, or to tell me he wishes he were dead…

There is nothing like seeing your six year old child so distraught and scared and confused by the way his mind and body work (or don’t work) that he wants to die.

I hope you never have that view.

Tomorrow we have an emergency appointment with his developmental pediatrician. We are in crisis.  We will have to stabilize.  I imagine that will include a higher class of drugs; the scary drugs.  But we have to do this.  Because if we don’t, the future is certain.

I believe that the scary meds will help us find our way to the other side.

And I know that this cycle will continue to repeat itself.  For years to come.

Today was exceptional.  Today he held it together for the entire school day.  He helped me bake cupcakes and decorate for a surprise party for a friend.

Today gave me hope.

The hope fuels the fight, but it also clouds the view –  because when things are good it’s hard to remember that my child is still a child in crisis, and the thunder is still the city bus, and the raindrops never came to wash away the pollen.

This is a post I’ve tried to articulate for several weeks, about something I’ve tried to avoid processing for almost fourteen years.   This is a story of 72 hours that irretrievably changed my life.

When I was twenty-one I had a traumatic experience.  I’ve done a good job of repressing most of the memories and moving on but there are certain scenes of one’s life that time cannot fade.  Memories that crop up in dreams, or at lunch with a friend, or in my solitary walks on the trail when the sun peaks through the trees just right.

I don’t know why or what nuance summons such things, I simply recognize the feeling of dread that washes over me when I realize how small and helpless I am in this world and how reliant I am on the perception of others for my self-worth.

Because, for so long I have not liked myself very much at all.  I’ve felt blinding inferiority about my aptitude, talent, weight and beauty.  I don’t feel special at all.  Not one bit.  And the only thing I want is to feel special.  Hearing about my specialness from others makes me uncomfortable – driven to distract from my very own fraud.

Desperate to be rescued from this self-imposed tariff on self-worth.

It started long before I was 21, but if anything it was cemented in late September of 1999.  The details are not terribly important, and many of them are not clear as only recently have they come back to me.  

In 1999 I was involved with a young man who lived in New York City.  It was one of those whirlwind romances that only a twenty-one year old can have.  I was living in Orlando (where we met) and after months of a long distance relationship, I agreed to travel to New York for a visit.  It was my first trip alone – ever.  I had been on one airplane trip in my life.  The year before I had flown up to NYC to spend time with a friend who was attending West Point.  This time in lieu of LaGuardia I flew into Newark;  I guess I wanted to “see the world” or maybe it was cheaper.  I was feeling very grown up and metropolitan.

Mostly I was too much of a naïve twenty-one year old to think that anything could go wrong.

But it turns out that a lot went wrong on that trip.

The guy picked me up at the Newark airport and we drove for a long while.  He had booked two days in Saratoga Springs in this beautiful mansion overlooking the Mohawk river, it was very fancy and expensive. I remember that the leaves were starting to change and having spent my life in Florida I was enchanted by that – I remember the leaves very clearly.  I focused on the leaves a lot during those almost two days.

I remember other things too.  Bits and pieces that don’t merit writing.  Bits and pieces I am not ready to write.  Suffice to say that there were things I should’ve feared at twenty-one that I had not before.  I cannot say that I was raped, because that conjures a specific image I am not ready to own, but I can say that in retrospect the events of that weekend were egregious enough to have permanently damaged me.  The third day, the day before my return flight, we spent holed up in a run-down motel in Elizabeth, NJ with dirty carpet that smelled like curry.  I did not have enough money for food or a taxi and especially not to change my flight.  I didn’t dare ask for anything from him by then.

At 6:30 the next morning, I was delivered to the airport, a full 14 hours before my scheduled departure, literally willing myself to believe I had been anywhere else for the past 72 hours.  I was stoic and measured as I approached counter to check in for my evening flight.  I think the flight attendant saw more than I could see within me though, because she got me on the very next flight home.

These are the details that are sketchy.  But the image that creeps into my thoughts remains unfaded by the years.

These were the days before you had to go through security, so I took my bag and began walking down the very bright concourse towards my gate.  As I walked I became aware that I could hear these primal gut-wrenching sobs enveloping me.  I became aware that my face was wet, my shirt was wet, the taste in my mouth was salty.  My hands were numb.  And then my legs gave way.

I fell to my hands and knees in absolute despair right there in the Newark airport.  I could not breathe, I could not speak, I could only sob.

It felt like forever, too.  It felt like I lost hours on the floor, even though I know that is not the case.  Perhaps it felt that way because I had lost years in the past 72 hours.  I don’t know.

I just know that I have never felt more unspecial than I did in that moment.

There was a man in a suit, he was a “grown-up”.  In hindsight he was probably younger than I am now, but that’s how I saw him through the haze of the brightly lit concourse and my exhausted contact lenses.

He walked over to me and knelt at my side.  He sat there for a while not saying anything, just kind of patting my back in a really nice “grown-up” kind of way.    After a little while he asked me if he could see my ticket and take my bag.  I was practically catatonic, but I assume I nodded yes because he did.

I followed him and my stuff to what he told me was my gate.  He spent some time talking to the flight attendant at the desk, they nodded, he wrote something down and then he came back to me.  He said “Do you drink Coke?” and I kind of laughed at the absurdity of the question despite my fragile state.  He smiled and told me he’d be right back.

He came back with a Coke and a travel package of tissues and asked me if I’d like to use his cell phone to call someone.  These are the days before cell phones were common, and I had one through my job but I dared not incur the roaming fees.  I called my Mama.  I choked out a little bit, but I also knew I didn’t want to worry her.  Mostly I just told her I was sad and scared and coming home.

Then the stranger asked me if I was going to be okay and I said yes and thank you and I am so sorry.

And he said, “Of course, anytime.  Everything is going to be alright.”

Then he was gone.

He rescued me and then he was gone.

He stopped to talk to the flight attendant again on his way to his gate (if he even made his flight, if he wasn’t too late) and I am almost certain he told her to take care of me and gave her his number if I needed anything.

I don’t even know his name but it was because of him that I made it home.  I wonder if some day he’ll stumble across this blog and remember me and know that I am very grateful that he rescued me?

As I think about the years before and since, I am not all that shocked that this stranger felt I was special enough to warrant rescuing.

I understand that at twenty-one and in trauma I was not capable of being my  own champion.

I don’t know why over the past several months this long repressed event has begun to emerge, I’d rather not remember, but if I have to perhaps it’s because it’s time that I recognize that not only am I special enough to be rescued…

…but that I have the ability to rescue myself.

I can carry my bags.  I can find my gate.  I can fall apart and put myself back together, and I can (and will) buy my own Coke.

It’s not just about Autism, this post.  Though it’s a lot about Autism.  Things are always a lot about Autism here.

This post is more universal than that.  This post is about parenting and feeling loss for your child.

“My heart has a virus.  It is squeezing it shut and making my brain feel angry and sad.”

My son said those words to me today.

“I do not have a friend.”

…and then those words.

And then my heart had a virus, too.

I don’t remember a lot about the first grade, but I do remember having a best friend.  Her name was Lori and I couldn’t pronounce the letter “L” very well so I called here “Rori”.

Best friends, it seems, are all the rage in the first grade.

And Everybody’s Boy doesn’t have one.

There is one child that he is particularly drawn to.  I would say enthusiastically, but with “enthusiasm” such as he has for Sonic the Hedgehog or Mega Man.

His mission is to make this boy his Best Friend.  No game overs allowed.

But this boy has a best friend (and much like politics one’s six year old allegiance can only rest with one friend) and my son is not the one.

A few weeks ago he expressed jealousy at the “chosen” kid.  I found myself in uncharted territory as this was a new feeling for him.  I talked about how Mommy has lots of friends and that some of Mommy’s friends were “like best friends” but that it’s okay to have more than one friend.

But as it turns out, it is not even remotely okay.  First grade = one singular best friend.

As he tried to win this child over, and for whatever reason (I was not physically present for any of this) the boy became increasingly frustrated with EB.

The boy told him that he was his BFN, “Best Friend Never” and that he didn’t want to come to his birthday party.

My little boy was devastated but determined.  He kept devising plans on how to win this child’s interest, much like one of the video games he so adores.

So Gus and I talked to him together.  We suggested some other friends he could play with.  But apparently they were each already paired up, a mathematical pattern that left him odd man out.

Last week EB came home sobbing over this friend issue, trying to wrap his head around emotions that he had just become aware of.  Why couldn’t he win the best friend he wanted?  Why didn’t this kid like him?

All I could think was, why doesn’t this kid like him?  How could this kid not like him?

In one of my not finer moments, I became really pissed off with a six year old.

How dare he reject my son?  How dare he hurt his feelings by saying these things?

My precious son, who has a disability, a disability that affects him socially.  What kind of bully is this kid?

But really, if I’m honest with myself, that’s awfully heavy for a first grader.  He doesn’t like EB.  I hate that.  He said some hurtful things.  I hate that too.  But this child can’t possibly recognize the extent of his actions.

I suggested that next time EB’s feelings were hurt that he tell him “That hurt my feelings.”

And so he did…only he screamed it while fighting his aide to get to the boy and it evolved into an epic meltdown on a field trip with the whole first grade.  I wasn’t there, but just hearing about it made me wince in agony.

Gus and I talked to him again.  We suggested he take a break from pursing this boy.

And it sucked because he kept asking things all weekend like “Will my <not-best-friend> break be over before my birthday party?” but I thought it was gonna be okay.  We had a plan to build relationships with a few other kids in the class with his amazing teachers and I had hope it was going to be okay.

But it wasn’t okay. It’s not okay.  He spent the majority of yesterday inconsolable at school, unable to leave his self-contained classroom, perseverating on the fact that he was “on a break” from this boy.

Every morning he writes a goal to work on.  His goal for yesterday was “Make a New Friend”.

Ouch.

Finally the virus attacked his heart so very much that his loving teacher and principal took him outside to yell until it was better.

And it was for a little while. It was while we played computer and Sonic and ate Papa John’s pizza.  It was as we watched our TV shows and as he fell asleep cuddled next to me.

But In an hour I have to put him back on the bus, and send him back to the mysterious world of first grade where it’s all or nothing.  He has the awareness that he’s not fitting in.  He just doesn’t understand why.

I don’t understand why either so how can I help him to process that?

He’ll go to school today, his schedule will be greatly scaled back, expectations limited, so as not to add more stress and we will all begin to rebuild.  Cause that’s how it goes.  We fall apart and rebuild.

But this is okay.

I’ll keep telling him it’s okay.  That he doesn’t have to be part of a pair. That Daddy and I are his best friends.

And it will be okay again.  But then it won’t be.  Because the gift that is my child gaining social awareness is also the most excruciating loss of innocence.

And we’ll fall apart and rebuild again and again.

And in the meantime I’ll keep searching the first grade for his plus one.

For Heather

Once upon a time in a land 14,000 miles from home a young maiden sat lonely and lost adjusting to her new, albeit temporary, home.  The mail came but it was slow. There was email but it wasn’t the same and this maiden should note that with a 9 hour time difference it too was painfully slow.

One day, amongst the magazine subscriptions and Old Navy orders, a small package arrived.  It was from the kingdom of Florida, the maiden’s fair home.  The small package included a handwritten letter from the maiden’s bosom friend and a packet of forget-me-not seeds.

In case anyone thought I might have become proficient in creative writing, that’s the end of the fairy tale.

But I assure you, it’s only the beginning of the story.

I found my soul mate as a child, in my best friend Heather. We planned to live side by side and marry Doublemint twins and to have our children at the same time and grow old together in the kingdom of Florida by the Gulf of Mexico.

As life would have it, that was not in the cards for us, but despite time and distance Heather has remained the central character in my fairy tale.  She knew me like no other has ever and though we haven’t seen each other in years, and our conversations are limited to (maybe) monthly Facebook exchanges, I would place a gamble that she still does.

Our lives are busy these days and vastly different from what we’d ever imagined.

Though only 500 miles separate us now, it seems farther than ever.

But she’s not so far away, because she is home.  And home is never ever as far away as one thinks.

I had my gardener plant those forget-me-nots right near the front door of my palace in that far away kingdom.  They grew, these seeds totally not indigenous to that land.  They grew, I believe, because they were home and home was in me.

Every day when I stepped outside those forget-me-nots were there, reminding me that in another hemisphere far away, home awaited. Reminding me that home could grow anywhere if I would just cultivate it.

Home knew me, loved me, intrinsically, just like Heather. Home was still there. I still belonged to somewhere.  I had roots.

Heather’s small gesture had an incredibly profound impact on my life.

I’ve done my best to recreate myself over the years – to be anyone but that girl I was at home – because I wanted to be more, because more was better.

Yet in those times that I had torn myself apart and rebuilt I had forgotten that the essential ingredient in completing me, was home.

Without a foundation, roots, a history, I cannot grow.  Without acknowledging who I was I cannot appreciate who I am.

The thing is, I like who I am.  I like the life I have built.  But only because the foundation was started long before I realized it.  The foundation was started at home. No matter how many times I rebuild, the foundation has settled.

In a few days our family will celebrate five years in North Carolina.  I have never loved living anywhere more than I do here.  It’s the only home my son can remember, it’s the home our family is building.  Here will be his kingdom by the Gulf.  Here will be where his roots are.  That makes me proud.

It’s been five years since I’ve been home.  It feels like an eternity sometimes.  It feels like I don’t even know that place anymore.  I know it’s changed.  I know I’ve changed.

I’ve been planning a trip to visit this summer.  It’s a chance to connect physically with the self-recognition that has been bubbling up inside of me.  To be in that space again.  To visit the girl who lives deep down inside.  To apologize for snubbing her, and for not giving her credit for paving my way, to summon her to the surface again and let her experience now and guide me in experiencing then.  

Because the two really aren’t that different.

I need to tell her that I’m sorry I got so caught up in now that I forgot her.

I bought some forget-me-not seeds, a trowel and some soil today.  I planted them in front of my door.  I know they will grow, even in this strange kingdom here, because they are home and home is in me.

And when I see them I will remember how much I owe Heather for that little package that profoundly changed my life way back when….and again today.

 ”There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemingway

When I lived abroad I used to tell people I met that I was “a writer by trade”.  I had absolutely no idea what that meant.  Truth be told, I still have no idea what that means.  It sounded legit and most of the time I got a pass because no one else knew what it meant either.  On the odd occasion that someone asked me what I wrote I simply dumped a glass of wine on my dress and made an emergent escape.

This is probably why I still prefer white wine.

I took me many more years to begin writing consistently.  Yet somehow I have reached a point in my life where I don’t immediately feel that dumping a glass of wine on myself is required when someone asks me what I write.

My son gave me voice and mothering gave me my muse.

Writing is not easy.  As Hemingway so truthfully stated,  the experience is nothing short of sitting down and allowing yourself to bleed words.  Good writers have within them a space vulnerable and exposed, and in that space and only that space can they create genius.

I don’t pretend to have created genius but I have created truth, which for me is close enough.

For as hard as it is to pour ones heart out on paper, it is far preferable than actually saying the words aloud.

My close friends know that I am a better communicator when I write.  If something is particularly emotional for me we are all better served if I just sit down and send an email, or at the very least process my thoughts in writing before having a conversation.

My husband has received hundreds of emails from me over the course of our marriage.  He’s come to accept that there are things I simply cannot say face to face.

Sometimes writers have to be speakers.  It’s just the way it works.  I speak in public all the time for work and am generally nonplussed by this.

But sharing my writing out loud, is akin to standing exposed to the entire world, like one of those underwear dreams you had in high school when final exams were approaching.

In an effort to continuously push myself to grow, I showed up to school in my underwear last night.

In January, I submitted a piece to the Listen to Your Mother Show, a nationwide casting call for essayists hoping to share a little piece of their heart on a really big stage around Mother’s Day.

I wasn’t terribly surprised to get a call to audition.  Not because I’m all that and a bag of chips, but because the piece was one that I felt was quality – ergo there was lots of bleeding involved.

What I was surprised about is how raw and exposed I felt preparing for my audition.

I spent hours taping myself reading, watching it and wincing, reworking sentences that worked beautifully on paper to have spoken meaning, and judging rhythm and flow and intonation.  It was a new experience and a lot more than simply reading something I wrote.

I spent a good part of yesterday practicing how to say raison d’etre without sounding like a pretentious hipster.

Last night I drove to Raleigh, at a time I would typically be going to bed, and as I sat downstairs waiting for my turn to read I could not find a position that allowed my legs respite from violently knocking against one another. I tried to whisper through my essay a few more times. I checked my cell phone for encouraging texts and Facebook messages from friends every few seconds and then…

I turned of my phone, closed my eyes, and chanted silently “Right now, in this moment, all is well.”

Then I went upstairs to the studio and bled my story.

It wasn’t all that different from writing after all.  It’s still about vulnerability and braveness, and truth.

Whether I am cast in the May 8th show or not, and get to bleed on a giant stage in front of lots of people, I am proud that I can now say that I am a writer,

and I am a speaker.

Thank you to the amazing producers of LTYM Raleigh-Durham, KeAnne and Marty for making this experience so comfortable and meaningful.

“This is retarded!”, protests an exasperated student in my son’s Karate class.  She doesn’t want to do the six count ground drill again.

“Stop that!  You look like a retard!”, scolds a grandmotherly-like woman in frozen foods department at Target.

I bite my tongue.  I probably shouldn’t, but I do.  Maybe I’m scared of confrontation.  Maybe I’m tired of being an educator.

Maybe I just don’t want it to be my problem today.

Certain words have become part of American culture, and the “r-word” is one of them.

I’m a big fan of freedom of speech.  I studied journalism.  I am proud to have my blog as a forum to share my opinions – in whatever way they might differ from the norm, or from yours’, or from anyone’s.  It’s my right.

As much as it pains me to say this, it’s your right to use the word retarded as a slur as well.

It’s just that if you knew, I don’t think you’d want to use it.

re·tard (Dictionary.com, 3/5/13)

I have two personas.

There is “Work Debby”.  She’s not all about work, it’s just what we call her.  She’s professional, bright, on top of (most) things, uninhibited in sharing her opinion, happy to speak to a group of hundreds on a whim. She is confidant. She’s an amazing advocate for her son and for anyone/anything she believes in.  She is self-assured, sarcastic, and quick-witted. She tries to be a good person – and she’s pretty sure she’s at least breaking even in the karma department. two personas.

I really like her.  You would too.

Then there’s the other Debby.  The real one.  The one who berates herself for the store-bought cakes at Christmas.  The one who wears a cardigan over every single dress, even when it’s 100 degrees outside, because she is petrified someone will see her fat arms.  The mom who allows her son to play too much Wii U just so she can pay bills or mop the kitchen.  The girl who hyperventilates at the thought of dinner with two or more friends, especially if it requires something other than yoga pants, who routinely falls asleep mere minutes after her six-year-old, maintains her most intimate friendships via Facebook and text message, counts the calories in the gummy vitamins she takes, carries emergency anxiety meds on her person at all times, hasn’t cooked a meal for her husband since…who knows, and gets her hair cut and loves it but never goes back because she cannot bear to have a “hey how have you been?” conversation with an acquaintance.

She is pretty certain that her opinions are wrong.  Her hair is too orange. Her parenting too lax.  She doesn’t advocate enough, or she advocates “too much.”  She thinks people can’t possibly like her, that they are only being nice – because they feel sorry for.  She’s pretty sure that if they do like her, it’s because they don’t know her well enough (but just to be safe she’ll share with them all of her faults up front so they don’t waste their time).

She will never be smart enough, thin enough, or organized enough.  She will never send Bento Boxed lunches to school for her son and if she did he wouldn’t eat them anyway because she has been unsuccessful in developing his tastes beyond pizza and french fries.

She will pin awesome children’s activities on Pinterest and never do them.  She will forget her password and forget how to log in.  She won’t finish a game of Words With Friends because she’ll miss so many days playing that she’ll be resigned for inactivity.  She will spend $50 creating elaborate positive behavioral strategies and stop using them after three days.

She will wear that cardigan over those fat arms every single day. She has a closet full of them. Whether she weighs 200 lbs or 120 lbs she will wear the cardigan.  Because she doesn’t like herself much at all.  She is insecure and frail and distrustful of those who love her.  She wonders how they can love her when they don’t see the truth.  She wonders if she accepts their love, and then they see the truth, how she will reconcile that loss.  She figures if that’s the case why bother trying?

She’s grateful for “Work Debby” because at least through her she gets things done.  She can rest on her merits and skate by in life because Work Debby’s game is so on.

She wishes Work Debby were real, or at least not so exhausting in her perfection.  Because she’d like to be her all the time if she could.

She struggles with whether to post this or not, but knows she will.  Because of all things that she lacks, boldness in her words is not one of them.