Lesson Five: Indecent Exposure

I’m coming back to this blog.  I thought about ditching it entirely and starting over.  I didn’t write at all during 2012, when I was having my anxiety crash.  But I stand by my previous entries.  They don’t reflect how far I’ve come the last year, but they show a little of where I started.  

I’ve decided to write here again for two reasons.  First, I need to cultivate creativity.  I’m not a writer, I don’t think of myself as a writer, and I’m not schooled as a writer.  Which would normally make me say, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” and paralyze me with fear.   All the more reason why I must do this.  Second, I need to share my vulnerability.  I’m convinced it’s the only way to healing for me.  And boy, am I in need of some healing.  So here goes.

Anxiety has hit me hard this week.  I can feel it in my shortness of breath, in the hesitancy of my voice, in the tightness across my back and ribs.  It’s a monster.  And it seems every time I think I’m in the clear, I round a corner and it rears its ugly head again.

Sunday night I couldn’t get out of the church building fast enough.  People were talking, saying nice things – around me and to me—and I rushed to get away before panic completely took over.  I couldn’t speak.  I couldn’t form the words “thank you” without pushing them out with my last bit of strength.  I knew I couldn’t keep it up for long.  So I ran.

I was already nerve-wrecked.  It had been a long and difficult week, with Eric working late every night and me at my busiest piano-playing time of year.  My guard was down.  And then it happened.

She approached me ten minutes before the choir was to enter the sanctuary, ten minutes before I had to concentrate—to play skillfully for an hour long musical program.  “What happened this morning with Travis was so scary,” she said.  Of course, I was oblivious.  But not for long, as she proceeded to tell me how he got angry and threatened another boy with scissors during Sunday School.

I tried to breathe.  But I felt as though I was about to walk onstage to appear on national television with my zipper down, so afraid of my anxiety being exposed.  I made it through the music. . . and then I got out of Dodge.

We laughed so hard about it that night in our special needs group, when I said that bringing a special needs kid to church is like coming to church half naked.  Or as I more eloquently put it, “with your boob hanging out.”  The exposure, the embarrassment, the futile attempts to cover up and look like everyone else—they’re all a part of the game.  Most people just look the other way, slightly embarrassed themselves, unsure of what to say or how to respond or react.  So they ignore the fact that you are semi-unclothed right there in front of God and everybody. 

Then there are the “helpful” ones.  Like the one Sunday night.  They mean well, really, I know they do.  They are the ones who come up to you and say ever so sweetly, “Did you know your boob is hanging out?  You might want to do something about that!”  As though you are completely unaware that threatening another kid with scissors would even be in your child’s repertoire.  Like they expect you to react with utter shock. . . as if it’s never happened before.  And then of course, they want you to take care of it -- to get that problem solved in a jiffy!  Just fix that boob, doggone it, so the rest of us can get back to normal.  Nobody wants to look at that!!

Last but certainly not least, there are the cruel ones.  The ones who eye you with the “Well, I never” glare.  They simply can’t believe you would dare to come to church, of all places, half-naked.  After all, this is where we “put on our Sunday best” and there is an expected standard of proper behavior and decorum.  Bare boobs don’t fit into that scenario.  Neither do loud, aggressive, autistic boys.  This group of people would be so much more comfortable if we wouldn’t invade their space at all.  If we would just stay home.

What they don’t know, of course, is that we think the same thing.  We would be more comfortable at home.  At least I know I would.  I don’t like the stares, the judgment, the “I just wanted you to know”s.  All I want is love and acceptance—for me and for my child.  For people to love us as we are – not pity us or judge us.  We want to be welcomed and wanted.  We want friends who offer a hand when we need help and who are okay when we mess up and who are willing to let us try again.  And again and again. 

To be fair, there are lots of good people at our church who are exactly that.  But there are a lot more who don’t get it and really don’t want to.  They are comfortable, thank you very much, with the sterile status quo environment and with the old “spare the rod” mentality—as if my son’s behavior is the direct result of my lack of discipline skills.  My child is not a person to them – a real flesh and blood boy created in God’s image and loved passionately by Jesus.  He’s a problem to solve—or not.  Oh, they’d never say as much—their words are sweetly wrapped in Bible verses and evangelical catch phrases.  But the heart comes through and it cuts like a knife.

It’s been a spiritual breakdown for me.  As a lifelong church-loving girl who found a place to belong among good, compassionate, God-fearing church people, I’m completely torn in two.

I know the church world.  It’s always been my stage.  I can talk church talk with the best of them and I know all the hymns, most of them by heart.  I know when to stand, when to sit, when to say “Amen,” when to bow, when to say “bless your heart,” and when to wake up during the third point of the sermon so I can be back on the piano bench in time for the invitation.  I’m a good church girl—always have been.

So imagine the irony, and the contorted pain of having my own son rejected there.  When this is where I belong, where I’ve always belonged.  But it doesn’t matter how skilled I am at playing my role as the good church girl, my son can’t do it.  He is the proverbial square peg.  No matter how hard you hammer (believe me, I've tried!), he ain’t fittin’ in that perfect little round hole!

And yet, here’s the thing:  I’m so grateful to God for giving me Travis.  I was already tired of performing.  I just didn’t realize it.  Didn’t realize how it was killing me.  Travis gave me an out.  

Now I’m exposed and there’s no going back.  They’ve already seen me half-naked.  It’s so indecent and yet liberating.  I will no longer be governed by my shame.  They've seen the truth, and this is who I am.

I am a girl who loves Jesus with all her heart but still yells at her kids sometimes.   I have great intentions and often never follow through.  I feel music and poetry to the marrow of my bones, and when it’s really good it moves my body and my soul and makes fat, hot tears roll down my face.  I fiercely hate injustice and when I see it or experience it, I usually over-react with rage and defiance.  I am intensely shy, yet full of words that have to go somewhere, anywhere!  I have a loud voice that gets even louder when I’m worked up about something.   My thoughts race like a runaway freight train and I am always trying my best just to catch one or two and hang on for the ride.  I enjoy good satire, and as far as I’m concerned, a life without humor isn’t worth living.  I have no tolerance for anything I find boring.  I’m way too sarcastic. 

None of this fits the mold I’ve been trying to cram myself into for 40 plus years.  So to continue the whole "boob" analogy -- I feel like I'm taking off a too-tight bra at the end of a long day--it's time to let loose.   It’s a liberating feeling – but a little uncomfortable even so.  My performance was so polished.  I knew all the lines backward and forward.

My new role is less certain.  I'm very unsure of myself.  But this role—this is the one I was always meant to play.  My audience is only One, but He is the only one who matters.