Autism Thoughts

Since almost the day I moved here to Bedford, my friend Vicki has been after me to "forgive my parents for what they did to me" all those years ago. The "what they did" is an open book (literally), but it wasn't until two years ago on a trip home to Columbus that I realized maybe Vicki was right, and that I haven't yet forgiven them. I thought I had? But maybe not?

I realized, as I was driving home to Bedford after saying a few words at the Brigadier's funeral, that in order for me to truly forgive my parents, I had to know what really happened, what really went on during those three years.

But as the hospital had long since closed down, I figured all records of that time had long since been destroyed.

One day I called anyway, just to find out, and I was told the records were indeed still intact, and that if I wanted them (all 393 pages), all I would have to do to get them would be to shell out exactly $648.26 in processing fees.

It had to be the hardest and toughest decision I have ever made in all of my 42 years.

After actually paying them that much money, and waiting....waiting....waiting, finally my old hospital records came in the mail today.

So far I have looked only at the final year, the year in the day program. There are three easily seen recurring themes:

1. An autistic child who constantly sabotaged any and all efforts to help him, because at the time he wasn't able to trust anyone.

2. Parents who had no clue and a mother who had more than a few issues of her own that needed to be worked out.

3. A team of professionals who clearly did not know what to do to help this family that desperately needed help.

It never occurred to me that some of what was (and no doubt still is) going on in my family was/is due to my mother's relationship with her own mother, as well as my parents dealing with the emotional aftermath of a separate prodigal son. (I get the feeling as I read these records that the staff were never able to quite figure out what that last one was all about...?)

As I read about that person I was twenty some years ago, it was so clear to me what was going on in my head at the time. I don't know if that clarity came by reading the records or if it came by memory of those days, or a combination of both? In all of that final year, there was only one indication, even just one sentence, that gave any indication at all that any of the staff understood me at the time. And certainly, even if they did, they did not at any time give me what it was equally obvious I needed.

Within a few months after I was discharged (apparently for violating a probation, though I do not recall that being the case?), a single girl was able to do more for me in twelve weeks than all these "professionals" were able to do in three years.

The difference between them was Gwendolyn worked her butt off to prove to me I could trust her. No one in the hospital thought that was important enough to do.

Still, I did enjoy reading their thoughts on my relationships with Sharon and Mandy (not to mention the sheer tragedy of Mary Ellen, but we won't go there. Read the book if you are curious). I read about how they couldn't figure out why I was so interested in the comic book super heroes, and I wondered as I read that why they couldn't understand that I was so into that was simply because I could relate to wearing a mask.

But the most interesting parts of those records for me by far were the pages (and many there were, too!) of documents of my parents private therapy sessions. This is obviously information I was never meant to have and things were said and done that I was obviously never meant to know about, though I am not sure it matters almost thirty years after the fact.

As for whether these pages were worth what I paid for them, I would have to say, even though I haven't read even half of them yet, that they are very much worth it because I understand my mother so much better now than I did even a few hours ago.

It was like someone handed me forbidden knowledge. Everything my mother did not (and does not) want me to know about her was there in black and white. I am feeling like maybe I actually know who she is.

I can say the same now also about my father, though to a somewhat lesser degree. There were precious few surprises about him, but it was fun to locate what little there was, scattered about here and there for me to find.

The remaining pages will be much more difficult to read. They have faded with time and they are written in some very bad handwriting. I don't know if I will ever be able to decipher them. I hope I can, though, because I sure did pay enough to get these... And of course I am dying to know they say?

The records written by the psychologist are separate, and I will have to order those later, if I ever do at all. What I have now are records from the staff and social workers.

Some of you may have noticed I set up a section in the gallery for these documents. I don't know if I can post them without revealing stuff about myself and my parents that is best left private.

Maybe I can type in a few quotes here and there in this blog for your amusement and education.

More on this later...