I am the author of Under The Banana Moon (UTBM) , Communication Breakdown (an earlier version of UTBM with longer chapters) and Reborn Through Fire (which I wrote as ghostwriter). I've been publishing in books, anthologies, journals, since 1999. I am currently trying to write sensitively and compassionately on my second book, a follow-up to UTBM, tentatively called Drawing Attention, about my experiences with a loved one's LGBTQ, trans, bi-polar, PTSD, neurotica, mental facilities, etc. This is not an easy endeavor to partake in, as being respectful of privacy is a thin line. There is much that is not only interesting but useful and informative to share, yet I am blocked in finding the right flow.

 

 

 

                           Background Overview:

 

 

 

 

                  I love rocks, scraps, strings, tags. 

                 

                  People who loved me called me many things, "Kimmy," "Poopsie," "Big Eyes," "Gerta," "Kid," "Knucklehead," "Clutzy," "Ding-a-ling," "Smartypants," "Dingleberry..." It seems to me, that a yearning to know oneself without judgement, with forgiveness, for all the selves we are, leads eventually to self acceptance. But this is never reached or is indeed arrived at very slowly, if one does not approach the path with the willingness to learn and with inner calm. Abrasiveness, defensiveness, apathy,,, these are pits with quicksand. There is usually a branch there if we stretch ourselves, if we never stop climbing. I know firsthand sometimes it seems a neverending reaching to get unstuck.

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                  A few years after my mother died in 2007, (she never knew about my book's publication) I learned of a conversation my adoptive parents had together when I was a kid. My father wanted to adopted another child. My mother replied; that when you adopt 'it's an unknown,' and you just don't know how that child will 'be.' I am sure she wanted an athletic child (she was a softball captain as a kid and played football with family in middle age). I know she wanted me to be blonde like her too; who doesn't hope their adopted child might resemble them?

 

                 She was easy to laugh; vivacious, blonde, blue eyed and even on the rainiest days, seemed cast in a sunny halo of light from behind, at least to me. I was a pro school ditcher, unathletic, clumsy. My mother was nicknamed "Tank" because of her football skills, I was anxious, enjoyed big words that didn't feel big, an introvert by nature, voracious reader of travel brochures, encyclopedias, tag sale novels, magazines, errr... anything that had text. I was taller than both parents by age 11. My motor skills sucked, buttons were incredibly hard to do until I was at least 9. I spent a lot of time under the kitchen table, where shoe strings were tied to table legs, practicing over and over how to tie a bow. By the age of 8 or 9 I could finally tie my shoes. I remember my first bow. I was so excited I bumped my head on the table. 

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                  My mother (a cafeteria worker who had an artistic flair, sharp wit, and devoured soap operas and romance novels) did her best to explain me to people even though she was clueless herself as to why I was as I was. Who diagnosed Aspergers then? Or Selective Mutism? No one. Some people have watched me seem to do 'well' in relationships and suck in other relationships. "Well if her relationship is important, then she can talk or be or cope." Well they do not understand autism at all, do they? They see how they fit into the world but are not so good at understanding the inner workings of someone whose brain is far far different than theirs.

 

People had many names and phrases for me, whispered or spoken, not so discreetly, which further screwed with my sense of autonomy and identity: "like a stone," "unfeeling Sphynx," "special," "in her own world," "far away," "CAN SHE TALK?"

 

                 Because I drew attention, my mother was fiercely protective of me, also patient and loving. When I misunderstood the world, became overwhelmed by social or sensory experiences, I 'broke down.' By that I mean, it is like the mimosa plant withering, shriveling, because it has been touched. I hyperventilated. My body balled up fetally. She'd turn down the lights, and rock me, a tall gangly plump pile of limbs in her lap, and raked her sharp fingernails across my scalp until I came back to myself. My own fingernails were bitten to nubs. I will not apologize, nor feel 'less than' for biting my nails. It's soothing. So what. I grow my nails now, but I reserve my thumbs only for biting. I also chew the hell out of my cuticles. I have come to think that the reason my mother became the hoarder she was (she once accidentally served a guest a bowlful of pistachios crawling with worms) was due in part to an unaddressed, unexpressed sadness at never being able to bear children herself.

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                  Adept with crayons, pens and pencils, happiest writing and drawing, I blossomed where I was planted: in a grey house with a scary dirt-floored basement where big rats ran. A house which is now torn down, but which used to stand on a hill overlooking a four-lane highway. There were a few houses next door, one with a girl my age in it. Perhaps due only to proximity, it was a blessing nonetheless that we bonded. There was a billboard at the foot of the yard, and a view from the screen door: A sandbank taller than the house. Next to the sandbank was a tumble of boulders and discarded junk, a world to play in! I lived in my world where bugs, trees, rocks, and pets (nothing has changed there) really and truly mattered. I passed hours with the girl next door exploring, climbing boulders; communing in the nature such as it was, being a spiritual experience for me. How often I stand before trees, neck craned back, with wonder for the mosaic that the branches make, silhouetted against the sky. And also admiration for the tree's disposition to be immobile, to have to grow where it stands.

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                "Shy" was the dirtiest descriptive word of all. I hated it, because I knew that my inability to be a chameleon, to laugh easily, to understand idioms, social nuances, and small talk was MORE than that. I also subtly and quietly, docilely accepted that for lack of a better explanation, it was the only word adults could come up with. But it grated me. I was very right that I was different (clinically, physiologically) and I did receive a diagnosis; but not until adulthood. I had an encyclopedic repertoire of topics to expound on, if someone skipped the useless niceties, small talk, and just asked me about topics that mattered. Being sent by the school, to look at InkBlots at the age of 14, it was 1978 and Aspergers was not common knowledge. We existed. Always have, but no one had a name for it then. People like to figure you out. If they can't, they: 1) bully you either physically or mentally 2) talk behind your back 3) laugh behind their hands 4) raise their voice as if you are deaf or a child 5) think of you in terms they think describe you: shy, retarded, mentally ill, spoiled, etc. 6) think of you as defective, broken, weird, and a whole glossary of negative descriptives 7) some will befriend you like a charity case or out of duty 8) still others ask you outright what makes 'you tick,' and sincerely want to engage respectively with curiosity- a desire to truly know you   

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The best experience I had in high school was when I sat for an assembly to watch mimes who visited and put on a performance. I was enthralled by these silent expressions of movement and feeling. It left me longing to be able to express myself so fluently and artfully. Eventually I would.