Kathleen Leopold and I have been blogging buddies for over two years now, working on various projects together, struggling to figure out our places in the online autism community as we work in the real world to find our place there, as well, to find the best ways to help both our own children, and other children like ours.
We’ve read several hundred bloggers over the years, and with over 800 bloggers represented on the directory, we’ve read hundreds of stories of how parents have come to face the reality of what autism means not just for their children who are diagnosed on the spectrum, but for the families, as well. We’ve become friends with many adults on the spectrum, learning about how their autism impacts them and how they view the world. We’ve made friends, seen people come and go from the blogging world, and even irritated the occasional person (me way way more than Kathleen ever has).
We’ve witnessed intense anger, deep depression, denial, acceptance, and all the feelings in between in parents as they face the hurdles, struggles, heartache and intense joy and delight in our children that punctuate the difficult times. We’ve warred internally on how to respond to both acts and words that negatively impact individuals on the spectrum, and we’ve tried to figure out where we must act and where we should remain silent.
We’ve erred at times, speaking where silence was the right course of action (me more than Kathleen), and remaining silent where we should have spoken. We’ve been judgmental where we should have shown grace. We’ve been human, in other words, and it’s all been in real time. The blogging world is a reactive world, and sometimes pausing for reflection is not an activity we indulge ourselves in.
Blogs provide current snapshots of moods, feelings, and experiences and the chance for near instantaneous responses to others’ lives. They are monologues and dialogues, attempts to inform, to persuade, to berate, to communicate. Blogging is risky business, especially if you take the time to be raw and honest, especially in our community where we’re dealing with more factions than European politics have. Someone’s always waiting to jump on it and call in their buddies to dogpile (and too many times that’s been me).
Memoirs, on the other hand, offer a look at autism and how it impacts the individual and the family from the vantage point of distance. The writers are looking back, with the benefit of their current wisdom offering the chance to cover up those all-too-human mistakes. Whitewashing has to be a temptation, difficult to resist, a siren’s song to cast oneself as the hero of the story who overcomes all obstacles, never making messy, costly mistakes. So when a writer comes along and offers a memoir, that while tightly crafted and polished to a fine shine, still reveals the messy mistakes we’re all prone to, it’s a surprise. Kerry Cohen, though, has a history of openness and honesty that is raw and real, having authored Loose Girl: A Memoir of Promiscuity. Her new memoir details her journey as mother to Ezra, who has autism, and how coming to grips with this impacts every aspect of her life.
Her memoir is engaging and unapologetic; despite its difficult terrain, it’s easy to read, the text flowing off the page. There is at once a remove, an emotional distance, and an intense emotionality to the work that leaves the reader both pulled in and pushed away, a tug-of-war of emotional rollercoaster rides that many parents of special needs children will intimately recognize.
It’s a tug-of-war that the reader may feel viscerally, as well. Why’s she being so raw? Why’s she revealing the marital issues? The underbelly? Why? And yet, to have whitewashed any part of this story would have been a disservice to the reality that families face. And yet, there are other parts, gaps in the story, that leave the reader with questions.
It shouldn’t take courage to tell the whole emotional story of coming to grips with the reality of parenting a child with special needs. It shouldn’t be going out on a limb to express one’s own emotional and internal reality, and yet it is. All too often it is painting a target on oneself, and so when a writer, a mom, chooses to be this bluntly honest, all of us ought to be able to at least acknowledge that honesty.
Cohen offers that honesty in this memoir and the hurdles in coming to terms with her son’s autism and what it means. And, as she herself notes in her closing chapter, there’s no happy ending, no tidy closing to offer.
Is it inspirational? Not in a sanitized, artificial way. But there’s a takeaway here, even if there’s no happy ending. And with that, I'll turn it over to Kathleen:
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