I’m officially Jonah’s guardian now, just in time for him to turn 18 on March 7th. It was expensive, and stressful, and I’m glad it’s over. Having guardianship of Jonah means I can make legal, financial, and health-related decisions for Jonah for the rest of his life. Or mine – though the Clozaril he’s on isn’t exactly a life-extender.
It was the lesser of two evils, the Clozaril. Still an evil, though, in that it cost our boy some of his personality and vibrancy. I don’t know how much, really. Correlation does not necessarily imply causation, but when the aggressions disappeared, so did some of his abilities. Some of his spark. That same spark fueled a raging fire, and we had to put it out.
We rose from the ashes, Andy, and Jonah, and me. Changed and bruised for sure, but all intact.
That’s Jonah a few weeks ago with his teacher, “Mr. David,” who makes Jonah look very small here, though he’s 5’9″ and still growing. We love Mr. David and are thrilled Jonah’s in his classroom.
As always, on our Sunday visits Jonah wants a car ride, then to raid dad’s fridge while The Jungle Book plays on TV, and afterward take a nap with mama.
And the boobie? He asks, more of a statement, as he tries to stick a hand down my shirt. No, I gently tell him, guiding his arm away. Boobie’s closed.
I hesitate to share anecdotes like this but they are realities and so I risk the critics’ judgement: napping next to my teenage hormonal disabled son might seem icky or weird.
To me it isn’t weird at all. It’s nearly all I’ve got of him. Once I redirect him from the boobie, he curls into a loose fetal position, pillows piled over and under his head, content to rest.
This time is precious. It belongs just to Jonah and me. I can listen to him breathe, I put my hand on his back, feel its gentle rise and fall…send love and happy energies to my sweet son, the almost-man and never-man and ever-child all in one. He sleeps. Sometimes I do too. On the drive home I smile and feel grateful.
I am not over-religious but it has been 15 months since Jonah’s last real physical aggression and it’s as much a miracle as any. Deliverance and grace.
So far, being 50 feels like freedom. The pressure is off. I finally left some consistently negative people and things behind.
Now I go where the love is, surround myself with friends and family who affirm and accentuate the positives. It becomes a matter of survival, walking away from those who offer only criticism or cruelty. My mental health teeters and wobbles. Can’t afford to drift into old patterns. Won’t give up, though. Won’t fall down.
Groundhog says an early spring. Bring it on.
The Never Normal 