Catholic Guilt and Autism: A Parable of Consequence

Catholic Guilt and Autism:  A Parable of Consequence

2/25/2015

Last night was Trason’s First Confession.  We decided to risk it all and bring the whole family.  It was not without consequence. 

We were careful with Liam.  Anything having to do with Church in the evening is always a dangerous venture with Liam.  Although he has learned not to stim or rock in Church, he can still surprise us if he is tired, lying down on the pew or declaring his boredom loudly.  After a long day at school, homework and general tiredness, Liam will usually express his frustration with a long-winded homily by blurting out some unexpected thought loudly and at the most inappropriate time.  I call Liam's unfiltered thought expressions a generous distribution of humility from God.

We managed to get through the First Reconciliation service without too many disruptions from Liam.  There was a reading from the New Testament, a reading from the Gospel, two songs and a brief homily by the pastor.  Liam weathered it all in quiet.  I was so proud of my big guy.  He was really beginning to demonstrate some real, big-brother-behavior forTrason.  Trason often spars with Liam for fun,  Tonight, he was the biggest squirm-bot.  Seven o’clock in the evening on a Wednesday is a struggle for him too.  Plus, the poor kid was nervous, so a little relief from Liam would have been a welcome treat.  No such luck tonight.  Liam was stellar.

It was nearing the end of the ceremony.  It was time to kneel for the Examination of Conscience.  This part of the service was critical for the little penitents to review their behavior, consider their intentions, weigh the guilt buried within their little souls and recognize their sorrow for infractions that may (or may not) be sinful.  It is the cornerstone of good, old-fashioned, Catholic guilt.  It is a necessary component in the process to help the little ones identify consequences in their behavior.  Guilt (from committing a sin) can be helpful in recognizing the negative risks involved in future behavior, so it serves a vital function.  In the Sacrament of Reconciliation, it is needed for the process to move from recognition of sin to remorse and seeking forgiveness.  Without guilt, we may never feel the need to ask for forgiveness.  Too much guilt can lead to despair.  It is a delicate yet fundamental task to achieve as a catechist and one we all know can result in pushing away a penitent as adults.

Life circumstances are the reason for this problem.  If a child is abused or made to feel they are not worthy of love a parent's love, guilt acts as a pile of rocks on their chest, preventing them from simply breathing.  I can spot these kids a mile away.  The boys are aggressive and lash out in anger at the smallest things. The girls cry a lot; a WHOLE lot.  They struggle with finding any self-worth and despair often fills their tiny hearts.  I know.  I was one of these little girls.

The guilt from saying the wrong thing, which I often did, led my mother to rant for hours, telling me how stupid I was.  A molehill was often made into a mountain.  One time, in my adolescence, she actually said she didn’t know why I bothered even going to church, I was such a lousy Christian.  That was the lowest point.  It wasn’t long after that incident I became suicidal and sought help. 

When guilt is liberally dispensed by a parent, either in word or action, it communicates to a child that there is little hope for them.  Despair is the product of unrelenting guilt left unchecked.  It can create a sense of worthlessness that only God can fix.  In the adult mind, we will reject guilt at some point in an effort to protect our fragile self-concept.  However, children rarely have the skills necessary to insulate their developing self-concepts in that manner.  They internalize it to the point where even the most extreme, unreasonable accusation of wrongdoing or blame is accepted.  It becomes part of their core personality, a catalyst for struggle in years to come.

So when the examination of conscience began, I hadn’t really considered who was doing it.  It was a priest who had been a missionary in a very poverty stricken area of the world.  He has seen severe deprivation and knows how much ungrateful Americans truly have.  His disgust with us sometimes comes across in his homilies.  He has a way of delivering guilt in a manner that can make a grown man cry.  He is sometimes angry sounding and his preaching has been described as judgmental.  The tone of delivery can change everything in how a person hears something, and it never crossed my mind what tone I was hearing from this particular priest when he spoke.  It just took me back to the days when my mother ranted at me for not mopping the floor well enough or leaving a school book on her kitchen counter. 

The litany for the examination of conscience began.  Did I hit my brother or sister?  Was I good in church, or did I disturb others and make noise at Mass?  This one caused me to be triggered.  I have often felt guilty for the noises, sniffs, snorts and bodily expulsions of gas that Liam lets out in church.  I am not laying blame on Liam.  I just know how I felt the actions of my son were my fault.  I wasn’t alone.

When Father got to the question, “Did you do your best in school?” Liam burst out a defensive “YES!”  Liam tries so hard in school, often without the results the teachers expect, so he knows how it feels to take responsibility for something he cannot control.  The other children giggled.  I giggled too, thankful for the relief from guilt.  Little did I know, Liam started a trend with the other kids.  Every question asked by Father was given resounding responses of “YES!” or “NO!” from the other kids, in unison.  Father grew frustrated, thwarted from dispensing the required amount of guilt upon his little penitents.  No matter how much judgmental tone he used, he could not sway the kids from responding from the rhetorical queries.  By the time he finished, he looked defeated, beaten down by a kid with autism and a bunch of second grade kids.

Whenever Liam does anything, I usually discover it comes with a message from God.  Today was no different.  The message delivery was assisted by the other children after Liam started the response litany.  The message was meant for all those who are plagued by unrelenting and undeserved guilt.  It was also meant for all those who stand in judgment of others, just like Father.  Whether we are right in our judgment or not, we act as the older brother in the Prodigal Son parable, expecting harsh action from a Loving Father who simply wants to embrace us, love us and rejoice at our return. 

The consequence of our actions, intentional or not, continue to exist.  We still have to face poor grades in school, whether from a lack of capacity or a lack of effort.  I still confront the dread of seeing all those people who sit behind my son when he passes gas at Mass. God doesn’t wave a magic wand and remove the effects of our sin on our life circumstances.  However,  God does want us to know that He loves us and forgives us. 

God won’t give us the skunk eye for our kids, which may be a good lesson for the little ladies with bluish white hair.  God won't impose guilt after we have said we are sorry for what we have done.  We do that.  Perhaps God was generously distributing the gift of humility on Father today.  Judging by his expression as he walked away from the lectern, it was definitely a lesson in something!

Why women will never dominate the field of philosophy

I spent the better part of today improving that part of my dissertation which was lacking. Namely, it was in the philosophical theory component of my approach.  I hate philosophy.

It isn't that I dislike the process.  I just don't understand the why.  Why is it that men will consume a vast amount of resources and time to contemplate the word being or other?  If you want to understand the meaning of existence, ask a woman.  She can tell you easily:  The meaning of being is the ability to love, even when the world is falling apart before your very eyes and you want to crawl under a rock to hide.

If you ever go shopping at a grocery store, look for a young mother with a newborn.  That is the epitome of existence-meaning.  She is there, looking to find food to feed her family, probably sleep deprived, while struggling to keep a young baby from going ballistic while the other customers shudder from the shrieking.  Autism moms know that feeling too.  The shrieking is the inevitable result of our special kids meeting a point in their existence that is in-congruent with their sensory tolerance level.  The struggle is real.  Reality is this.  To consider it, one need only watch an autism mom for ten minutes.  Meaning in existence is found in those around you, and how much they need you, despite your desire to disappear.

Struggling to share God's Love with a child who operates from a place of anxiety in crowds is another way to contemplate meaning in existence.  Take a child with autism to Mass and you will soon learn that the conflict between worshiping your Creator and keeping your child from screeching at Mass (because he wants to play with his iPad in Church but you said, "no") is rife with tension.   Being takes a secondary place to surviving the moment.   Having all eyes upon you as you wrestle your child to the vestibule so the priest can continue the Mass is the very moment of being autism moms like me would rather not know.  Being may be important to Martin, but to a mother with a six foot, 300 pound 13 year old having a tantrum because he has to kneel like everyone else in the church, it seems not as important unless it also involves a method of disappearing.  Believe me when I say, had Heidegger said, "The necessity of the explicit retrieve of the question of being" to my face, I would have told him to find a hobby.  Some of us do not need to "retrieve" the question.  It is thrown at us on a continuous basis.

No offense, Martin.  I get that guys can't give birth, so they ponder the questions of the universe in order to leave behind proof of their existence on this earth.  Don't get me wrong.  I am glad they have the time to do it.  The accolades and praise they receive from the Mutual Admiration Society should be enough to reward their efforts.  However, while you are there, pondering these questions of meaning, the world will fall apart for me here.  The luxury of pondering these things is surely the domain of men with lots of time on their hands, not mothers of kids with special needs. With all due respect, I will catch a living hell if I were to do what you did!

Which leads me to my point.  What does Heidegger's Hermeneutics have to do with families struggling with daily life, or autism, or a combination of the two?  According to a friend of mine, it will help me justify to my committee why and how I need to present my study.  Fine.  I will grapple with these concepts for the next 24 hours in order to put it in my literature review, thereby, sounding as though I actually understand where Martin was coming from.  I'm not sure I do.

The truth is, it is light years from my world.  Do I really need to explain Martin's understanding of Being to comprehend what it is like to hold your breath as your child walks five feet from you in church and begins to tear down his pants because he is uncomfortable with wearing his new church clothes?  Do I need to define the original Greek term of hermeneutics, in order to completely appreciate the existential crisis that comes from hearing your five year old son go into meltdown mode during the Consecration?  More importantly, can pondering the concept of Dasein help anyone know that stomach dropping, heart pounding feeling as your child rushes out of the church straight for the parking lot when you let go of his hand to dip your fingers into the holy water to bless yourself, praying for the strength to get through another week without a breakdown?

The short answer is no.  However, it might help me meet the committee where they are, in order to show them where we are.

How God Clears His Inbox, and Other Lessons From Autism

I am at the pinnacle of dissertation.  Tonight I defend my proposal.  It shall be on the experience Catholic families have raising an autistic child Catholic.  Mine is one such family, so the next few posts shall be my own memories of taking my son, Liam, to Mass, preparing him for the reception of the Sacraments and my feelings of joy and sorrow as we journey this road together.  Hopefully, it will be funny.  With any luck, God will get a word in edgewise.

To begin:  Liam was born as the first son in a family of four girls.  My daughters used to pray with me every morning many years ago, asking God for a baby brother.  (I also used to pray for the virtue of patience and humility, too.  I was young and naive which God seemed to take perverse pleasure in answering those.)  Liam came in 2002.  The funny thing about God:  When you pray for something, sometimes He gives it to you right at that moment, and sometimes He gives it to you after the cumulative effect of prayers.  The problem with the latter is a lot like praying for rain.  You pray and pray and pray, then finally, God answers your prayers....all at once...with a flood!  That happened with me.  God answered several prayers with Liam, all at the same time.  Apparently, God goes through His inbox like I do.

Anyway, Liam was born and we knew right away there was something different about him.  He would wake up at 2 AM and just lay in bed, cooing.  It was as though he was capable of interacting with the angels.  When he would begin to whine (because babbling never happened with him) I turned on the television for him.  He loved movies, even at his young age.  These would settle him and give me a few extra hours to sleep.  I knew it was odd though.  None of my other kids did this type of thing...ever.  To see Liam happily laying in bed, watching videos of Mickey Mouse or the Little Mermaid at the age of 9 months was weird.

We knew there was a problem by the time Liam was 15 months but I sensed it by 12 months because he never babbled.  He only screeched.  In fact, we nicknamed him Screamin' Liam.   He screeched with the high pitch Eee  Eeee  Eeeeeeee all the time.  Everywhere.  Liam screeched when he was happy.  Liam screeched when he was mad.  Liam screeched to get our attention and to make us leave him alone.  The screech was Liam's only language.  No matter how many times we exaggerated the syllables of words to help Liam learn to speak, the only sound he could produce from age 6 months to age 4 (except for giggling when we tickled him) was a screech.  Sometimes we would tickle him, just to hear him make a sound other than a screech.

Not only was it annoying, it made going to Mass a nightmare.  We were relegated to the crying room for nearly four years because of that screech.  It would begin well, with Liam rocking or sitting quietly with his Pixar toys surrounding him, but it would inevitably end with my husband or me fumbling over the other kids to scoop Liam up and take him out of the church before the ladies behind us would whisper and huff.

My favorite place to take Liam during these times was the garden outside the church.  This was especially so in the summer, as it was cool and there was plenty of space for Liam to run.  The garden at our parish had a brick wall surrounding it where the Stations of the Cross were hung.  These were made nearly 100 years ago and hung in our original church built in the 1850's.  Made by prisoners at the local prison, they were truly a gift of love and they fascinated Liam.  His screeching couldn't bother any of the other parishioners there, and I would often meet others parents with restless babies or children.  Mass may have been uncomfortable on the inside, but outside, it was peaceful and welcoming.

Many Sundays, I took Liam to the Stations Garden to run around and play while the Homily was given.  This was not a commentary on the homily.  Liam just wasn't capable of sitting that long as one person spoke.  It was as though the minute the Gospel was over and we all sat down, Liam started up.  We could keep him still for the readings.  He loved the responsorial psalm which was sung by the choir, so we had his attention for the better part of the Liturgy of the Word, but he never made it through a homily.  Even today, at 13, Liam announces he must go to the bathroom when we sit after the Gospel.  His bladder is timed to the homily, only now, he can get the basic words out to ask to leave.  At three, four and five, that was not the case.  A screech was his only weapon against the dull, droning sound of a priest putting a philosophical spin on the readings.

When we lived in Ireland for two years, we had neither the crying room, nor the Station Garden.  We were stuck with Liam in Mass, or forced to take him outside.  In Ireland, it rains or mists 80% of the time,  Going outside was a miserable choice, and the old church in our little village echoed so loudly, it was more incentive for Liam to screech.  We had to find another way to manage Liam.  Enter the gummy bears.

Giving Liam gummy bears was a brilliant idea.  My husband kept a packet of them in his pocket, and when Liam would start to screech, my husband would reach into his pocket and slip one to Liam.  Problem solved...that is...until Liam figured out he could get more gummy bears by screeching.  We just complicated our problem.  We had been trained to use Applied Behavioral Analysis, or what I like to lovingly call, HTYCBGLM, or How to Train Your Child to Be a Good Little Monkey.  We had to really shift our thinking on that one, and give the gummy bears to Liam before he began to screech, telling him, "Good quiet."  It took a while, but after about 6 months of it, Liam began to suppress his urge to screech.  We thought we were finally in the clear, that is, until Liam discovered the difference between Irish pews from the American ones.

In Ireland, the church pews are made of wood and have higher clearance under the seats because they are not cushioned like our parish pews in California.  For a five year old with sensory issues, this could be a nightmare or a Godsend.  Liam loved to walk on the pews in Ireland because they made a lovely, tapping/thudding/stomping sound.  He delighted in the sound and subsequent echo.  In California, we never thought about it.  Once we came to Ireland, all bets were off.  The first time Liam walked on a pew, we received a few scornful looks from the older parishioners, but a lot of giggles and smiles from the others in our parish.  Quickly, I maneuvered Liam off the pew, only to discover the benches were high enough for him to crawl under!  Liam crawled right under the lady in front of us, up through her skirts!  Thinking back on this, it makes me laugh but then, it wasn't so funny.  Her glare could have stopped a train!  All the while, Liam giggled with delight at the new adventure he had discovered.  We were left with no other choice but to move to the first pew and shovel gummy bears into Liam to keep him quietly sitting on the pew for a solid hour.

Funny.  I don't remember a single homily Father O'Shea ever gave.  I think my anxiety radar wouldn't allow me to focus on anything but Liam as he would find new ways to make Mass my hour in Purgatory every week.  If I thought it was difficult when he was a child, I was deluded.  Liam had far worse things planned for me as he grew.

The moral of this story:  Be careful what you pray for.  When God empties His Inbox, He does it all at once and, sometimes, blends them all together into one, massive answer.  God seems to like to kill several proverbial birds with one single stone!

Preschool Psychology: Ode to Miss Chelly

This week's readings in Baar (1997) for my Cognitive Psych class had some real-life examples for me. The priming effect seems to be an issue I encounter often, such as when I was looking for a misplaced homework packet on our pool table. The loss of a good friend to cancer yesterday was a good example of intentions and expectations. Both were very humbling lessons. My preschooler summed it up perfectly. "I will see Miss Chelly in Heaven, but I don't wanna go there...yet!"

Our pool table is the junk drawer shelf of the living room. Everything goes on that table, and my husband forbids anyone from clearing it except for him. Consequently, it piles up with junk mail, book bags and recent purchases. My eyes glaze over at the idea of looking through the mail on the pool table, as it is much like the abyss of a hoarder. (Okay, I am exaggerating here. My husband probably feels the same way about my makeup drawer!)

When my son misplaced his homework packet last week (code for "The dog ate my homework. Oh wait, we don't have a dog!") I walked around the pool table pile, looking for it but not seeing anything. It was there. I just couldn't see it because my brain refused to register anything on the pool table. The priming effect was at work, and it seemed to be like a subroutine running in C programming language. My brain processed it as it always did. It was the same as usual, like saying the Apostle's Creed or any of the other prayers during Mass. It never changed, so my mind could not see the variation. It only saw the concept of pool table. After an hour of looking, we gave up. My son went to school with his excuse and my husband tore into the pool table piles. Eventually, the homework surfaced. It was lying underneath an APA journal I received the last week and the bean box I had placed on the pool table a month ago for our four year-old to use as a calming tool. (No, I don't tear into the APA journals the second they arrive!) I was encountering the priming effect.

 Ironically, I had the experience of intention/expectation play out yesterday that was quite dramatic. I lost a good friend to cancer. I had never lost a friend to cancer in which I could actually see the course of the disease consume her. It was a shock to me. Even though I had knowledge of the effects of cancer (my grandfather died of cancer,) I did not have an adult awareness of the disease.

Watching Shelly battle with cancer was something I had no experience with which to draw upon and it left me with the expectation that I would know how to handle the loss when if finally happened. Last night, it happened. Even though I had seen her two weeks ago, and even though I had watched her husband's Facebook page hourly in the last two days, the impact of her death hit me as if broadsided by a train.

I thought I was prepared. I knew it was coming. I had great intentions to be comforting, solid as a rock and unmoved in my faith of heaven. Yet,even though I thought I was ready to hear the words of her passing, I simply could not believe it when it finally happened. It just didn't seem possible. She was just here! I was just talking to her a few weeks ago, and she was so positive and hopeful. I have no experience in dying, myself, (fortunately) so my frame of reference was based on observations but not of experiencing it.

I have never seen anyone actually die. I had never even seen someone close to death, and the sight of Shelly the last time was a shock. Her pain was evident, and the tubes draining and feeding her seemed unnatural. There was no way to prepare for it. My brain could not wrap around the idea of death.

 It is the one great mystery we all share a lack of knowledge in, and I am still trying to make sense of it. How does a person go from being on this earth, to suddenly not being here? My expectation of death will always be this vagueness, just as though I have the words on the tip of my tongue. I know it is there, but I cannot bring it up as I have a missing piece to connect it. I know the concept, but the experience has yet to be real to me. I have no context with which to compare it.

I find myself saying the same thing as Temple Grandin in the movie, Temple, "Where do they go?" I was quite convinced I knew (i.e., heaven and hell), yet each time someone dies, I know nothing. My intentions and expectations have no basis in knowledge, so I am left with a vague sense of what just happened, and it always shocks me when it does happen. I simply cannot reconcile it, and live to tell the tale (at least in a blog.) Death is everyone's greatest "state of no experience" (Baars, 1997, p. 122) and we simply won't have the context to draw from until we each die.

It is a lot like my son saying his homework is lost, even though it sits right in front of me on the pool table. Until I get right into it, take things apart and experience it, I will not have the context to know what happens. It will remain a mystery, just like the mysterious dog that ate my son's homework, the mysterious abyss that is our pool table, or the mysterious abyss that is death.

 Baars, B. J. (1997). In the theater of consciousness: The workspace of the mind. New York: Oxford University Press.