This was Q's term for what I described to him earlier in the week. Taking S out in the stroller, he started to talk -- and talk -- and talk. It was not a conversation; it was a monologue. It was filled with details of toys, TV shows, names of friends of P. It was garbled, incomprehensible. It seemed designed to make sure that he was holding my attention. It was crafted in such a way that he was completely in charge of the subject matter and the delivery; there was no way to interject or redirect. At one point, I stopped pushing and refused to go on if he brought up certain topics. I am becoming increasingly negative and shrill in my attempts to have a satisfying interaction with him. I suggested talking about things we could see; flowers was the first subject. We had a few reversions where I had to remind him about the limits I'd set. But the "conversation" did not go particularly well.
We finished at school, arriving a little early to pick up P. Another mother sat with us to talk, commented that I looked tired, & I told her a bit about what had been going on. S talked louder and louder and eventually grabbed my face and held his about 2 inches from mine; the face-grab, not an unusual tactic from him. But as Q remarked when I repeated all this to him that night, the previous monologue had much of the same quality about it. We aren't just "together"; he must ensure that I attend to him incessantly, or so it feels.
I must sound so petty and demanding. I feel like I am. We had a bad time at art class today too, where he refused to let the teacher's most gentle suggestions through. At one point she suggested he draw a particular shape on his project; when he did, we both went to praise him, of course, only to have him insist that it was actually something else. That's not the first time this week that we've arrived at something like what I would describe as a reciprocal moment, only to have him back immediately and defiantly away from it.
We definitely have turned the corner I mentioned recently, when it comes to emotional regulation; but this need to be in control, it's bad for him and it's bad for me. While I try to find some assistance for him, I do need to have a hard look at myself. My temper is so short and frayed. These episodes get under my skin so much. In the bigger picture, I feel, as I think I have indicated in different ways in different posts, starved of reciprocity. This hurts. It was a feature I think of my own childhood; perhaps I'd be doomed to yearn for it even if I had the most effusive, empathetic child. Nevertheless, I do believe that both boys are particularly effective at pressing that button.
But how did the button get there? My own father was a pretty cold, unaffectionate figure. My parents separated when I was 12 and I was relieved. He showed no capacity for empathy at all, and had some pretty nasty personality traits. Since P's diagnosis, I have naturally gone over much of this and wondered if he is on the spectrum too. There are many, many characteristics that suggest that he would be. But since there is even clearer evidence on Q's side of the family, I wonder if I am getting carried away with playing amateur psychologist, especially since this year, I have started to wonder about my mother too. I immediately discounted her as a possibility for ASD because she has always been very emotional, and in her own way, very caring. But it has taken me till this year to realise that all that emotion is usually a reaction to other people, and an unhappy one at that. If you tell her that something is not quite right (say one of the boys has gastro or a nasty cold), she will fret; she's just bothered by knowing about it, it sort of panics her when something is amiss, or irritates her that the knowledge is in her head. Her "caring" tends to consist of endless worrying, and all she wants to hear is that this or that problem is over, not how it is resolved or how it affects anyone else. But she absolutely lacks insight into the people about whom she "cares"; never asks what anyone is doing, how anyone is feeling, and cuts all attempts to converse short. To this day, I know that I rush when trying to tell people things, I am so used to feeling as though I will not make it to the end. Probably why I like writing so much; the ability to follow a thought process wherever it may take me ... These are but my most recent ponderings after years of frustration and confusion. I think that most people would acknowledge that there is something no "quite right" about my mother (certainly my father is acknowledged to be eccentric, as it is euphemistically thought of), but perhaps many assumed, as I did for a long time, that my mother's behaviour is not surprising after marrying very young to an abusive husband. And yet, Tony Attwood writes that it is not unusual for AS women to find themselves in such situations.
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