My youngest son, Sawyer, was diagnosed on the autism spectrum disorder (ASD) when he was seven. He would often retreat into a private, imaginary world where he talked to himself and thoroughly blocked out the everything around him. When he was in full retreat (as I thought of it) it was nearly impossible to get his attention, and his behavior looked pretty strange. But when he was out of that imaginary world, turning his attention to the people and things around him, he was very much a ‘normal’ kid.
The first job was, simply, to walk to the pool. The class lined up outside the school, a handful of adults in front and behind like shepherds, and we started out. While the other kids talked to each other or quietly trundled along, Sawyer began mumbling a story to himself, growling, now and again, and making claws of his fists. I hadn’t been to his class in a while. It was one thing to see him pretending like this at home, but it was another to see it in such stark contrast to the other kids.
Whatever story he was telling himself lasted the entire walk to the community center. It continued, as all the kids plopped down in the waiting area outside the pool and began taking off their shoes and coats so they could go get changed. “Sawyer,” I said. “Time to get your shoes and coat off.”
He kept talking to himself, growling and making his claws. One-by-one the other kids got up and went into the locker room. Soon, it was just the two of us, him with his coat and shoes on, and me losing my patience.
“Come on, Sawyer. You know what it’s time to do.”
He kept pretending.
“Sawyer!” I grabbed his wrists. “Do you even want to be here?”
His eyes snapped into focus and he stopped pretending.
“Do you even want to be here?” I repeated.
He nodded, and like that he took off his shoes and coat, then headed in to change.
I sat for a moment and took a breath before I followed him. I wasn’t sure if by “here” I meant school or life, itself. I’ve never received a diagnosis of anything, but the autistic impulse to retreat has always made perfect sense to me. I have almost no control of the world outside of my own thoughts. Anything can happen out there, can be said out there, and can be expected of me out there.
Yet in the sovereign realm of my mind, my curiosity and imagination are king and queen. Nothing happens in there without my say so. It’s usually a nice place to be, and also why I’m a writer. Early in life, I discovered the pleasure of translating what I perceived in my mind into stories other people could read and experience. But I also discovered the challenge of trying to share those stories. Sometimes, I felt as if no place existed out there for what I found in my very own ‘kingdom’. The worse it got, the more the stories I wrote were rejected, the more I wanted to retreat into a place where I belonged and was understood.
A lot has happened since that day at the pool. I’ve published some books, given lectures, and taught workshops across the country. Sawyer gradually came out of his autistic cocoon. He still complains about the world out there, though. He sits with me in our living room and talks about his future, about getting a job, living in his own apartment, having a girlfriend. What if the jobs are all boring to him? What if he can’t support himself? What if no girl will understand him? What if that world out there is just not a place for a guy like him?
I try to answer these questions, believing, as parents always do, that if I say the right thing all my child’s problems will be solved. No parental pep talk can ever teach him or anyone the secret to successful relationships or careers: that there is no real difference between the outside and the inside. Experience is the only thing that can teach us that. Facing a blank page and accepting that everything I put there must come from me does so, as well. Ultimately, we can all learn this when we accept that every relationship, career, hobby, and garden began as a dream in our own sovereign minds before they manifested into the world we all can share.
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