I chose to post the piece I read at last night’s Women of Naropa…
He picks at lips, puckered like fish kissing the glass of an aquarium. His nose twitches as he sniffs and blows with little notice to the rhythm and tempo he’s created. He gathers his lids closed, pressed tightly together as deep wrinkles spread from the edges like tails. He rubs his head as a distraction and breathes deeply to alleviate the tightening…
but it never works.
It’s better than the time he rolled his eyes around in his head like gumballs dropping from those vortex candy machines. He grunted and barked during those long months too. People pointed and gawked.
One kid sat in line and talked about him as if he wasn’t there…
I feel so sorry for him. My parents thought I had the same thing wrong
‘cuz I twitched all the time but it turned out to be ADHD.
I wanted to fucking knock the little bastard out.
Smash his teeth in so that all he had to worry about was a speech impediment.
I wanted to give him an excuse to talk about someone else other than my son.
I go through the spiel
If they can’t accept you for who you are
then they aren’t worth having as friends.
I may believe this line, but at his age a social life is everything and parents don’t know shit.
A kid in class badgered him about the twitching and sniffing and blinking and grunting and panting and coughing and gasping and picking and twitching and sniffing and blinking and gasping and panting and coughing.
My son snapped.
I have Tourettes! And I can’t stop! Can you stop a sneeze????
It hurts to watch him sometimes.
he’s my (neck jerk with grunt)
dying smoke detector
chirping complaints (squeaks)
tics set off by stress
he’s my (hacking)
skipping cycles (huffing)
repetitions engrained in his misfiring brain.
a succession (sniffing)
series (eye roll and neck jerk)
sequence (any tic)
It physically hurts me like it hurts him and all I can do is hug him and rub his shoulders and stroke his hair and pray that it disappears when he sleeps.
We’ve sat and watched hours of documentaries where a kid on the screen has it worse and we tear up and thank God that he’s not as bad as that kid.
Thank you Lord that I don’t have to have
wires put into my brain to make the twitches stop or
drugs that make me fat and sleepy and hungry and suicidal.
Thank you God that I don’t say cuss words in public and slap walls.
So we tell his teachers each year why he has to wander back and forth at the back of the room, pacing like a caged animal at the zoo. No meds for his compulsive crap.
He jokes about that
I can be a bitch.
I can be a diva.
He likens himself to the Snickers commercial where the guys are driving and the crabby ass in the backseat is Aretha Franklin…
until he eats the peanutty chocolate treat.
I wish a Snickers would fix my kid.