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Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Something Important To Share

It is not easier here and school is not the path to success!

I was speaking with my mother on the phone. When I told her (for the gazillionth time) that all but one of my four adopted, multiply handicapped, autistic sons had jobs and were independent (she doesn’t know this because she never visits and tries not to remember I adopted them) she said (again and again and again) “Well it must be easy to get jobs down there!”

My mother lives in Canada and I live in California.

She knows that my nephew- who was always much, much, smarter than my sons- lives in a group home. So her conclusion seems logical.

“No, I just insisted on it!” was my now worn out response.

My mom is not unique. Many people say (or think) things like this when I tell them my sons are successful. Many people also try to forget that my sons exist, that they have accomplished this much, that autism, fetal alcohol syndrome, and retardation aren’t life sentences. Many people want to believe its impossible without government support and behavioral programs.

But my sons just worked hard. They did it. And one of them is having a birthday today. I am pondering his life and amazed by all he’s done.

So let me share my definition of success:  BEING INDEPENDENT AND LAW ABIDING WHILE LIVING IN ACCORDANCE WITH WHAT MAKES YOU HAPPY.

And that is it. Do these things and you’re a success.

I know many college graduates that can’t move away from home. My sons are pretty impressive. Especially the three, special needs, adopted, biological siblings.

Lets talk about them. One is a helicopter mechanic. One worked the pipelines as a labor hand for about 15 years but now moves cars for an insurance company. They are both awesome and inclined to fix the problems they create. Neither graduated high school and only one got a GED.

Boy number three left school in grade six. While in the educational system he was kept at a partitioned desk so that he couldn’t see anyone. They did this to control him. He spit and threw chairs. He learned nothing (except how to spit and throw chairs).

I removed him. In a few years he learned to read, write, and do enough math to manage money (mostly). Thus- in my opinion- he was equipped to be independent. He got a driver’s license and moved out.

He was fired many times and moved home often at first.

He learned to cut grass and to keep a lawnmower around for the down times. He broke many of them because he was too impatient to watch out for rocks and potholes.

He learned. He improved. He adventured.

He got his dream job and worked for two years as a professional driver. He owned his own quality car and has had the same apartment for 8 years.

His dream job was stressful because one of the bosses didn’t like him.

My son has overcome being limited by fetal alcohol syndrome and mental retardation. He has worked away his tic disorder, his autism, and his IQ has risen into the low end of typical. He is a miracle. But sometimes people don’t like him.

How sad.

He left the job and the stress of being disliked. He returned his car so that he could relax and not worry about payments and decided to be happy and physically fit by returning to lawn mowing.

It is not easier for him, for any of these children; it is harder. They are not given breaks or programs or handouts, they persevere despite the difficulties. They are not college graduates. They are successes.

I don’t point to their degrees. I point to their manhood.

My lawn mowing son can barely write. But he is admirable. So, whenRye lawn mower his flier made others laugh, it made me laugh too, with the glee that accompanies pride.

So when you read the sign he put up at the post office perhaps you will appreciate that it only takes a few skills to make a life worthwhile.

Government programs aren’t what we need. Heroes like my sons are what we need.

Heroes with work ethics, family and neighbor support can improve your community, as long as you set your radar on ‘appreciate’ rather than ‘judge’.

My son is the most amazing man. He is 31 today. And he mows lawns.

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Unasked For Advise or Information – Being a Brave Mom

What it means to be brave when you are a mom:

At the grocery store check out counter.

The clerk said, “Hello.”

I said, “Hello.”

She asked “How are you?”

My thirty-four-year-old, hard-to-understand, son said, “Fine.”

I said, “He said ‘fine’.”

She nodded.

The bagger said, “He likes to get out of the house, huh?”

Feeling a little irked, I did what I often do in this circumstance, I said, “He likes to do a lot of things.” Then I spoke to my son. “Do you like to get out of the house Dar?”

My son said, “Yes.” and looked at the ground.

In that moment I had a quick internal dialogue meant to muster courage. “Come on Brain Broad! You can do better than that. Raise the bar!” I looked at the bagger and smiled.

Then feeling nervous (yes even The Brain Broad feels nervous when she offers unasked for advice) I said in my most loving, while also most grounded and absolute tone, “I know you are trying to be kind but please don’t speak about him in third person.” She looked confused so I explained the term ‘third person’. “Ask him, not me. Speak ‘to’ him. Not ‘about’ him.”

She said, “Oh! I can speak to him? I didn’t know.”

My son said, “Yes.”

And we walked away happy, knowing that what had started out as ‘unasked for advice’ had ended up as ‘information.’

After we left the store I asked Dar if it was okay that I had talked to her about him and he put his arm around my shoulder. Then he turned me so that I would look in his eyes and said ‘Yes.’

He is a man of few words but he gets his point across.

Please if you see us. Talk to him, not just me.

Dar and mom snuggle

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Yesterday Was A Different World – Positive Parenting with The Brain Broad

Varda Epstein did this story on Positive Parenting, quoting me and many other experts.

 

 

Being quoted is always an honor. But it also leaves us experts wanting to fill in our quote, wanting to tell readers the “all” of what we said.

 

The cool thing about having a Brainy Blog, is that I can tell you!

 

I encourage you to read the article written by Varda so that you’ll get answers from across the spectrum of experts on their positive parenting tips and thoughts.

 

Here, though, I’ll bring you mine. Following was my answer to the question: “Why is positive parenting important? Didn’t old-fashioned parenting techniques work just as well?”

 

My response:

 

Today there are a myriad of messages coming at hyper speed from a myriad of sources. They are marketing misery and dissatisfaction to children, who have poorly developed frontal lobes and no filters to separate truth from propaganda.

 

The speed and multi-modal aspect to this negative image building information causes a state of overwhelm that stops the brain from filtering and processing selectively./div>

Positive parenting is aimed at offsetting this very challenging situation. If done correctly it builds positive emotions and heightens self esteem in parent and child, not just the child.

 

One cannot look back at a different time and think that what was done then should be done now, only because it was done before. In many ways we could say that today’s challenges with violence and drug abuse are directly related to yesterday’s parenting. But whether that is true or not is irrelevant, since yesterday was a different world.

 

~Lynette Louise

aka The Brain Broad

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Welcome To The Ghosts And Goblins Of My Mind!

 

The night my grandfather died the phone rang late at night. I sat up and said, “Grandpa’s dead.” I was twelve. And he was dead. Inner knowing based on the logic of a late night call, or a grandfather vacuum in the air?

 

Six months after my brother was murdered my friend and I were playing with Ouija and a ‘spirit’ force moved the planchette, our hands barely touching it … it claimed to be my brother and told me that my husband was having an affair. It told me the particulars and the affair turned out to be true. Inner knowing disguised as my brother, or my brother disguised as a planchette?

 

The day my father died I was on the plane going to see him when he showed up outside my window. He said goodbye. I am sorry.  Inner knowing and a desire for the apology, or my father needing to say something before leaving the planet? The time of his death turned out to be right then.

 

A lover that I had walked away from, making plans with him to reunite once my children were grown, died of an overdose. I saw a tumbling kaleidoscope of colors and emotions permeate my mind’s eye and VOILA! he manifested into my awareness.  He stayed with me for a year and a half. Keeping me company. Healing my spine (verified by x-rays) and helping me survive the challenges of relocating to California. An invisible friend, or a friend made invisible?

 

Ghosts and Ghouls? Or Mind Goblins and Imaginary Friends?

 

I don’t know.

 

I also don’t care.

 

They are just a part of the fabric of my life.

 

They bring gifts.

 

Like The WingMaker. When a dear child died, her spirit lifted me out of my grief by sharing the richness of all I had given her, and the importance of seeing it all.

 

Even the Goblins.

 

Happy Hallowe’en!

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Being Abused Is Contagious; We Are Creatures That Copy – Speaking Out Alone Is Not Enough

Often, so often, I am asked to talk about the challenges and emotions raised when one is a victim of abuse (sexual, emotional and/or physical). I am seldom asked what can be done about it; how does a person turn this event (or more likely series of events) into a blessing. The very absence of this request is the problem.

 

Today we are faced with a culture that is exploding in bullets, fists and cyber attacks. Unfortunately, being abused is contagious. We are creatures that copy. We even have neurons especially designed to do just that.

 

So, yes I was abused, and yes I then chose to put people in my life that would continue this abuse… until I didn’t anymore.

 

Why? And how do we change that?

 

First, understand that feeling afraid, repulsed, guilty, shamed, or simply nervous, is a louder experience than calm and quiet, and as such it imprints us with the people and relationships connected to these feelings.

 

Additionally, during times like this we are processing internally and available to be manipulated, similar to the state one is in during hypnosis. In this way we can honestly say that fear mongering, by society and families and individuals,  creates a hypnotic trance that lays the foundations for future behaviors and emotions.

 

When your therapeutic hypnotist does this, his intention is to release you from the imprints created by society. When the media and your abusers do it, they wish to engage your negative response system: because that one is more tangibly felt and quickly responded to.

 

What can you do to erase the imprint?

 

Neurofeedback, purposeful hypnosis, cognitive behavior therapy and self-realization.

 

That last one is available to everyone.

 

Allow me to walk you through one of my own self-realization transitions.

 

When I felt intense fear I also felt intense pleasure in my groin. This was confusing. No one told me that our bodies are set up to respond in this way. So I thought I was twisted. Broken.

 

And I liked it.

 

These feelings were imprinted with beliefs as my mother beat me while calling me a slut and a whore. My father/perpetrator countered these actions by sharing words of love and only the occasional beating. In my opinion, the ones I truly deserved. I then associated being a slut who was afraid for her life with true love.

 

Thus, when I became an adult I looked for this intensity in sex and relationships. I believed myself broken because I had heard that abuse is perpetuated and recreated by the abused. So I policed myself for this and made sure I was sweet, loving and unforgiving of abuse.

 

Nobody told me I would be broken in a different way.

 

Nobody explained that my need for this intensity would lead to picking someone abusive. I believed I was the bad one so I assumed everyone else was good. I spent a lot of time trying to vindicate myself by doing good work and making a difference in the world. Thus, I was policing myself and my behavior, not my husband’s.

 

When my daughter was thirteen her stepfather molested her. He was charged, plead guilty and did one night in jail.

 

I went to group therapy and learned the missing piece.

 

I learned that intensity is not the definition of love, and looking for it will bring wolves to your door.

 

I shared what I learned with my daughter who also went to therapy. Those two days of therapy started our healing but we would have to be the ones that finished the job.

 

We were the ones that finished the job.

 

My daughter had a good model for love. Something I never had. So she was faster in her healing work.

 

Right after being molested she had an abusive relationship. I intercepted it with great force and manipulation. She then changed her opinion on the definition of love. In her words, “First I thought, ‘I guess this is what relationships are.’ But then once you helped me out of the situation I shifted to ‘Phew! I never want to do that again.’ I looked to you for a model of love. You were constant. You were supportive, gentle, attentive, joyful, loaded with listening and laughing, hand holding and respect. You gave me a new vision.”  She has now been very happily married for fifteen years.

 

My adopted special needs children weren’t as quick to learn what healthy feels like because everywhere they turned in the education system they were taught to see themselves as broken. So they perceived themselves that way and, regardless of my influence, struggled dramatically with relationships in their early adult years. I do not believe this is because they were on the spectrum of autism. I believe it is because they were presented with a broken self-image. Eventually, slowly but surely, they have learned to have either a healthy relationship or no relationship. And that is a step in the right direction.

 

To prevent abuse, to know what to do to help your children, the answer is ‘talk’. I don’t just mean the private parent child talk. That was enough to get my daughter to share what happened but not enough to prevent the abuse. We have to go bigger with our discussions.

 

So talk everywhere and create group awareness. Talk amongst family, talk amongst neighbors and relatives, talk, talk, talk, revise, revise, revise, every step of your learning. Share what you know. Share what you see. And make sure everybody has this conversation as a matter of course and in the presence of each other. Say “If daddy or mommy ever touches you in an uncomfortable way tell us all.” And say it together. So that if it has happened the child can say “Well (s)he did.” Being together and being clear closes the confusion the child has because that is part of the explanation. Include: “Don’t worry, all people who do this lie and say bad things will happen if you tell. It’s not true, bad things happen if you don’t.” Being this clear in a community of like-minded people makes the predators go somewhere else.

 

And if we all do this there will be nowhere else to go.

 

And if there is nowhere else to go the predators will be influenced by what we are saying and they in turn will change as well.

 

And that is why I went from helping and teaching only my children, to speaking out globally. It is my way of making us all safer.

 

Since then I have continued to do “good work” in the world. I have corrected my interpretation of love and I have raised children with mostly healthy relationships. Remember, these are even children who were adopted from abuse and came with many cognitive challenges. Their mental health accomplishments are heroic.

 

So the answer is: Yes, you can get better. But only when you know the whole story.

 

So learn, speak out, share, ask and then redesign the world we live in with me. That is how I helped my children redesign theirs. I taught what I learned the moment I learned it and apologized for any mistakes I made, explained why, and we made a new plan. My children learned that learning and revising is a good thing. So though I was only a few steps ahead of my children I never held back on admitting my mistakes or pretended I was infallible. I just learned and changed and shared over and over again. This was not confusing to them because, though the answers changed, our trajectory of attaining emotional health and physical safety remained the same. They recognized the path as we figured out the details.

 

You must share it all. Even your mistakes.

 

Because as long as we only tell half truths we will stay half broken, and that is actually worse than wholly broken.

 

This is because the wholly broken are obvious. They are easy to imprison and prevent. The half-broken are buried insidiously amongst us, wreaking havoc and moving our bar of acceptance to include cruelty and sexual perversions.

 

The blessing only comes when you insist upon it. So insist.

 

But understand how we as humans function. We are copiers.

 

So speaking out alone is not enough. You need a learning to share, a plan to enact. And if you have become a perpetrator you need a compensation to create. You need to own it, come what may.

 

You see, our problems are perpetuated when all we do is cry out and share stories about all the things that happened to us. That is like planting seeds for others to follow. So speak out while seeking a correction.

 

We need honesty, forgiveness without tolerance, and insistence on change to recreate the world.

 

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Farts are Funny: A Story of Laughter in Hardship

He was two years old and classically autistic. He couldn’t speak, walk or pay attention when I spoke. He ran non-stop and never slept.

Lynette Louise closing her eyes with her youngest son in her arms.

Lynette Louise closing her eyes with her youngest son in her arms.

I had adopted four boys like this and they all slept (or rather stayed put) in the various beds (one on each wall) of the same room. That is because there was only one of me.

I lay on the floor in the center of the group trying to grab a minute or two of sleep between bouts of misbehavior from various boys in various beds.

This went on for years,

And years,

And years.

As I tried to assimilate and create the adoption adaption of four special needs multiply handicapped autistic boys.

Slowly but surely they all learned to sleep. Most of the time.

But this story begins in the first year when the two year old was learning to stay in his crib (he couldn’t walk but he sure could climb). My plan was to move him to a bed as soon as he learned to not get up for at least an hour at a time.

I was belly crawling toward the door in an attempt to sneak from the room for a much needed pee when he started to laugh. I froze in place. Listening. Quiet resumed, and I started to crawl. He started to laugh. I froze, Quiet. Crawl. Laugh. Freeze. Quiet. Crawl. Laugh. Freeze.

This time I stayed still and heard a small ‘Poof!’ before he giggled.

What was that? I listened longer, my hand frozen on the door knob above my head.

‘Poof’ More laughter.

Listening.

‘BRRPT!’ rolling laughter with tummy holding glee emitted from his bed. He was farting and surprising himself with joy.

Apparently, farts are funny. Inherently funny. I peed myself a little trying not to laugh, too.

I lay there for awhile waiting for his gas to go 😀 , pondering the phenomena. I had just learned something I hadn’t known before.

In fact, I had always argued that children laughed at farts because we made a big deal of them. But here he was, alone, out of the normal social awareness loop, and laughing at the vibrations of his body’s noises.

Apparently, Farts Are Just Funny. All on their own.

Eleven years later that boy and I were in a courtroom waiting for his brother’s name to be called. (His brother had been given a ticket at school for fighting. This among other things was the reason I began – successfully- home schooling them all a week later. )

Anyway, the courtroom was quiet and we were just waiting to hear the next name on the list when my used to be two year old crib sleeper farted.

He laughed. And so – one person at a time in a slow roll of amused embarrassment- did everyone in the room. Everyone but the bailiff. The laughter grew to a stifled crescendo and my son outright laughed in the same moment that the bailiff’s stare stopped all other sound into a gulp of fear.

The bailiff chewed my son, and then me, out using words like ‘Disgusting’ and ‘Shit disturber’. I tried to point out that it was only gas not ‘shit’ and my other son, who doesn’t allow anyone to be angry with me, started making strange warning noises at the bailiff. The bailiff took a step back and noticed for the first time my clan of special children.

She immediately removed us from the courtroom saying that there was no room for people like us there.

Unfortunately, she kept the son that was waiting to hear his name.

So there I was: volleying between the lobby and the courtroom amidst clouds of methane gas assuring one child that Farts Are Funny but that not everyone had a sense of humor so in some instances containment was the goal. Meanwhile I was calming ‘Mister Don’t Mess With My Mom’ and assigning ‘Mister Pretty Responsible’ to watch everyone while I tried to get ‘Mister Fisticuffs’ out of trouble.

His name was called and I pointed out the error on the ticket (forgotten date) and the case was thrown out.

We headed for the car, I told my son he got lucky but that fighting was still not okay. I began thinking about homeschooling because I was pretty sure our being so disliked by others was behind the fights. We got in the beater-mobile and left the parking. It had a steep driveway that knocked off my muffler which I threw in the trunk.

I was driving stressed and full of worries, afraid of a ticket for excessive noise, when my littlest and now verbal autistic son said, “Hey Mom it sounds like the car is farting.” He started farting along with it.

We all laughed because he was right. Farts Are Funny, and funny is a gift.

Release! And smile your way through … everything.

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

The Conditions of Unconditional Love – Book Excerpt

Hello friends!

Once again I’ve been honored with the request to write & contribute a story for an upcoming book. Once again I’m sharing a sneak peak of my story with you.

Please be sure to sign up for The Loop so that you’ll know when the book is available in it’s entirety.

Now, settle in and let me tell you a bit about the conditions of unconditional love.

Love,

Lynette

*   *   *   *

The Conditions Of Unconditional Love

By: Lynette Louise, The Brain Broad

 

My son had to stay home today because he smelled like poo.

 

My granddaughter was in the back seat, the car was already running. He lumbered into the passenger seat and the air at my nostrils turned fowl. My grandson was standing at the car to see us off. We were headed to Anime Expo and he was joking about our car and its missing back window. I turned to my son and said, “You smell like poo.” “Yes I do.” He answered. “Good thing my brother broke the back window.” My grandson waved his hand in front of his face and explained, “Phew, ventilation.” Then he laughed at the way my son had agreed with me, “Yes I do smell.”

 

It was a fairly atypical, but used to be typical, moment for our family.

 

Poo problems, for the most part, have become a thing of the past.

 

I wanted to bring him, clean him up and take him anyway. There are so few places that accept and love my son and, as I said, we were on our way to Anime Expo. The annual July forth celebration of Anime Cosplayers all gathered in the LA Convention Center created a world of special circumstance and acceptance.  In this environment, he becomes one of the most normal people in the crowd. It is a rare event for him. And I imagine it is a great relief to not be the spectacle for a change. We had already spent twelve hours there the day before. He had been happy and calm the entire day. Normally, crowds have a different effect on him. Normally, they make him anxious and antisocial. But Anime crowds make him comfortable and social, and I suspect he likes that. I know I do. My grand daughter was asking us to hurry up and so I started the car in order to present the assurance of action. I suppose that is why he had been rushing to get out of the bathroom. Perhaps he was worried we would leave without him.

 

My son is a multiply handicapped severely autistic person. I wanted to bring him so that he could have this rare pleasure for yet another day. But I couldn’t because he smelled like poo and we had to leave. He is thirty-four.

 

I love my son. I love him enough to say no, you can’t come, you didn’t wipe. And love him enough to actually leave. I love him enough to do this even though I know he will mess the house and eat all the food in defiance. I love him enough to be trustworthy and stick to the rules and consequences he has heard me express. I love him enough to do this even though I knew his nephews had plans and would likely spend very little time with him. I love him enough to leave him alone. In fact, I love him unconditionally.

 

I remember a similar, yet different, circumstance years ago when one of my other adopted special needs children (I raised eight children, adopted six and five were challenged) broke the rules; only this occasion, this memory, was more about pee than poo.

 

This son- a teenager at the time- had voided his bladder in full view of all the campers and their children. He had raised some undesired attention and nearly got us kicked out of the resort. The man I was dating at the time wanted to take us all for dinner and so my son was in a hurry to relieve himself before getting in the car. I told my youngest, my person with the peeing problem, that he couldn’t come. I explained that he had inappropriately peed and so he was not trustworthy enough to come for dinner as I would have to be afraid of his need to relieve himself. He screamed and begged and slapped himself in the head. My date requested I bring him along, “Ease up on the kid. He can’t learn this stuff.” What an astronomically assumptive statement. I suspect he simply wanted to stop all the ruckus, so much so that it was easier to not believe in my son than to believe in him. I suppose dealing with the circumstance of this unexpected urination was more than he had counted on when he asked us to dinner. I chose to teach my son. He chose to eat quickly and run. I was ok with that.

 

In fact, I didn’t mind at all. You see I loved him (my son, not my date). I loved him enough to say no, to leave him behind, to not bribe him with the promise of bringing back a treat. I loved him enough to leave him out of the family fun even though I knew he would get even with me by breaking the mirrors and scratching 1985 into all the woodwork. I chose to teach him about this and then when I got home I would teach him about that. Mirrors and woodwork, those are just things, he is my child.

 

I loved him enough to let him learn. In fact I loved him unconditionally.

 

Dealing with pee and poo and boogers and spontaneous erections with clear explanations, expectations and constant love is the job of the parent of a special needs boy child. I had several.

 

In general people wanted me to prioritize differently than I did. In general this was because it was inconvenient for them when I stood my ground and loved my children enough to say no. But that was okay because, in general, people were inconvenient for me. After all, I was busy. I was raising my children. You see, I knew my children could improve. I knew they could learn to be independent and had no intention of raising them into group homes and institutions. I also knew them becoming independent and successful in life would take an absolute commitment on my part, with no room for doubt.

 

And so I didn’t, doubt. I just taught, with love and commitment.

 

And they did improve and they did become independent and people were inconvenienced along the way. But that was okay because I knew there would always more people, more dates, more neighbors. Not so much more children. So I stayed the course of unconditionally loving them and they learned, and they grew and they moved out of the house.

 

Well… most of them.

 

Not so much my thirty-four year old.

 

I told him to go back into the house. Made sure he cleaned himself and explained that he had had two choices. One was to ask for my help and the other was to do it right in the first place. However, he hadn’t done either of these and so I told him he couldn’t come to the event.

 

He looked at the floor. His energy dropped. He seemed sad, heavy. He mumbled something. I asked him to say it again more clearly. He didn’t. Life with a special needs man seldom includes the Hollywood moment. Most interchanges are lack luster at best. So he didn’t repeat it and I have no turn about phrase or learning to share. It was just another moment in the life of continuing to raise my son.

 

You see, when you believe in learning there is no aging out. He is my child. I will raise him, until I don’t, even if it inconveniences you.

 

I love him. He is my best friend. It was time to go. And so I left.

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Invitation to Read my Book Excerpt for RAINN

Being an international mental health expert, for me, often includes speaking for and teaching men and women who have been abused sexually. Because abuse strongly influences the brain (psychologically and physiologically) it’s a natural part of my job.

And because I myself was abused, it is a part I’m passionate and candid about. Also, I’m extremely knowledgeable and able to help in ways that people who haven’t been down in the trenches, fighting and figuring stuff out, are unable.

It’s been painful and scary; and I insist on making my struggles and hard work worth it. So, I offer the gift of knowing what to do to you.

As a speaker for RAINN (Rape Abuse Incest National Network) I’ve been invited to write a piece for their compilation book of letters from survivors of sexual abuse. I invite you– as friends of my Brainy Lady Blog– to read and share my excerpt widely.

Follow this link to read:

Dear Auntie Carol — Book Excerpt for RAINN

Thank-you, friends.

~Lynette Louise aka The Brain Broad

 

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Date Rape vs Stranger/Violent Rape–A Different Silence that’s Equally Loud

April is Sexual Assault Awareness and Prevention month.

As both a sexual assault survivor and speaker/expert, I was recently asked about the effects of silence on the victim’s brain and how they differ in the circumstance of date rape versus stranger/violent rape.

This is a big subject. And I have much to offer.

Following is a snippet of my answer to the question. But please feel comfortable reaching out if you’d like to know more. I’m a speaker for RAINN (Rape Abuse Incest National Network) because I have a passion for changing the story. I’ve struggled in ways that you don’t have to and have answers that will help you. Though, of course, there will still be struggle.

A few differences of the silent suffering in date rape vs stranger/violent rape:

The silence that happens when someone doesn’t speak out after a violent rape comes from a different place than date rape silence. It has more to do with the chasm between what you just went through and seeing that the rest of the world is fine.  That you’ve been violently treated while the world just went about it’s business. It’s not as much about guilt (though it can be).

The psychological danger here is that your brain will wrap a little cocoon around the event so you can try to forget rather than talk about it. But if you don’t do something about that right away you’ll be left with hidden triggers that seemingly attack you unexpectedly from time to time. A trigger can be a smell, sound, color, that flood you with panic or revulsion and since you won’t know what’s going on, you’ll believe yourself to be crazy. Also, if you do go into that silence and begin to speak out (which is good) the danger can come from talking about it for too long. The reliving of it in the telling,  re-attacks you. Your brain cannot separate past from present as you relive and re-injure yourself. So speak in past tense and maintain a safe distance as you disperse the memory.

Conversely, the effect of maintaining silence on a date rape victim is much more about guilt. No matter how the victim looks at it, how they remember it, they’ll find and highlight their own guilt.

Unfortunately, the social network of television and history books, news, movies, family and friends is likely to offer up proof that feeling guilty is a correct response. Even as people say, “It’s not your fault, no means no.”  they will add “but” and “next time” comments that- to the mind seeking its own guilt- indicate in-congruence with their assurances. This victim is much more likely to demonize men and perpetuate the cycle than the violently raped.

These are just a few of the differences, although they are big. As we live our lives the feedback we get from the world and how we interpret it comes largely from these places, so be aware.

And please feel comfortable reaching out.

I’m here, I understand, and I can help you know what to do to heal faster and better.

~Lynette

aka The Brain Broad

mom4evermore@juno.com

713-213-7682

 

Welcome to my Brainy Lady blog! This is where I get to take off the doctor’s coat (it's not mine--yet), tie it around my waist and share autism tips, surprising brain science, funny personal stories and painful doctorate program homework complaints… okay, maybe I'll avoid that last one. Regardless, I hope to offer insights and invite the same while enjoying a cup of coffee with the autism, neuroscience, psycophysiology, parenting, spiritual, thinking, comedic, curious community! If that leaves you out, I'm sorry and suggest you try on one of the many hats. One is bound to fit!

Autism Awareness, Mother’s Day, and Parenting

As Global Autism Awareness Day (and my birthday) approaches, I find myself assessing the state of things.

I reach out to make a difference daily, but do I? Make a difference I mean. Are things simply fated and occurring as they had to or do I, we, affect (intentionally or not) the world we live in? I have always believed in a multidimensional world manifested by our choices and feelings but… am I right?

It’s like asking if there is life after death. Unanswerable by any other means than faith, which is defined as the ability to believe in things despite evidence to the contrary. Delusion is defined in the same manner. I, and my children, worked hard to go from crazy to sane (I even wrote a musical comedy show about it). I am not sure I want delusion.

But sometimes life is hard.

And delusion or faith or just plain lying to oneself can be tempting.

So I go ahead and believe I am making a difference because that is how I get the energy to continue. I need energy because constantly giving to create more kindness, awareness, and ability depletes my resources. Believing it—and I—matter, refuels me.

However, sometimes this faith falters. For me that faltering generally happens near my birthday (I am now only a few years from 60).

April 2nd, Global Autism Awareness Day.

I peer forward into the next twelve months. I see April with autism awareness month and sexual abuse awareness month coincidentally coincide and feel the weight of that collision (both are causes I speak on).

Today I feel a little tired as I question my faith: If awareness works why do these months have to come back every year? Couldn’t we as a society actually learn and reclaim them for something else? Why do we set up the parents of children with autistic spectrum disorder to scream for more services without offering the correct type of service? Are we spreading awareness of the disorder or the therapies that work? Are we improving the situation or just creating more problems through the spread of broken ideas? If you think your child is autistic will you make him/her so? This is a genuine worry, especially true in the case of sexual abuse. Surely by now everyone knows never to touch children, that consensual sex is better than nonconsensual sex? This is just truth (unless you’re dysfunctional and then you need to get help, not sex). Surely by now every one knows that no means no…. don’t they?

Please say yes.

Even if the real answer is no.

Obviously you can’t spread knowledge unless people are listening.

Clearly you can’t force feed people volumes of right answers, not even if you think they need to hear them. So to be an improvement leader you have to find a way to package the learning into what they want to know. This bait and switch process of information dissemination smacks of the corruptive processes politicians undergo in an attempt to become popular.

I do not want to grow up to be the person that used to care. I do not want to be, like the politician who has become unrecognizable to him/herself or their original cause.

I want to be me, but older.

Unfortunately, to some degree this adjusting away from truth is already happening to me. It’s an offshoot of systematized education. As I go to college and attempt to be accepted by my teachers and peers with PhD’s I become a pleaser whenever the end of a term begins to loom.  I tell myself to just give them the answers they want to hear so that I can move on and gain the needed credibility to be listened to later on when I tell the harsher truth. When I give the answers they may not like. Unfortunately this ‘pretending’ leaves a resonance of reshaped belief in my head and what I used to understand becomes morphed into something new, and not necessarily better.

I still want to shout about abuse and autism and society’s contribution to both but I am busy doing the work of making it better, so there is often no time to complain. This is good, I suppose. Proactive and correct. But it grows only small potatoes in the world of massive change. To increase my impact I must be more mainstream. I consider the concept and find myself back at the question I started with. Do I make a difference?

Bothered by the repetition of the question I move my mind on into the next month of the year ahead…

I continue forward into May and mother’s day and wonder if my new creation, The In Home Parent Program, will ease struggles or fall on deaf ears. Do haggard mom’s tired of being judged by misinformed educators and child protective service workers have enough left in their soul to trust me, another expert? I know they should, but can they? I have made it as inexpensive as possible while still meeting my own obligations. But after all of the target marketing their desperation has attracted, do they have anything left? I can teach them what to do but it will still require work. I know what they need in order to cease the desperation but can I give them what they want? I can give them fun, but maybe not easy!

So I focus the program on my tribe, the families that already know my value and want more. I shape it into a way for them to get extra help for free while we spread right information to their neighborhood. Then I add a Skype portion. In case the new interested people are still too shy to share their home. Too afraid of judgment to have an expert in their home.

This is the special needs parent form of post traumatic stress disorder. For those who feel safe I offer to come to their homes. I am a different kind of therapist. Sure I am a neurotherapist and play specialist and those are elsewhere in the field of mental health, but I am also many times over a mother of successful special needs children who (unknowingly) used to be special needs herself.

It’s been a long successful journey and I know what mothers need but I also know why they are afraid. Why they end up wanting something that won’t really help. Unwilling to offer less than what I believe they need, I stop thinking about it and move on to… June.

June brings with it Father’s Day and college holidays and I wonder if I will ever remarry and/or finish my PhD. My mind circles back to the challenges of both being in school and dealing with schools. I ponder the permanent restructuring of my brain and the scarring of parental self-confidence caused by the imbalance of power given to government officials. Government officials who are blessed with the ability to charge parents for the slightest suspected transgression while the parents would have to go out of pocket to charge the official in return.

Conversely (or maybe because of this) July and August feel warm and happy in my mind’s eye. Grandkids are everywhere and work is light. My used to be challenged children visit and I settle on the reverie, stop looking ahead…. Breathe my faith back into my body and smile.

Yes, my birthday is coming.

Yes autism awareness will likely misinform most families but my kids got better and at least some people will be looking for ‘how I did it’ information. These are the ones I want to teach.

Fact is, big potatoes can grow from small potato seeds. I am happy to sow those seeds another year. I am happy to focus and share and get this parenting program into the hands of the people who want to enjoy their children while helping them grow more capable. I am energized!

Focusing on my gifts: my beautiful trail of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren has returned my faith. In fact, the journey into uncertainty seems frivolous now.

Obviously I made a difference.

I engaged in parenting and helped my adopted sons and daughters beat the odds. They are independent and working at jobs they love. They live the life of choice and responsibility.  And even the one who is still at home is growing more capable daily. But even if he weren’t, who cares?

We are happy and during the holidays, we play.

What else is there?