I fit my disassembled bike into the back of my black Chevy Suburban where the seats were removed and laid its front tire on top of the frame. Sensing I had overpacked, I dismissed the voice in the back of my head encouraging me to consider removing a few things from my car before closing the hatch with the touch of a button. I just needed to get on the road.
Saying goodbye to my husband, Jay, and two of my three children was surprisingly easy. I love road trips and the excitement of spending most of the summer on San Diego's beaches felt sexy and carefree, especially considering how the 5 years prior left me emotionally and energetically bankrupt. Those 5 years I walked beside my husband while he navigated a revolving door in and out of sobriety while simultaneously working to recover my son middle son, Alder, from autism. These are challenges I've come to find myself grateful for. And yet, if I had enemies, I would not wish either experience upon them.
Alder and I would be traveling together to a friend's parents' house in Encinitas, a place I had never seen, to spend the summer living with people I had never met. The drive to California was mostly uneventful. In fact, I can't remember much of our journey there. I don't remember where we stopped along the way, how many days it took us to arrive, the states we visited or the music we listened to. It's unusual for me to forget the details of even the most trivial things as I can still recite my second grade class in alphabetical order. When someone experiences perpetual trauma, I'm convinced they forget things in order to keep their heart from exploding. Vague, dream-like images swim around in my mind confirming the travel legitimately took place. I'm standing in a dusty parking lot wearing an impulse purchase, floor-length, blue dress that hugged my curves in all the wrong places, frantically calling every practitioner friend I know for help with an ear infection Alder acquired at a hotel pool. I scan the shelves of a health food store in a sleepy town on a scorching June day. And much like a dream, the next memory comes floating in and includes dove-white windmills appearing out of dust, standing erect, blades moving methodically, producing energy for imaginary people nowhere to be found. Perhaps the experience driving into the unknown was not meant to remain imprinted in my memories. Self preservation is a funny thing.
One single memory of this trip branded its mark like a burn on my brain. Up until that moment, the magnitude of what I was doing in California hadn't really surfaced. Every time I recall this particular moment, something in my stomach turns over and my heart begins the journey into my throat.
Google maps told me I was 2 mins from arriving. My friend's parents offered to let Alder and I stay at their house to help mitigate some of the financial burden of paying for a 6-week rental in flagrantly unaffordable San Diego. In theory, their generous offer remained a huge relief. Jay had recently started a new business and he was solidly navigating his 3rd year sober from alcohol. And although he was making an honest income, Alder's medical expenses overshadowed all opportunity for financial stability. Most doctors we worked with were either out-of-network or cash pay only. And after three years of several doctor appointments weekly, we were out of cash. So the logical choice was for me to accept the generous offer to spend most of my summer living with strangers. Their unbelievable kindness and generosity didn't change the fact that I would be living in the home of people I had never met with a child who struggled to maintain socially normative behaviors people with neurotypical children take for granted. It seems to me that anxiety is something that is said to creep in, like a vine growing slowly up tree. In that moment there were no vines and no trees, only geysers of anxious energy erupting inside me, looking for a way to surge out.
The moments before pulling into their driveway, the thread that held me emotionally together came completely unraveled and the anxiety geyser erupted forcing tears in a free fall. They flowed down my cheeks like rain to a storm drain. Panicked, I pulled over and called Jay. What in the hell was I doing?! How could I possibly be so naive to think that driving 1200 miles to live with people I didn't know to pay a doctor $800/hr for 5 weekly sessions in 6 weeks was a good idea?! Do the math. That's an exorbitant amount of money for anything shy of a downpayment for a private island. And with no guarantee that the treatments would help. Why did it only occur to me to second guess myself before it was too late to turn back? I was a block away from my destination. Jay assured me we made the right decision. "I mean, what are our other options?" he reminded me. The way we saw life at that time was either help restore Alder's health, or build a garage apartment where our adult child with autism would eventually live. I sat in my car on the side of the road just long enough for my eyes to pretend they hadn't been crying and slowly crept into their driveway. Their house was as welcoming as it was beautiful. Colorful tile, an amphitheater of windows, art from everywhere. They greeted me with open arms, giant smiles, gave us a tour and showed us our room. Yet their kindness made it mysteriously harder for me to feel calm, as though something inside me said I didn't deserve their generosity.
I couldn't look them in the face out of fear the anxiety geyser may explode in front of strangers. And then, out of nowhere, deep shame bubbled up, because apparently explosive anxiety wasn't enough. If I made more money, I wouldn't need charity. If I had been more careful in pregnancy, my child wouldn't be sick. I must have done something really bad in my life to have to face this kind of hard.
To be continued...
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