Living Hazzardously

Little pieces of our journey with Jesus

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RAGE is normal

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Have you ever been ANGRY?

Have you ever been upset?

If you answered yes, this is the blog post you don’t want to miss!

I have talked about some of my past with you. I have talked a little bit about what its like to become an autism step dad. I want to tell my story. I want you, the reader, to see through my eyes, to feel what I feel and to know what I know. BUT… that’s not exactly possible, is it? 

I got a call from my brother shortly after my last post about our father locking me in the basement as his form of “rehabilitation”. I don’t remember my brothers exact words but it was something like this: “So, I wasn’t the only one to survive those childhood traumas?” This got me thinking this morning about how everyone has a time of trauma in life, some are more severe than others and some are so severe we can never actually get past them, but everyone has a story to tell.

As I grew up, my father was a major source of constant childhood trauma, the beatings, the verbal abuse, the work-load… it was good and bad growing up. I wanted a “normal life”,  but what is normal anyway? Normal is what we see as common. Normal is what we see on the other side of the fence… Normal is fantasy… or is it? Is it really fantasy? 

Organized hoarding, that’s how it started.

Before we continue, I want to clear the air, set the stage and paint the picture for you. There is a difference between hoarding houses and trash houses. Hoarding can become trashy (as in my childhood home) but they start very organized, categorized and arranged. What you are about to read was not, at its core, saved pizza boxes and dog poop. It was stuff! Bought for the sole reason that it actually has value.

The day started as a normal day. My brothers and sisters woke as normal. We ate our day-old oatmeal, carved out of the big pot that was left on the stove. We found joy in having food, yet again, it wasn’t much, just cold, congealed oatmeal stuck in an aluminum pot, sitting on the one open burner. The same stove that had a small path in front of it. This path was cutting its way through the house like a snake in the tall grass of a forest. We had no more access to the kitchen sink. We had been washing dishes in the bathroom sink next to the toilet which was usually plugged and in need of the plunger. Our kitchen had become another holding area to dads “stuff”. The dinette was filled from ceiling to floor. A foot path leading from the dinette, though the formal dinning room and across our “spacious” living-room to the front door. This path was only used for accessing the mailbox.  The front door was also blocked and hadn’t been opened in years. The mail slot went from outside to inside the house. Situated near the end of the path was a spot where I could sneak away and hide from my “normal”…. a hiding place, a void in the collection that dad didn’t know about. If you knew where to look and could crawl on your belly, it was a hole into a mysterious land of safety from the pain we kids all felt. I didn’t go there often. I guess I didn’t want it to be “discovered” and filled with more stuff. Our bathroom had also come to the same fate as our kitchen. It was a great place to store more stuff, leaving a small space in front of the toilet and sink, but totally blocking the bathtub and vanity. The sheet draped across the unusable door was our only privacy, but it was better than nothing, maybe. The attached garage hadn’t been entered in years, blocked by the back door that barely opened now. The entryway was also access to the basement.  By the time I entered the 9th grade, I was bathing in the basement laundry tub. Avoiding the sewer rats that would frequent the home from the open sewer pipe in the basement, which made it easier for dad to clear the plugged pipes. The old ringer style washer stood next to the laundry tub and allowed me some stable hand holds to climb into the laundry tub for my bathing. I would usually wash my cloths while I bathed in the laundry tub. Looking for a safe place to set my feet as I climbed out. The two concrete laundry tub configuration That dad fixed the plugged pipe by knocking it out of the way…. It drained well now, onto the floor. This house wasn’t some dramatic scene from a tv show. It was my home! It was my normal! I was embarrassed. I was defeated. I was learning how to handle traumatic life everyday. God grew me where I was. God gave me strength to overcome and not quit. God was there when I didn’t really know who He was.

Overcoming. Is that what life is about? Taking your knocks and not giving in? In many ways, God was preparing me for this very day, today… March of 2019. I am reminded to not give up, to not quit, to keep going… because our God is bigger than our problems. Becoming an autism step dad is a challenge. It’s not all roses. It’s not all fun. Don’t get me wrong, it has its rewards… many rewards, but it also comes with its challenges. Challenges of the mind, body and spirit. Challenges that some may never know and yet others know all too well. For me the challenges are foreign, but for Jess it’s just normal. For me, things need to make sense, for Jess it’s just normal. For me things need to be fixed, for Jess things are just normal. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying Jess is just sitting back, taking things as normal. What I am saying is that Jess has adapted, learned and overcome (or should I say “discovered contentment”). Sometimes the emotions come back from when I was still in my old house as a child, learning how to manage life. Learning that all things do not make sense. Learning that order can look different to others. When you look at my tool box, unless you know what to look for, it looks “dis-ordered”,  but to me, I can see order (not as much as I would like), but its ordered in many ways. When I look at Autism, I don’t see this order. I see random chaos. I see confusion. I see something that needs to be fixed… BUT…. the reality is, it’s not broken, dis-ordered or chaotic…. it’s normal! It makes perfect sense and the reality is, the deficiency is found in my perception of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I do see clearly to know there must be some controls put into place for health, safety, well being and so on. BUT!!!! It’s not totally my perception that is right. Where sometimes I see no “segue” … Al moves from one scene of his life to another, seamlessly. I get confused and loose track of his fluid connections. It’s a new world, a new way of seeing life, a way I never knew existed.

I told you in the beginning of the blog post you should read it… IF you have ever been angry, well… stay tuned.

Jess says I have incredible patience with Al. In someways I don’t feel patient, and Al knows. He can tell when I’m worn thin. He can tell when I feel like “butter spread over too much toast”. How is it I could ever be considered to be the least bit patient? I’m not good at waiting. I’m no good at sitting around. I AM THE LEAST PATIENT PERSON I KNOW! And yet, my loving bride encourages me with edifying words to build me up, not bring me low. How is it I have come to deserve this woman? How is it she can see such good in a man with the past I have? It’s simple. She is forgiven and in that forgiveness from God, she has grace for me. She can see the good because she has received good and she now overflows with that same grace from God.

Growing up, all I ever saw was an angry father, yelling, screaming, blaming, profane words like I have never heard elsewhere (I was in the NAVY), and name calling…. OHH THE NAMES!! Every racial slur, demeaning terms for women…. stereotypes….if it’s PC now, he violated it then. My father was anything but PC and likely the number one violator of the new “PC WORLD”. I still feel that learned response at times. That unrestrained emotion that leads so many people to hurt others. I don’t let it control me. I wont! Camping there is deadly to self. It takes practice, control and mostly, it takes GRACE. The Grace that God shows us everyday. Autism is difficult. Autism is different. Autism is normal. 

Being angry is a decision to react to the environment in a way that is damaging to self. Choose to find joy, when Its difficult… keep choosing and don’t give in. I’m not saying its easy, just possible.

Dark places, triggers and time

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“YOU G$&@$? KIDS ARE THE WORST $@!:;)$&@ THING TO EVER HAPPEN TO ME”

This statement was one of my fathers favorites. Colorful expletives, horrible names and physical beatings were a daily occurrence for my siblings and I growing up.

My first traumatic memory was in the big house in South Minneapolis, I’m not sure what year it was, we moved in my kindergarten year, so it was before that. I had done some “horrible deed” that my father determined was nearly a capital offense. The punishment was banishment.

The big house was a duplex with “druggies” upstairs. I got the bed in the bay window, basically a foam pad shoved into a window opening. I don’t remember much of that house now. Between my fathers cigarette smoke and the constant inflow of marijuana smoke from upstairs, I was either being made strong or it was a sure thing what my future held.

This is where I started in the “Jonny jump-up” and grew up until my “all day kindergarten” class at Greely elementary a couple blocks away. We lived on 24th and 12th, on the Southside of Minneapolis, the house we lived in was torn down many years ago. It was a horrible place in a horrible neighborhood.

Our basement was right out of a horror movie, big stone walls, musty and dark, junk filled every turn and every damp corner. IT WAS A SCARY PLACE.

My punishment must fit the crime, and at less than 6yo, banishment into the basement was the only solution to my rehabilitation. As the lights were turned off at the switch located above me, I watched the trap door being lowered over my head until the last flicker of light was extinguished and the horror of every noise, every imagination and every nightmare played out in my young mind at full intensity. I remember screaming, crying and begging for help. My mind began to play out how I would be devoured in this dark hole. I curled up on the steps and literally screamed until I was horse, until I could scream no longer…. this was my father’s cue that I was fully reformed and my banishment was fulfilled.

We moved to 35th and Sheridan on the north side, a big, nice home. Two fireplaces, finished basement, two stories, separate bedrooms for boys and girls. We had a play area upstairs and the big bedroom was just for us three boys. My two sisters had the pretty bedroom next to us. I got my own bed, the upper bunk, my little brother got the lower and my older brother was in a single bed by the window. Life was “good” and I was finishing k-grade in Penn elementary. I was making friends when I could but usually I was at home “working” on my fathers projects. Going the the store to buys smokes and Pepsi for dad was my most common job in the evening. Two packs of smokes for the next day and an 8-pack of returnable bottles that my father would share with us on occasion. He didn’t mind sharing the Pepsi after it went flat, but to me it was liquid heaven.

The year was 1976, I was now 9 years old. My siblings and I had worked all day cleaning the house, top to bottom! We had expectations of our efforts to be rewarded by letting us invite our friends over for a “BICENTENNIAL PARTY”…. this would be a rare experience, to have friends over? It was unheard of, at least not in the house…. that’s not allowed! Maybe outside but never in the house. As I hid under the dining room table to covertly capture the surprise and delight that would surely flow from my father as the obvious labors over the coarse of our day were to be revealed as the man I called dad traversed the interior of our home.

Yes this was it! Here he comes! The door swung open, the footsteps approached, the hacking cough…. “clomp, clomp, clomp”…. he couldn’t see me, I was hidden well, table over the top, between the wall and the radiator. I heard the plastic wrap from the new pack of smokes… “crackle, pop” watching with joy and pride… The plastic cigarette wrapper and the foil top hit the floor…. moments apart…. landing like cluster bombs in my mind. Smashing into pieces the days labor…. the dusting of pictures, the cleaning of windows, the scrubbing of floors all became ashes of a war zone. The clean floor, dashed into pieces with the plastic wrapper of a cigarette pack.

Something changed for me that day, never to return, I no longer wanted to clean the house, I no longer wanted to invite friends into my home, my fathers actions had “triggered” a new perspective, and even today, it brings back memory’s of deep sadness, 43 years later!

I really enjoyed growing up in that house, but like most things in life, time changes…. in 6th grade, things really got bad, but that’s another day, a different blog post.

The balance of marriage, family, extended family and friends is delicate at best and can be destroyed in seconds. It’s not one that comes easy for me. In the great words of the country song “life’s a dance, you learn as you go….”

I think back to my childhood and I remember the trauma of my youth….. But I can’t stay there…. I’m a dad, a stepdad, a husband, a friend, a business owner, a man! I need to find a way to rise above my past, to step into the rolls of my life. My boys deserve more than the sum of my past. My bride deserves more than my brokenness. But how? How can I be this man that God has called me to be? “I” can not! But with Jesus, I can do God’s will, I can be more than the sum of my past, I can be a man! A man after God’s own heart, I’m not perfect and my wife has an abundance of forgiveness, she was blessed with being able to see beyond my hard exterior and keeps forgiving me every day, sometimes more… but she never quits on me.

Life gives lumps, hard trials but Jesus gave more than we can ever imagine and that’s the hope I’m living in. That’s how I get up and do what he has for me. Greater are His plans and blessings than anything I can do alone. His grace is sufficient.

WHO I WAS. becoming an “autism stepdad”

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It was a cold January day in a small house located in Chanhassen along the Minnesota River Valley . She was dressed so pretty and we had spent so much time getting to know each other that we felt we had always known each other. I set up a scavenger hunt… notes hidden in places with clues, clues that led her from inside, to outside into the garage and finally into the upstairs of this new house I was “remodeling”…. the room where we would eventually spend our nights together as a man and wife. I’m not sure I really knew what was coming my way, in fact, I HAD NO CLUE!

Image result for step dad

She called me at work and told me she had to take the day off…again. Jess went on to explain, “I thought something was a bit off today and when I opened the kitchen drawer to get a knife, they were all gone. I’ve called the school and I am headed there now to meet the bus when he arrives” Yes, this played out one morning. How do I respond to this? What is the right way to handle a young man of over 6′ tall filling his backpack with kitchen knives and heading off to school? Not just one knife but all of them. How do I reconcile this in my life of fatherhood? He isn’t “psychotic” or “deranged” and he really doesn’t want to “hurt” anyone. So why would he do this? He isn’t truly aggressive, if you get inside his thoughts. He isn’t out to get anyone… so why? (I will answer this question later. The answer may surprise you.)

Al was a high school student in Shakopee and I was just getting to know him. He was always excited. It was as if he gained energy from chaos…. and that is opposite of my previous world where chaos was put into order, not order put into chaos. Some days were good, other days were … well, how can I put this? The most intense situations known to man…but on steroids! (Figuratively speaking, of coarse.)

Jess and I prepared to merge our very different worlds. She was living in 1200 square feet and my house was 2800 square feet plus a 20×40 garage stuffed with junk from the last 20 or so years. Fitting this all into our “new” 980 square ft home…that was just the pragmatic side of space. That was the easy part.

The first stage of our lives was simple, get married, move our stuff, arrange our home and make it all work…. Simple enough! Lets do this! Alex, Jacob and Al all get along great. That’s a blessing. Alex was a typical high school student that just wanted to get out into the world as a HS grad, enter boot camp a start his life away from dad only one month after we got married. Poof! Easy! Jacob was a bit younger and needed a bit more management by his father… Jess and Jacob hit it off from the start. This was nice to see, no conflicts, mutual respect and a likable daily routine. So by now you may be thinking,“This is a nice blog post,” or maybe you are thinking, “I should stop reading this blog.” I hope you keep reading. I am setting the scene of our typical blended family with no real personality issues.

You see, I love Al, like my own biological sons, but I wasn’t prepared for what I didn’t know. I wasn’t aware of the challenges. It was hard to learn what autism really is. Sure, read about it, learn the science behind autism, but you don’t know until you have lived it. It’s not bad, it’s not good, it’s DIFFERENT! So much different and so impossible to truly understand how different, until you have lived it.

My history is long. I’ve raised three boys. I’ve been told I have done it well, by God’s grace. I have dealt with troubled youth, Downs Syndrome, ADD, ADHD, rebellion, complacent kids and mainstream kids. I have seen nearly everything (BAD AND GOOD). As a special needs bus driver, a chaperone on field trips with special needs, Den leader, Cubmaster, Scoutmaster, Youth Group leader, prison ministry participant… the list is long in the area of “boys to men” concepts. My heart is for raising boys to become men and for men to be Godly husbands, friends and leaders.

So what can I do for this young man? I thought I had a good handle on this before we got married. I thought it would be difficult at times and rewarding at others. I thought I was prepared…. I THOUGHT! Let me take you on one short journey. Let me describe a small part of my experiences and bring you into the world of autism from my perspective.

Suppose you are having a conversation with your wife, you know, a private conversation, behind closed doors. It could be about anything. Jess and I had conversation that was about putting an addition on our house. Al overheard a few words, nothing bad, but a short snip-it of words. Why? Heightened sense of hearing? Yes. Heightened awareness of conversation? Yes. Intentional eves dropping? Yes. No big deal, right? I mean so what if Al heard a few words like “cut” or “make” or even “saw”… until it enters the mind of this young man. To him this is perhaps the most violent form of torture he can imagine… to hear a saw. But he has never even heard my saw. He never experienced this in his past. EVER! But now, for the next two minutes, that turns into hours, that turns into days, that turns into weeks, that actually turned into months. YES, MONTHS of the same question, over and over. Sometimes reworded but still the same question and comments. Things like, “Are you going to use the saw today?” perhaps 10 or 20 times in an hour, then repeat. Or, “I don’t want you to use the saw” even when there are no plans of using the saw for weeks. And then repeat every few minutes all day for weeks. Just over and over. The same question repeated within seconds or minutes but sometimes hours, if we are fortunate.

This can manifest in remarkable ways for reasons we can never know. Imagine going to work, and the guy in the next cubical plays music, now imagine its the same song all day, repeated. Now imagine its the same 10 second section of one song hundreds of times a day. Or apply this to a movie. Or something found in the yard, a small chunk of wood that has been imagined to have ancient carvings from natives, a carving so small that you would need a magnifying glass to actually see what Al can see. HEIGHTENED SENSES! IMAGINATION! CONTINUAL THOUGHT LOOPS. They have come up with scientific names for all of this, fancy names that are tossed around in the special needs community like pennies into a gumball machine.

I love our Al. I love him for so many reasons. He is funny, fun and exhausting. He is different. I have learned so much, and the more I learn, the more I realize how much I don’t know. I can’t tell you I understand it. I don’t. I can’t. But I can do something. I can change to meet Al where he cannot change. I can meet his needs and help him become the best man he can be. I can teach Al how to overcome a majority of his anxiety. I can be there for him, provide for him, buy him the things he needs, help him develop new skills… I can be a stepdad to Al.

I promised you an answer earlier. The question is, “Why is Al like this?”

The answer is more complex than you may know but to summarize this is simple.

If we were to relate Al to a computer operating system, the answer would be easily stated as follows: “Al is not a malfunctioning operating system, but rather a totally different operating system.” He is operating exactly how he is programmed to operate. Continuous loop feeds… with base computer language that may appear like this “if (a=b) {repeat}”. He finds comfort in “knowing”. He watches the same 10 second video because he can know what will happen. This is where he finds familiarity and comfort. It is where he finds compatibility and understands his world. Like I said, it’s not good. It’s not bad. It’s just different!

My journey is mine, your journey is yours, I cant know yours and you cant know mine… but together, we may be able to help each other in our journeys. My Jess is always interested in hearing about my journey and is in many ways surprised at what I say, not because its bad or good but rather because its so normal in her journey and so new & different for me.

May our God richly bless you today.