Stuck In Parallel Play

Little me, reading at three.

So, how about ingesting a nice, healthy dose of “You seem to be stuck in parallel play,” from your therapist on a Thursday?

In late 2009, I was working on the film The Last Airbender in the Philadelphia area. My office happened to be at the director’s rustic, sprawling farm, about a forty-five minute drive from the home I rented in the historic neighborhood of Chestnut Hill. I loved the commute for the most part, driving past green pastures and incredibly ancient looking stone buildings (an unfamiliar site for a California native) but mostly for the celebrated occasions I’d have to tune into WHYY/NPR and listen to Terry Gross and her ever impressive interviews on the show, Fresh Air.

One of said celebrated interviews changed my life.

Terry interviewed the Pulitzer Prize winning Tim Page in 2009 on the topic of his memoir titled Parallel Play: Growing Up With Undiagnosed Asperger’s. (The subtitle was later dropped as the author felt, according to the newer paperback edition’s revised introduction, “ . . . it seemed to suggest that “Parallel Play” was a sort of guidebook or “owner’s manual” for people with autism, something better found elsewhere.)

I tuned in just when Page began reading a quote from David Mamet’s book, Bambi vs. Godzilla:

“I think it is not impossible that Asperger’s syndrome helped make the movies.

The symptoms of this developmental disorder include early precocity, a great ability to maintain masses of information, a lack of ability to mix with groups in age-appropriate ways, ignorance of or indifference to social norms, high intelligence and difficulty with transitions, married to a preternatural ability to concentrate on the minutiae of the task at hand.”

Had I not been on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I’d have pulled over just to sit hard with that information to allow it time to fully process. As floored as I was, I somehow managed to comprehend that particular excuse, however valid, would not be acceptable nor considered “cute” by State Troopers. So I continued on.

Was Mamet describing me? I’d felt my entire life that no one understood me, yet, in this excerpt from Mamet’s book and the too-brief twenty-minute interview with Page, I finally felt somewhere out there someone understood me.

I arrived home, entered the front door, opened my laptop and before letting my dogs out to do their biologically customary duties, ordered his book along with the fastest, most pricey shipping option available. I wanted, or rather, needed his book yesterday.

 And a year later, I received my very own, personalized gold plated Asperger’s syndrome diagnosis.

When reading Tim Page’s memoir, I absolutely fell in love with his quirky anecdotes of growing up in Connecticut in the ‘60s, memorizing portions of the World Book Encyclopedia (apparently a pastime we both shared), and tales of LSD gone wrong. I also partook in my usual habit of extracting all relevant data and storing it in an organized fashion, securely, in my cerebral hard drive. Somehow I completely missed dissecting its title, Parallel Play.

This past Thursday, after taking a two-month hiatus from seeing my therapist, I went in with a plan. I wanted some solutions, some answers. I wanted to get to the bottom of my social deficiencies, if any could be gotten to the bottom of, that is. The fidgeting, the unpleasantness of direct eye contact, the face blindness, the almost complete inability to trust fellow humans, the desperate need for ample solitude, the nervousness and anxiety. Are they all autism related, or could they perhaps also be the results of my, at times, rather horrendous upbringing?

“It sounds like you’re stuck in parallel play,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, after a moment of slow motion memory montage.

She began to explain that young toddlers, starting at about the age of twenty-four to twenty-nine months, engage in what is known as “parallel play” or “parallel activity”, a form of play in which each child engages in an independent activity that is similar to but not influenced by or shared with the others. They eventually, round about potty training time, begin to face other children and engage in the more advanced associative and cooperative stages of play.

So, not quite collaborating on how they, along with their peers, plan to reform their future education system, but perhaps mastering the art and science of speedy jigsaw puzzle assembly.

What could have happened to cause this affect, besides the sprinkling of autism I’d received? We explored that question.

Between the ages of two and three I had, among many other moderately stressful events, lost my father, gained a new one, moved house three times, gained a brother, then lost my parents to my brother who'd become the next big thing. I agreed, he was pretty darned awesome. I couldn’t keep away from the pudgy little troll. But I was on my own.  Parental guidance had ceased to be.

Bingo.

Since this revealing discovery occurred, I’ve spent the last few days sifting through a box of old photos of my toddler years, searching for clues. I am mostly shown either alone or playing alongside others, but not quite engaging. Especially the rare times when there were large groups, such as swim class. It is obvious in the photos the little girl in the pink bikini is in her own little world. She wants to learn how not to drown, not how to engage with rambunctiously loud mini-people. I'm either shown staring off into space or looking to the photographer to rescue me from this hell, and pronto.

When swimming with others, I recall merely wanting to splash about on my own pretending to be a dolphin or mermaid (and sometimes suddenly freak myself out, convincing myself the dark shadow was indeed none other than Jaws). I hated the loud screams of the others, “Marco!” “Polo!” They’d splash me, getting an unpleasant twenty-five gallons of highly chlorinated water up my nose and in my eyes without my consent.

The rambunctious mini-people were always huddled together, likely engaging in higher, more age-appropriate stages of play than me, such as pointing and making fun of others, comparing and contrasting swimsuits, and showing off their pee-pees to one another. Activities quite similar to that of some adults I know today.

In the photos where I was a bit older I was reminded that when not alone drawing, reading, or attempting to lay on the floor like a dog, the others I did engage with tended to be younger friends or family members I would instruct.  My friend Julie, who I’d met when I was four, was younger than I, yet just as logical and precocious. If I wasn’t teaching her the latest dance moves I’d learned from watching others in school, we were in fact working alongside each other creating. She was an exception. Sort of.

Tonight, in an attempt to shed some more light on this newfound wisdom,  I listed some of the activities I could remember actually enjoying with others as a child:

·      Swinging on swings on the playground

·      Visiting the zoo (though with adults)

·      Coloring/drawing

·      Video games

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit—bleh.)           

·      Making up my own games and directing others

·      Investigating

I realize all of these activities became overwhelming to me if I shared them with more than one other child. My reaction to said overwhelm would be to shut down, become mute, hold my hands/arms in a strange uncomfortable looking manner, and try to fade into the background as quickly as possible. Basically, if an invisibility cloak had been an option, I would have taken it.

I then listed some of the activities I actually enjoy with others as an adult:

·      Dining in restaurants (preferable in a corner or near a window for ample people watching opportunities)

·      Reading books

·      Working on separate projects, side by side (art, writing, gardening, fixing/building things)

·      Classic Car shows

·      House painting

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit-bleh. Some things never change.)

·      Visiting the zoo (Yes, its true.)

·      Taking scenic drives

·      Traveling by airplane

·      Traveling by train

·      Exploring new places

·      Watching movies

·      Hiking

All, from childhood to adulthood, seem to potentially be parallel play type activities. And all of them I also enjoy doing alone.

Standing side-by-side with another, viewing something from our respective occupied portions of the earth, is non-threatening. We are both free to judge the strange partially striped zebra/giraffe/alien-like Okapi at the zoo, or revere the perfectly polished engine of the 1966 Chevy Chevelle at the summer car show. But what to do when viewing and experiencing aren’t on the agenda?

I am forever kicking myself for leaving the only place I ever truly felt at home—Malibu, California. For a little over four years I rented an incredibly quaint, modest guesthouse (and when I say quaint and modest, I mean 400 square feet of absolute charming, simple, converted garage with terracotta floors, studio heaven). I’ve never stopped reminiscing about how incredibly at peace I felt there, just me and my Great Dane Audrey, happy as clams in a place as tiny as a clam shell. For the first time in my life I was proud of my home, and found myself relaxed enough to be a bit more open to having somewhat of a social life. Was it the view of the ocean? The friendly neighbors? The simplicity?

My husband and I began dating when I lived in my Malibu sanctuary and things were perfect with us. All fun and gobbly googly goop. And now, since this revealing observation from my brilliant therapist on Thursday, I’m able to connect the dots and see how with the way that place was set up was never threatening for a parallel player such as myself: one wall all windows facing the water, two deck chairs facing the water, sofa facing the window facing the water, no where else to go but those two seating arrangements. I never felt overwhelmed by human contact, by relationship, by emotion. I was safe to be me, an individual. I could listen to him talk and stare out toward the ocean. And when you’re at the ocean, this staring behavior is absolutely acceptable. It’s expected. At my current home where there is no ocean but rather a house across the street, I can’t very well stare out the window. I might be arrested. If I turn my eyes toward my bookshelf, my only other option, this behavior is unacceptable to other humans, including my hubby.

I was yanked from my little teepee of love when I accepted the job on the Shyamalan film in Philly. And there my soon to be hubby and I sat, facing one another in Chestnut Hill, and the vetting of therapists was inevitable. 

“How did things become so hard?” we’d ask.

I realize now that sitting down and facing another for extended lengths of time somehow causes the brain to go bonkers, the ecstasy of enjoyment to end, and looping thoughts of “God, I can’t wait to be alone and back to my routine,” begin.

A good friend of mine I am most fond of is someone I worked with and was lucky enough to share an office with on a film in 2005-2006. It was the perfect set-up for parallel activity. She did her job, I did mine, and we could joke and laugh, but never forced our way into each other’s space. Even now that we aren’t working together I find we, within about a half hour of an in-person visit, end up on our respective laptops or iPhones doing separate things, close in proximity and still together. Others might find this incredibly bizarre. It works for me. I assume this may be the factor that brings gamers together, artists, mechanics, scientists perhaps. It’s why the majority of my friends are my friends—we’ve worked together before. Without the parallel activity supporting environment found at work, I believe I’d have an incredibly hard time finding and making new friends. It would be impossible. And now, without an office to report to, I found myself with a plan in my therapist's office on Thursday.  

I wonder if the brain with its incredible plasticity will be able, with much work, to move forward in the stages of play or activity for a very young thirty-eight year old woman. Do I want to progress? How many other adult parallel players are out there in the world? Am I indeed stuck or an I merely slightly autistic? How many of my self-proclaimed introverted friends are simply stuck in parallel play as well? Do I reach out to others who, like me, would be happy to ride up the coast on a train, only independently viewing the scenery, knitting, reading, or napping? More importantly, will my hubby be happy to spend his life side-by-side with me, enjoying life in a parallel manner?

The million dollar question is: Do I force upon myself an attempt at changing the wiring of my brain or will this simply be a time of kind self-realization in which I can choose to further embrace ‘what is’ and see where it takes me?

We’ll see. At least I know where to begin.

*Step Right Up!

Bill was a truck driver. When he booked a gig in the summertime, Mum and I accompanied him on the road, and I was privileged to ride in the bed behind the driver’s seat in the tractor. What an amazing discovery—a bed inside a truck! Who knew? It was a cozy little mattress, with a nice dingy orange blanket that made me feel like I had a cubbyhole of my own—my own place in the world. It was fun. We looked down upon all the cars and could see for miles.

I’d help them unload cushions and light boxes and help Mum pack dishes. I would meticulously clean the truck with window cleaner and paper towels, sweep the emptied trailer and fold the furniture pads (“furni pads” to us pros) with pride. I loved these times; I felt useful and a part of something big and significant. They weren't permitted to use illegal drugs on the road—I believe that is why there was a sense of normalcy and fun for us. 

For a week or two we felt like a real family. A family of carnies.

Excerpt from chapter fifteen | changes | Everything’s HunkyDory: A Memoir

Mean Green Lovin' Machine

He was every four-year-old girl's dream: Stretch Monster. 

Never a fan of traditional baby dolls or the like, "Stwetch Monsto" was my mean, green, constant and loyal companion. Whether riding together in Mum's smoke filled Toyota Celica Sport Coupe, having a tea and deep discussion with Steve Martin (my other squishy friend, though much taller and invisible), or simply having a good sleep, Stwetch Monsto was always there for me. 

BFFs we were. 

Well, at least until I chewed off his ears and toes and made the red jelly come out. 

Father's Day & the Deadly Ashtray

Father’s Day. It’s always been an emotionally challenging day for me.

I taught myself how to read at three because I noticed a pastel birth plaque hanging on my bedroom wall had a name on it that didn’t match the pattern of my mum’s or “Daddy’s.” Letter by letter, with the help of my naïve mum who had no idea of the antics I was privy to, I learned to sound them out and write them in crayon. My birth father’s name started with a C, not an F.

I launched an intense investigation: Who was this man? Where did he go? What did I do to make it so?

The other kids in school made Father’s Day art projects just before letting out for summer. Bastards. I would quietly sit and fuss with the construction paper, crayons, or clay (one project was to make ashtrays for dad. This activity ceased once people began to realize dads were quickly succumbing to lung cancer due to our brightly painted clay works).

If anyone dared to ask me about my dad, I’d just say with a major attitude, “I don’t have one,” and they’d reply with, “Everyone has to have a dad,” then walk away puzzled, confirming with one another that yes, I must surely be from another planet.

Thank God summer was just around the corner. I’d have 3 months to forget about the “dad” project, and an entire school year until the next June, when we'd do it again.

Being that I was born a literal thinker (meaning if someone said “hit the road,” you could guess where I’d immediately be headed), it took me years before I realized I could actually honor another for being a good dad. My grandpa, or Papa, as I’ve always referred to him, was the perfect candidate.

I spent hours with him propped up next to a car engine, watching him change the oil and spark plugs. I followed him with my own miniature lawn mower when he spent Saturday mornings manicuring his front lawn. I carried the paint bucket behind him when he painted the house every few years. I ‘helped’ him with his crossword puzzles. He handed me the funnies while he read the Sunday paper and we’d sit out in our lawn chairs, admiring the incredible job we’d done on the yard, taking in the smell of the fresh cut grass, and peacefully catching up on important news and less important comic strips. 

He’s still with us, thank God, likely because I never made him an ashtray in the third grade. 

Untimely Expiration Dates

Today I’m re-organizing my home, cleaning and putting items on the ‘free to good home’ listings for my town. It feels good. Any clearance of clutter is healing. These once treasured items (or, perhaps, not so treasured) will go on and serve a higher purpose than taking up space in a storage closet. My older, smaller aluminum dog door will be giving a neighborhood pup a bit of freedom; my ceramic pots will be proudly displayed in someone’s garden; my random, strange Christmas basket-type thingy will be given as a gift, as it was given me, and will undoubtedly be placed on the free to good home list after December (that is if anyone ever picks it up from my front porch).

And then it happened. I came across an unmarked white envelope. Once I had it in my hands, I knew what it was, so I carried it with me to a comfortable seat on the sofa and opened it, knowing I’d not only be opening up the envelope itself, but also quite possibly the floodgate of tears behind my eyes.

Mum’s California driver license. 

In the photo, her head is slightly tilted to the left, with a slight smile and those tired, tired eyes. No matter what the past has held, all I could think of was, “What I wouldn’t do to see that face again.”

Shortly after wondering why her number started with an N and mine with an A and whether or not the DMV has some sort of secret code for ID numbers (“Give it an A. Better keep our eye on this one.”), I saw in red capital letters above her photo: EXPIRES 07-12-14.  

Her driver license hasn’t yet expired. It’s still active, but she’s not.

And when it does expire—that’s it. No further licenses will be issued. Ever.

On June 30th, 2009, the date this license was issued, she was still drinking more than seven beers per night. She was still working at an incredibly stressful job, consuming large amounts of processed foods, smoking cigarettes, and quite possibly enjoying the occasional bit of speed (she’d never admit it to me, though I’ve heard stories from others). She would have had no idea that her oldest daughter would be in possession of her driver license, sitting on her sofa in Ojai on June 9^th, 2013, crying tears of disbelief that her mother had expired before the DMV’s officially provided expiration date. She had no idea that the lifestyle she had chosen was giving her a rare form of stomach cancer and there would be no tests, no renewals.

What am I doing today? Will I be here tomorrow? How many more driver licenses will I carry before I expire?  Will I expire first or will it? I have no message to share here, other than to just say with tears in my eyes that we really have no idea how short life really is. And whether we have disabilities, aren’t able to relate to people, are in a strained relationship, working at a dead-end job, have no job prospects at all, are not able to have children, are worried about finances, stressed about retirement—it’s all going to end. When, we don’t know. And what’s important? What’s really important? I can’t tell you. We have to be able to admit to ourselves what is important and take it off of that false societal scale made for us when we were just wee children.

Maybe a long life wasn’t important for Mum. Perhaps alcohol and the feeling it gave her was. Who am I to judge? But I’ve hated it. I’ve hated that it took her away from me. I’ve hated, more than anything, that we were never able to form the mother-daughter relationship I had always dreamed of. But that was my dream, not hers. And what I’ve learned in recent times is not to attach dreams to people. People are utterly unpredictable emotionally, spiritually, and just like in the case of Mum leaving the planet at the young age of fifty-seven, physically. William Shakespeare said, “Expectation is the root of all heartache.” I totally get that one now, Bill.

So I will return to re-organizing and making my life what I want it—free and clear. Free to be me, and today, clear of clutter. I can dream and hope and pursue without having those dreams, hopes, and pursuits attached to a heart and lungs and brain—other than my own. I can miss Mum, and I will when I hear her laugh in my mind, and my heart will ache a little when I come across bits and pieces of her life in random boxes and envelopes—and I can know it’s because I want what isn’t. And I can be OK with that. 

And a note for my fellow pathetic fallacy friends: the sad, Christmas basket-type thingy has, indeed, found a good home.

Healthy Obsessions for Tragic Situations

Found at: http://michaelbyatt.com

Was it the bulging, intense, darting eyes? Was it the petite, muscular build? Could it have been that incredible curve of the arched neck or the famous, spirited high-carried tail? The Arabian horse had become an obsession of mine at the age of ten. Sometime between my all-consuming yet absurd fascination with Naval aircraft carriers and the beginning of a seven-year unrequited crush on a boy I met in the sixth grade, I studied them, collected photos, paid for magazines with babysitting money I’d made, and flip-flopped about in my dreams of either shapeshifting into one or of possibly riding one, one fine day in the future.

I’d heard from horse enthusiasts “those Arabs are spooky and hot-blooded.” They claimed these magnificent beings were a hand-full, startled easy, “ . . .  ready to jump and flee at the splat of bird shit hitting the pavement." I wasn’t sure. But every one of these gorgeous creatures I’d ever seen in photos seemed to be on high alert, eyes and ears acting as swift radar antennae, alerting them to possible dangers—just like me. Yet they appeared strong, dignified, and slightly mystical—just like what I wanted to be.

My brain had unknowingly been lightly sprinkled with a sparkly, magical bit of autism, likely prior to birth. Its amygdala set to automatic over-drive creates an overwhelmingly constant fight or flight response to various stimuli, such as basically all of it. This high sensitivity to sound, smell, and touch put me in the strange position of not being able to relate so well with the common homo sapien. Playing with other children was much too overwhelming and illogical in many respects. I knew I was different. But at the age of ten, my fervid connection with this sensitive creature and its flared nostrils and flowing mane just may have saved my life, or at least my sanity.

Found at: http://www.enchantedlearning.com

I’ve never understood why a grown man married to an attractive, intelligent, hilarious woman of many talents would choose instead to fondle his just-on-the-brink-of developing pre-pubescent niece. But he did. A lot. And each time he did, my little ten-year-old self would go into shock and become mute, scared for my life, scared I’d break up the family if I told, scared it was all my fault and if I hadn’t worn that hideous mauve bathing suit that one hot summer day, maybe this scenario never would have begun in the first place. Kid logic.

The scream was in there but malfunctioned every time. The “no” was rehearsed, day after day, night after night, along with the powerful ninja-like kick to the groin, but when the time came for the deed to be done, the body would freeze, the throat would close, and the eyes stayed shut, and I lay in my own self-inflicted darkness. “And next time, yes, certainly next time, I’ll kick him hard where it counts.” But fear with its heavy talons won every time.

With (seemingly) no way out of the situation, I turned toward my obsession to help me to escape the only way I knew how: in my mind.  My prized Arabian horse magazine began falling apart, as I turned its pages so often during this time. Just seeing the beauty of the horses, standing proudly in a meadow, running along a beach, nuzzling a colt, helped me to somehow feel free and comforted. This “healthy” obsession gave me something to do, something to think about, something to focus on and learn from, other than the dread I had to face each morning while living with them. It made me feel better. It soothed me. I’d often imagine being one. One swift kick, a flick of the tail, and I’d rear up and smash him to bits, just like the scene in The Black Stallion film where “Black” protects his boy from the dangerous, looming snake. I’d constantly envision having a horse like one of the beauties in the magazine, it would be my best friend, and at night, we’d sneak out and run away from the masquerading beast sleeping in the next room, prior to his pre-work 5:00 a.m. fondling expeditions. We’d run, and I’d be scared—scared of the wild desert and its nocturnal hunters, scared of the night, scared of the unknown—but never as scared as I was when in that room, in that darkness. That’s for sure.