Cat, Not a Dog
“Carrie, you have to remember. He is a cat right now, not a dog.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I was sitting in my car in the Macy’s parking lot, talking to Jack’s developmental pediatrician on the phone.
When I was a kid, we had a cat named Polly.
One afternoon my mother walked out of the Grand Union and ran into some teenagers trying to give away kittens, and she picked one out of the box and brought it home.
If you’re thinking that picking up a kitten from the same place you buy cigarettes and eggs is a little reckless, well, I would say you are right. But this was 1980, and things were different. It was the era of Reaganomics, the Safety Dance, and John Lennon’s untimely death.
It was also the last time I ever lived under the same roof with my father.
Had I been older than six, I might have been able to predict the imminent divorce based on the deep, dangerous rumblings that resonated through our house night after night, and the sound of one of my parents squealing out of the driveway in a rage. But I was a kid and so I had no idea how bad it all was, until my mother came home with the weekly groceries and a cat.
My father hated cats.
Sitting in my car, I kept my eyes closed, and I tried to explain all the things I’ve been ashamed to say out loud for about six months now.
I tried to explain that I don’t know how things got so bad with Jack, my 11-year old son with autism.
I tried to tell her how he says terrible, terrible things like our family has changed for him and he is a loser and everything is so stupid, he hates me, he hates us, he hates himself.
I tried to tell her how his need for routine has intensified, and constantly he asks what we’re doing one week, one month, one year from now.
His body is in motion all the time. It’s like watching autism control his arms and legs, the way a puppeteer manipulates the strings on a marionette.
All he wants to do is sit on the computer and rearrange songs into long playlists and watch the same movie trailer a dozen times.
And when I take the computer away, he just wanders around listlessly, alternating between rage and despair. He calls me names and jumps up and down and clenches his fists and cries.
I tried to tell her how he calls me the worst names he can think of—he accuses me of being a drug dealer and a bastard and one time, a hermaphrodite—and even though I don’t think he even knows what any of them mean, it still hurts.
Yet when I ask for more; to try and understand why, why the playlists, why the trailers and the rage and the names, he shuts down altogether.
“Jack, what do you mean, you are a loser?”
“Nothing. What are we doing Friday. December 30th.”
I tried to put into words what it feels like to mother a child who gives almost nothing in return—not a hug, not a smile, not a kiss. I would give nearly anything for a smile.
Or the way he’s developed his own private language that sounds like a series of beeps and grunts, and when he’s not beeping and grunting, he’s talking about some kind conspiracy theory–something about being framed and taking revenge.
I can’t get him to do anything. He won’t sit with me to read a book or frost a cake or even answer a question.
At the same time, he has very brief, fleeting moments of tenderness, where his prickly exterior dissolves for a split second, and its as though I can see a much younger, happier version of himself peeking around the corner–like the time he ran up to me, breathless and flushed, in the grocery store because he’d found his favorite chocolate chips in the baking aisle. I could have cried to see him so happy.
“He’s so different,” was all I managed.
“I know, I know,” she said softly. “He’s a cat right now, not a dog.”
Hearing her say this, I felt like I had looked underneath the couch, and in the middle of all the stale crackers and Legos and discarded socks, I’d finally found the last piece of a long, complicated jigsaw puzzle. It was dusty, and one corner was a little bent, but it fit perfectly.
Jack does not care about pleasing me or making me happy. If I demand something of him, he hisses and scratches and backs into the corner, ready for a fight. He is aloof, and reserved, and he wants to be left alone.
“For now, he just needs to know you are there. He will come back when he’s ready, I promise.”
The doctor and I talked about other important things like maladaptive behavior and sensory flooding and trying a new medication, and right before we hung up she reminded me one more time.
“Carrie, remember–cat.”
Polly mostly lived outside, and from time to time she got herself into what you might call a little, uh, trouble. And if you think picking a cat up from the grocery store and then neglecting to fix her is maybe irresponsible, I would say you are right. But again, this was 1980, and the lady of the house was a newly single mother of three. The cat was low on the list.
We loved Polly, and we loved her kittens. In between their birth and our own time standing outside of the Grand Union trying to convince someone other hapless family to adopt a new pet, her litters lived inside a cardboard box in a room off the back of our house where we did laundry.
My mother always warned us to stay away from the kittens and not to pick them up too much. But one time I snuck back there and when I peered into the box, I saw Polly was worrying over the tiny black and white boy kitten we called Spice. She kept nudging at him like she was trying to wake him up.
I waited until she turned her attention to his sister, Sugar, and I leaned over and picked him up.
He was weightless in my hands, like lifting air. And when I brought him closer to my face, his head fell back between his shoulders. No matter how much she nursed and nuzzled, Polly could not keep her newborn alive. His spirit was gone.
This is how I feel about Jack.
Not literally, of course. He is a tall, sturdy boy who eats a ton and is healthy and strong.
But I feel like every minute of every day, I trying to keep his spirit afloat; to keep him here with us, instead of giving in to autism’s long, beckoning finger.
It is perhaps the hardest work I have ever done.
The next morning I was waiting with the kids at the bus stop, and Jack sidled up to me. His body was calm. He touched my arm and said, “Today. I will bake. Chocolate chip cookies.”
My cat.
April 25, 2016 @ 10:00 am
Saying prayers for you and yours today.
April 25, 2016 @ 10:28 am
Oh my goodness, this. All of this. My son is 13 and goes through cat phases too. It hurts and it is so scary. Thank you for articulating it so well. Praying for you and yours.
Shawna @ Not The Former Things
April 25, 2016 @ 11:15 am
I just wanted to say that I understand your pain. Many of the issues that you describe are very familiar to me as well. I found that in my child and perhaps other children, especially in children on the spectrum, depression can manifest as a gradually progressive increase in fight or flight responses. As with most individuals with depression, there is also a loss of interest in activities that used to be fun and fascinating. It becomes harder to interact socially, even with one’s family, and even a smile can become a task. It often takes individuals with depression a massive effort to just keep going every day. Children do not usually know why they are losing interest in doing things that used to be fun or why they do not smile much any more. Please do not take it personally when you hear and see things that Jack does or won’t do because it truly may be a manifestation of depression, which of course is so very common in children who are on the spectrum and in children with severe anxiety. I suspect that Jack does not know why he feels “like a loser”, but it seems that he developed low self-esteem, which is very common in children on the spectrum or anybody who feels “different”. Our children compare themselves to their siblings and peers, and things that come so easy to others, may be truly impossible to figure out for individuals on the spectrum. My daughter often asks, “How do they know that?” when other children, even those much younger than her, managed to interpret social situations with ease and come up with the right response while she could not. I have also noticed that with increased anxiety, the need to do simple, repetetive activities increases (such as jumping, flapping, neologisms-made up words that may have a soothing effect on the individual). Verbal tics may increase as well. Repetitive activities and sorting may become coping mechanisms that provide self-soothing (just like rocking back and forth). Perhaps, in your son’s case, these activities include playlists and watching the same movie trailer. In my experience, these things tend to offer a subconscious sense of control over at least a small part of the world when for individuals on the spectrum, the world may seem so very chaotic and illogical most of the time. Life is messy for most neurotypical individuals, and I can only imagine how difficult and scary it must be for individuals who experience the world with much more intensity and who have a very different way of relating to the world. I do not believe that our children’s personalities are changing when they show increased flight or fight responses, but rather I believe that these behaviors are a reflection of the inner turmoil that they do not understand and that they cannot explain. Hang in there and keep looking for treatable causes of the inner turmoil, such as depression. Last but not least, please try not to worry too much about the playlists and movie trailers. They cause no harm, and I suspect that these behaviors may decrease when treatment for anxiety and possible mood issues is optimized. As another blogger, Jess Wilson, often says, and what has become my mantra: “Now is not forever, and never is a load of ….”
April 25, 2016 @ 2:27 pm
Oh Carrie, I am so sorry you are still going through this phase with Jack. I cannot even begin to imagine how painful an difficult it must be to wake up to this every day. I certainly hope the “cat” phase doesn’t last much longer. Hopefully the new medication will help relieve some of his anxiety.
You are such a great writer and know you help so many others out that are experiencing some of the same things you are.
Keep your chin up! The dog will return soon!
April 26, 2016 @ 12:46 am
I happened to come across this article today and just wanted to pass it on! Carrie, I have been following your story for about a year now. You are an inspiring writer, a committed mom and a beautiful person. Praying for answers and solutions for this difficult phase Jack is experiencing. God bless you and your lovely family! http://robbwolf.com/2011/05/23/real-life-testimonial-scarlets-turnaround-autism-paleo/
April 26, 2016 @ 11:55 am
Placing you and your family in our thoughts and prayers.
April 26, 2016 @ 12:29 pm
I needed this. There is so much sadness and frustration around the A word, and so very few answers and resolutions. Our victories are small and too infrequent. Thanks for giving me your words so I can cry my tears that need to come out some way.
April 28, 2016 @ 1:41 pm
I so feel your pain! My daughter is going through an angry, angry phase right now, and it is mostly directed at me and her little brother. She is largely blind to the severity of her behavior and nothing we do helps mitigate it. If we engage her she reacts negatively, if we distance ourselves she picks a fight and bates us with questiions she knows can lead to her being dissappointed or angry with us, giving her an outlet for her rage, sarcasm, and disdain. It is heartwrenching and exhausting and far worse than when she is just super anxious and on sensory overload (her normal). My best guess currently though is – puberty, she’s 11. Adding all those hormonal changes to someone who is already emotionally unbalanced with the psychological effect of knowing the huge change of middle school, bus riding, etc. is looming ever closer is just more than she can handle.
I hope Jack’s cat phase is over soon and that we all survive adolescence with our sensitive children.
April 30, 2016 @ 8:58 pm
I have been where you are. My son has similarly aggressive behavior. I think it is entirely anxiety driven. Get the anxiety under control and the aggression goes away, too, –well mostly it does. For my son, we had to take away all stress for several months to get him out of his downward spiral. It was a big sacrifice, but it worked. We pulled him out of school, took a year off ultimately, and actually now have decided on homeschooling because we have seen so much improvement. We only did things he wanted. We kept the house as quiet as was reasonably possible. We watched a lot of tv together and played video games together. We went on quiet walks with our dog. We watched more TV… You get the picture. We slowed down, way down. After a few months, as Camden got better, happy, and loving again, we introduced a couple challenges, –things he could easily succeed at, like swimming. Our focus was just getting him stable and happy. It took a lot of big changes, especially in our expectations, but it worked. Cam is coming back to us.
May 2, 2016 @ 11:23 pm
My Travis is 15 now. I remember a few years back when he seemed to be angry……all of the time. The psychiatrist put him on Zoloft and later on added Wellbutrin also. For so long we’d tried to address and medicate the focus issue, but truly the anxiety, including sensory issues were the real problem. I believe the hormones that puberty brought along changed things…..a lot. All I know is, once he started meds for anxiety – he started smiling again, and even laughing……I hadn’t even realized how little we’d heard it. And he talks with me more openly. He’s still more rigid and reserved, but he’s more like himself. I hear some similarities in your posts about Jack. I’m praying y’all find what he needs.