Listen to coverage of this chapter in Notes On The Spectrum: Devil Grinning Up At Me
I see the photos of my cats, Sid and Hunter, just one year ago, when they were very young. At the time they were taken, I had no idea what personalities would emerge from our dance together. I believe a cat’s sensitivity and emotional intelligence is directly related to how they were treated by me from a very early age. Trust builds. Affection patterns grow for all of us. They become the two young adults I know today, Sid the loyal companion and seeker. She will always be nearby. She is sleeping between my knees as I type this. The hint of winter has motivated their heat-seeking response. Hunter, the lumbering and gentle boy, with an affection for socked feet.
The pictures I have of my two children also share that same wow-and-flutter timeshift perspective for me. They came into the world tabula rasa, to an upper-middle-class white family in an affluent neighborhood with good schools and good neighbors. A cosmic lottery put us here, at this time, in this place. I see the potential of who they could become, who we imagined they might grow into. The whiplash of today, seeing them as young adults, 23 and 25, I have a similar sensation, but the narrative is still new. They both contain so much potential, so many gifts, and will have to navigate their 20s toward good things and away from harmful things. That’s the hope.
My influence over my kids is similar to my nurture approach to my cats. I provide safety. Warmth. Food. Occasional snuggles, infinite back strokes, and ongoing love. Like with my kids, we are learning how to trust others, learning what’s hard, what we like to do, what we don’t ever want to do. Sometimes we’re stuck on an in-between level, a liminal state, as things are in flux and somewhat beyond our control. We have agency on our actions and our words. The rest of the world is going to do whatever the fuck they want to do, that includes my kids.
I see my own malfunctions in my son’s behavior. I never sold contraband, but lord knows I loved various intoxicants over the years. I also learned to leave them alone. The bottle of tequila remains unopened above my refrigerator. I bought it to make margaritas for my daughter, almost a year ago, when she returned to Austin from college and needed a place to stay while her apartment was being made-ready. It interests me, the tequila, but it doesn’t enchant me. Alcohol comes with warning labels of my family history. I text my daughter on nights she is up-and-out, simply saying, “Topo Chico Time.” I am encouraging her to drink a round of water while out running the gauntlet.
He’s just reaching his terrible teens a bit late. Exploring fucking with dad and mom. Manipulating everything to fit his warp on reality. He says he has no money, he’s working on a freelance project, and yet the Amazon packages come almost daily. He is not being smart or truthful. Does a burner phone always mean drug dealing? Asking for a friend.
The devil stares up from your children’s eyes in their moments of sorrow or brokenness. My son has been floundering for more than three years. The milestones are dropping behind him like tombstones. First bust. First rehab. First sober house. First eviction. The second bust is terrifying. I will excommunicate him from my house. Regain some quiet and serenity in my life. What will he become? How will his own poor choices warp his opportunities? How is he falling into despair, falling for the whispers of the devil and his armory of lies and guns?
How do I know if the devil accepted my plea bargain? What will be the sign that things are getting better? What smoke alarm is already blaring at me? I am hesitant. Today is the last day of November. I have just completed my 62 spin around the sun, and I’m not interested in mucking about in the dark with addiction, guns, and the devil. If I put off, for one more day, the intervention… If I wait for his mom and her husband to offer their plan… If I ask Jesus to guide me, guide my son…
I have ideas about who my two children will become. They are in the process of doing their part. I am asking for time with my daughter, but she’s busy, and traveling around with her mom. I am holding off on the execution of my son’s residence here. I want more time. Even as a chupacabra, I’m spending time with him. Making up for lost time? No. That’s not possible. That’s the weakness that he preys on. He’s a master manipulator. He must think he’s getting away with it.
I am just giving it another 24 hours. And another. I have no help. I see my psychiatrist on Tuesday at 10:30. Shit, I have a shift at 11. I’ll need to ask for a schedule variance. Always a major inconvenience for everyone.
I need to move up and out of this uncomfortable, yet productive, moment.
Thirty years ago, after my first psychiatrist graduated me, I asked him, “Do you think my pain, my trauma, my alcoholic father, are all part of the reason I’m an artist? Is this the essence of who I’ve become?”
“Do I think having a normal family would’ve been detrimental to your creative drive? Is that what you’re asking?”
I nodded.
“Absolutely not. You would’ve been more joyously productive.”
At this moment, in this hour of need, I am joyously productive. I have arrived here by diligent work, time at craft, and an understanding that the words, the writing helps me process my own life struggles. Helps me put my past trauma in perspective. Release the anger and dysfunction, so I don’t spill my own blood on my kids. I have learned at this point in my life: I can only do me.
And a cat or two.
note: image panels created with AI
For readers new to hyperfiction: see this explainer video: Blueprint Of Icarus Ascending
