Notes On The Spectrum free discussion of this chapter: Shifts
Phase shifting is what I call my physical transformation with an up or a down in mood. When the angry reds arrive, my entire chemical makeup goes from positive to negative. Like the PH balance went from alkaline to acidic. I can taste the collapse, like pennies, in my mouth, or blood.
A shift toward the upside also has an electrical effect. I buzz. My mind is filled with effervescent thoughts about music, fame, girls, success. In my twenties, I would often go too far courting orbital velocity. Drugs, sleep deprivation, or just plain mania would cause a scramble of creative production of large but limited value. Those projects were puffed with the hype of my mind. There was little substance of value in my blastoff attempts.
I’ve learned to temper the burn. Slow the descent. Navigate and shoot for the middling way. Average mood. Maybe, slightly elevated mood. Can I love myself and be productive when I’m in the normal range?
A writer friend said a few years ago, “Your 5 is like my 8. I would kill for an ‘average’ day of yours.’ The same writer friend who stopped taking my calls when I visited New York City. Voicemail, no callback. Okay. Loss for both of us. Hope you’re okay.
In my most recent run of shift work, I’m also seeing how I carve my life into smaller chunks. This morning I’m due at the store at 8 am. As I’m sipping my coffee, I understand I have two hours before work. The subdivisions of four two-hour sprints in each shift have become like a circadian rhythm. “Oh, I’ve got a quarter of a shift of me time this morning.
I start the coffee, sit in the hot tub for a few minutes, catching my sleepy body with the tonic before the tonic, hot water, and then coffee. A few rituals of lighting a candle, saying some kind of affirmation or prayer, lighting an incense, and settling into my comfy chair for a session of … well… this.
Happy place. Quiet. I can hear my son’s laundry tumbling in the dryer. He was asleep face down on the dining room table when I woke up to pee at 4 am. At 6 am, he has moved to the rocking chair on the screen porch. An all-nighter that was mostly sleeping in uncomfortable positions, not “coding” as he likes to claim.
He’s got no time for entertainment or watching a show. He’s got to work. Hmm. Sounds a lot like my mom’s complaint about how hard painting in her studio was for her. My son is avoiding work, avoiding responsibility, avoiding me in many ways. I’d say he’s right on track for a teenager. His maturity was delayed by my removal and replacement by an OCD-prone stepdad and mom who leans into avoiding a problem rather than dealing with it.
“We need to establish our story. What are we going to tell people?”
Framing is what it’s called in Systems Centered Therapy, SCT. Frames can either be conscious stories you are telling yourself, like the one above about my son. But frames can also be false beliefs that are unhelpful and even destructive. Oh, I think I have the perfect example. Just a second, I’ll be right back.
Her overuse of crossed fingers says a lot, an incantation almost. The opposite of an affirmation. This is a passive-aggressive plea to some god she worships. The god of framing to hide the shame. There’s more packed into this text message than she realizes. “Emo mom?” She’s also deluded. Anti-emo is more of her modus operandi. My logical parse of her message: motivated, sweetly, emo, mom. A sequence that feels more ick than hopeful. More “please please please” than optimistic. She orbits a different sun.
Her frame is that he’s motivated and by the grace of good luck and god he will continue to move forward. Except he’s not moving forward. He’s crashing in every room of the house except his bedroom. He’s falling asleep in his car in the driveway, on the back porch, in his workshop, slumped over a rifle. Not good. Momentum, yes, but toward what goal?
He’s not looking for a job, that’s clear.
A year ago, when discussing his future, he would talk about “getting some shitty tech” job after he graduates. I guess that’s still his frame. Jobs are shitty. Entrepreneurialism is cool. Guns are cool. Smoking on the back porch, cool.
Yesterday, listening to him coo and coddle his “snack food” employer, I could hear the lies and feints. He thinks he’s smarter than everyone. Hides behind the tech talk. Say everything is okay and progressing a little more slowly than he’d hoped. I chuckle. He’s hardly working on it at all. Nightjacking with his weapons, doing something in all-night coffee shops. Sleeping anywhere. Complaining about not having enough time or a big desk to put his big monitor. So he could get some real work done.
For two months, he’s been complaining about it. Has. Not. Done. One. Thing. Except make me park outside the garage in the driveway because he was working on reorganizing something. A project, a gun, a new set of tech bling that’s going to make his life so much better.
He’s buying a lot of things. Amazon shows up at my door more frequently than all three neighbors combined. Follow the money. He’s not getting paid until the first workable demo is complete. Yet, he’s still buying night vision binoculars, scopes, and REI military-style pants. At least they aren’t camo. He looks like a mercenary. That’s his plan. I wonder if this look is conducive to selling MDMA, or if his vibe is part of his brand when he’s on the town, doing whatever he’s doing at 3 am on a Tuesday.
There’s no crisis.
My patience is waning. It’s time for some Nana-like discipline.
I’ll stay here for another forty-five minutes, then I’ve got to go. The quiet is nice. The absence of his mad hatter arms dealer dance is a relief.
I’ll repeat it for my own comfort: there’s no crisis.
