I have always led my life with the belief that in order to truly move forward, it is important to understand where you have been. Where some people say "Leave it well enough alone", "The past is the past, it is not good to dwell", "Let bygones be bygones", I seem to repeat the same lessons in life over and over until I finally understand what I was supposed to learn. My past relationships with men is a prime example. But, considering where my lessons began, I have graduated with honors.
And so the box opens.....
Both my parents grew up in abusive households. My parents' parents also were dealt the same unlucky fate. Mostly at the hands of the women who ran the household (I believe from the depression that runs through my family like a brush fire) and the fathers were neglecting with unreachable expectations. This twisted "family tradition" continued onto my brother and I. My mother being the abuser and my father still caught in the toddler's world of "Everything is about me". We were left to fend for ourselves and eventually it was I who had to take the abuse from all three.
This box has been visited more recently, more often than I had ever wished. The secrets that years before I locked inside, now hold valuable information about my son. They hold insight into not only why my brother acted the way he did, but possibly, giving us a better understanding of Gabe. Although never truly diagnosed, my brother was surely on the spectrum. I am not by any means indicating that children who are on the spectrum grow up to be abusive. Definitely not my intention. Nor, am I lending to the belief that genetic depression in the family can raise the rate for Autism. I guess it's possible, but for some reason it rubs me the wrong way. Kind've like the thought of "If you have "defective" genes, you will have "defective" children." Aren't we all "defective genetically" in one way or another? My brother was an abused child on the spectrum. My heart breaks at the confusion he must have felt and what I went through at the hands of someone who lacked the ability to understand what he was doing was wrong. His lack of understanding did not necessarily derive from being Autistic, he was quite caring at times, but rather from the total disregard my family had for me and its members.I have not spoken to anyone from my side of the family since Gabe was born almost three years ago. I do not ever plan to initiate contact with them. My will states that they are never to have contact with my children.
I am always all over the place when I search through those memories. It's like the Bermuda Triangle, I seem to always get lost in them. I'm not sure why I had visited this in my blog. Maybe it was a way for me to put a part of "My history with ASD" out there. Perhaps, to put in words that I am NOT continuing the "tradition" with my family. That the buck stops here. That I am making a difference. That I am not my mother and Gabe is not my brother. We will be OK. It was hard to write that last line.... So I will write it again.
We will be OK.
I just remember not being OK for a long time. Here is Gabe now, almost the spitting image of my brother. It's now my turn.
