Omens ...

Something written earlier this summer ... another side to the chaos.

Omens … foreshadowing … we learn about it at school. Every book, every movie and every TV sitcom leads us by the nose to the promised ending through the clever use of foreshadowing. Without it, we’d be lost … lose our tender grasp of the loose-ends of the plot.
It was the second bird crashing into the window that set chills running down my spine … I could clearly hear the voice of my grandmother, Aiti, as it had bristled in my youth upon similar omens. Heraa Yumala … she would have uttered, shaking her white grey head in acknowledgement of the foreshadowing of the gods.
Lessons learnt while young are hard to shake … even if they don’t fit within the logic of our adult lives. Superstitions and old wive’s tales are just that … folk tales created by a less educated generation. Or are they?
Jonathan had been doing okay … not your typical 20 year old … but then again Jonathan had never been typical. The day had dawned bright and sunny … but I’d awoken with nervous butterflies trapped in my stomach … another omen?
Pushing away old wives’ tales and the sense of impending disaster … I set about the business of pretending that everything was as always. Prepared breakfaxt and a healthy lunch for my seven year old vegetarian (did I forget to mention that none of my children are typical? Sorry). Hugged her as she walked out the door on her way to school with her Dad as she did every morning.
Jonathan was wired … restless … and intent on some special project of his own. The last two years had taught me to still my tongue and not judge activities which, in all honesty, spooked me. My precious child was dangling between a world of opportunity and a troubled future marked by incoherence and agitation.
Two years ago all our dreams of a bright future for Jonathan crashed to pieces in the livingroom as Jonathan succumbed to the siren song of a world I can not imagine.
A world that I have had far too much contact with … and yet no understanding of. I just intuitively understood the road signs and slight ‘out of key” sound of the interactions.
Outwardly, he’d been doing well … but now I sit here wondering where he is and I scoff at my own arrogance. By whose measure was he doing “well” … did I have any clue as to what was really going on in his world? in his head? Inside?
It’s amazing really … we can care for and nurture a child through his adult years … buying presents that “suit them”, trying to guess their wishes … and often, arrogantly believing that we know who they are, what they like, what they want, what their troubles are …
What did I really know about Jonathan … about any of the children really? All just cliched snapshots of who I wish they were and what they have chosen through the years to present to me as their “child personna”.
Stereotypes within my own family … now that’s something to chew on. Melanie the responsible one, Will the salesman, Nicole the princess, Stefani the aspiring singer … Jonathan the rebel who was too smart for his own good … the eccentric one.
The one most like his father … in looks, temperament and perhaps, mental illness.
I’m sure every parent faced with saying goodbye to the smashed dreams they had fashioned for their child while they were still in diapers … thinks the same thoughts – “what a waste … too bad … it’s so sad … he was sooo smart … he could have done sooo much!”.
My mind is searching for anything to grab on to … so that I don’t have to face the real issue at hand – where is Jonathan. So here I go wondering if I am sad for myself … and not for Jonathan. Is this like death? Where all the funeral attendees are really just relieved that their number hasn’t come up yet?
But enough babble … his eccentricity and arrogance built up all day … and I could see the questions in Nicole’s eyes as she tried to reason with her brother. Normal questions, if there’s such a thing as normal … why are you like this? Are you doing this on purpose? Why are you not the same as before? How come I don’t have a brother?
And god only knows what other questions she may have within … what anger and disappointment and ugly thoughts she must deal with … that leave her feeling unloving and unaccepting …
True to pattern, Jonathan’s behaviour escalated … the only time he was quiet and focussed was when he was working on his ruler project … ruler project you ask, what’s that? … wish I could tell you. It sounded complex and mathematical while at the same time totally insane.
Insane … there’s that word … we never use it around the house. But it’s always used. It’s used by the mere fact that it’s never used … it’s tip-toed around, it’s avoided and shooshed far away the minute it even threatens to find itself close to someone’s tongue.
The day ended as always with Jonathan retreating into his computer world … and the rest of us retreating into welcome yet uneasy sleep. Uneasy because we had once again not been able to make a difference … we had not found the “magic” combination of words that would get through to Jonathan and snap him out of “IT”. Uneasy because we all knew that we were fooling ourselves … fooling ourselves into believing that everything was okay … fooling ourselves into believing that everything would go back to normal … that one day we would all laugh at this … fooling ourselves into believing that one day Jonathan would be the person we remembered and had made him out in our minds to be.At some point as we all dreamt our uneasy dreams and restless turnings … Jonathan marched to his inner music. Early the next morning, I spotted him on the side of the road sitting in a sofa … looking up at the sun.
Why did I not approach him? Probably because I knew that I would say the wrong thing. That I was not accepting and still in throes of making him better … from what I have yet to discover. I drove past …
Once home, I made note of this to Dave … hoping that he would strike the perfect balance of words and attitude to create the magic that continually eluded me. But there is no magic … just like there is no magic text book or instruction manual …
… and so it came to this … Jonathan returned home in a frenzy … and walked out just as quickly. In crisis … out of touch … a steel rod in his backpack … rings dangling from his glasses … a woolen cap on his head, his ears covered by large earphones. My son looked like one of those disoriented people I have met on the streets of Toronto and offered a few coins to.
How had it come to this?
I saw the fear in his eyes … I felt the bottled up emotion raging through him as he tried to make himself understood despite the words coming out too quickly. And I heard the scream of anguish as he screamed – “I am not crazy” … “I am not crazy” …
The night before I had asked of him numerous times … “J … what is it? What’s all this about?” … What is it? …
What is it? He asked of me this morning as he left … think about that sentence … take the time to put the emphasis on different words …
WHAT is it?What IS it?What is IT … is what he kept asking me …
So it’s been a day … and it keeps getting harder and harder to not let the worry eat me up inside. Scenarios play around in my head … some at the forefront … others in the far reaches of my conscious where I can barely hear or see them.
Is he safe? Is he okay? Do I call the cops? Do I call the hospital again?
Omens …