The truth is harder than fiction

I'm working on a story right now that doesn't involve interviews, online research, or up-to-date information. It's a story of my life.

I don't have a lot of memories before age 12. The ones I do have are pretty insignificant: chasing cats around the farm, watching Oma's arthritic hands cut corn off the cob, designing colonial houses and Poloroids out of Lego, and being relegated to the role of "R2D2's girlfriend" in a playground reenaction of "Star Wars." Definitely not the wellspring of an epic memoir.

The MB Herald wants a 2 page spread about my childhood for an issue on "Disabilities" to be published this Easter. I can't remember much about my early feelings or interactions with my brothers, both of whom have Fragile X syndrome. Since my words seem to flow faster in blogger than they ever do in Microsoft Word I thought I'd do some processing here and see how far it gets me. (If I ever write a book, the publisher will receive their first ever manuscript made entirely of blog posts.)

This Christmas I watched the movie "Bed of Roses" in which Mary Stuart Masterson's character was raised by an absent foster dad. Because she was found in a train station at three months old she didn't even have a birthday. On Christmas Eve her boyfriend takes her to the first family gathering of her life and she freaks out. It feels "normal" and she knows she isn't normal enough to fit into it. I broke down in tears at my first Christmas gathering at my inlaws for exactly the same reason.

Even more than "happy," I've always longer for "normal." Normal isn't subjective, it's a very specific experience. It's the feeling you get when you're in a group of girls and everyone is laughing about how their little brothers do this or that, and you can laugh along, because your baby brother does exactly the same thing. Or when everyone is talking about their family trips to the movies or the campground and you can see "I've seen that one" or "remember the time I dropped my melty marshmallow on my pants?" It's "I get what you mean - I've been there - I'm one of you."

I'm lucky I have an Autism support group now with a "new normal." Where no one stares and clears their throat and changes the topic to precipitation levels when I say "my son tried to stab me with a pencil." Because the woman beside me was just threatened with a steak knife and the dad across the room was up all night with a screaming 10 year old and someone else can't get their daughter to eat bread just because it's square. I wish I had had a sibling support group as a child so I would have known whether there was a "new normal" for that.

I think it's a lie to say that I suffered because my brothers were disabled. I loved and accepted them. I wasn't afraid of their unusual behaviours or their wild tamtrums. I wasn't particularily embarrassed about them in public. Those are the struggles people expect to hear. That's what makes this story so difficult to write.

What made me feel different was that I was alone. And it's the reason I'm doing everything I can to get the support I need now.