When I calmed down, I tried to decide what to do. All I could think about was that I needed to check on Jeremey, but they’d catch me going out the front or the back door in the house. Also, probably they were right. If I went to Jeremey’s house, his parents would stop me from seeing him.
If he still had his phone, though, I could call him, or text.
I texted. His parents wouldn’t hear if he had the sound muted, which he usually does.
Jeremey, this is Emmet. I am worried about you. I’m worried you’re upset. I want to help you, but my aunt and parents are being strange. Please tell me if you are okay and how I can help you. If I can help you.
After only a few minutes he replied. Except I could tell by the way he answered something was wrong.
am v ovrwhlmed
Sometimes Jeremey is sloppy about spelling and punctuation, but never that bad. Usually he lies and says he’s okay too, but today he admitted he felt bad. I didn’t know what to do.
I want to help you. Can I come over?
His reply was quick, and it made me sad.
no bcuse mom
I felt sad. No, because Mom.
If I shut my eyes, I could see him on his bed, lying under the covers using all his energy just to push the buttons. Even if we used the phone, speaking would be hard. Plus, his mom would hear.
I was angry with Jeremey’s mom. My brain octopus was furious, and I wanted to give in and be angry, but I pushed it aside. Anger wasn’t important right now. Jeremey was.
Do you want me to keep talking to you? I know it’s hard for you to type back, but do you want to keep texting? You can type Y or N.
It took a few seconds, but he typed y.
I relaxed and sat cross-legged on the floor on my thinking cushion. I wished I could use a keyboard—then it occurred to me that if I hooked my wireless keyboard up to my phone with Bluetooth, I could. Excited, I typed brb—that’s shorthand for be right back—and I set myself up, with my keyboard on a board on my lap and my phone propped up on a bookshelf. Then I started to type.
Sorry, it took longer to get ready than I meant it to. I set my keyboard up with my phone, so I can type fast. But I have a question. I want to ask you some things, but are you too overwhelmed to answer? I can maybe make them yes/no questions, but I don’t want to make you talk if your depression is feeling loud right now. So here is my first question: can I ask you some questions?
y
I smiled and started typing again. I’m glad. But let’s make a code. Y is yes and N is no. D is done, meaning you want to be done talking. If you do that, I will say goodbye and text you later. If I ask something you don’t want to answer, say X. If I make you angry, type A, and I will apologize. Does that sound okay?
It took him a few minutes to answer, and when I saw his big reply, I understood why the big pause.
y. but add S for me saying sorry, and H for I hear you but don’t have anything to say. so sometimes it doesn’t have to be questions.
These are good. You’re good at modifications, Jeremey.
One more. T for thank you. That text came through, and then he added, t.
This was what Jeremey did. I was nervous for him and angry at our parents and my aunt, but he could still make me feel good.
You said I can’t come over because of your mom. Is she angry at me?
y
This made me angry right back, but I made it wait. Is she angry with you?
y. also sad.
I wanted to ask why she was sad, but that would be too hard for him to answer. I couldn’t think of another question, so I told him about Althea. My aunt acted strange when I said we were boyfriends, and she got weirder when I said we kissed. A thought in the back of my head came to the front, and I decided I would share it with Jeremey, though it made me sad. I think they believe I’m too stupid to be your boyfriend. That it’s not okay for me to have you for a boyfriend because I’m autistic.
Jeremey interrupted me, he texted so fast. n i am broken one
I was so angry I wanted to type an A for angry instead of an answer. You aren’t broken. You have a mental illness. Mental illness doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means your brain is sick. Don’t say you’re broken. It’s mean. Don’t say mean things about yourself.
There was a long pause, then he typed h. And then s.
I had a question now, but I had too many emotions about it. It took me a long time to put my words together. Are you still okay to be boyfriends?
I had the words typed for a long time before I could hit send. But Jeremey’s answer was fast.
Y
Then, after a short pause, RU?
My chest had hurt while I tried to be brave enough to send, but now it was warm and happy. Yes, I want to be your boyfriend. More than ever.
T
I hummed for a minute, feeling happy and needing a minute to let myself feel happy because Jeremey still wanted to be with me. But I made it quick. He still needed to feel better. I worry they won’t let me see you now, but don’t worry. I will be persistent until they let me. I’m good at being persistent.
h
t
I rocked and hummed as I tried to get brave enough for the next question. Can I be persistent with your mom?
He paused, then typed IDK. That’s shorthand for I don’t know.
I sighed. I don’t think your mom likes me. It makes me sad. I practice my social skills every time before I come to your house, but she makes unpleasant faces at me. Do you know what I’m doing wrong?
It took him a long time to answer. mom wants everyone to be normal esp me
I wished he could use full punctuation so I could understand him. Did you mean to say your mom wants everyone to be normal, especially you? When he typed another Y, I shook my head and rocked before I typed.
Jeremey, there is no such thing as normal. It’s wrong of your mother to say you have to be normal. I can’t be normal either. I have autism. My aunt has autism too. My dad has lactose intolerance. My mom’s feet are a whole size different from each other, and her sleeves are always too short. Everyone is different. Nothing in the world is the same as anything else, so how can anyone be normal?
I worried he would type X or D, but after a long time, he said, my mom believes in normal but I can’t be normal. it makes me sad.
I was trying to think of what to say back when he typed again.
sometimes I want to kill myself. a lot of times I do.
I hummed loud, and I had to flap my hands before I could type. Jeremey, it makes me upset when you say that. Please don’t kill yourself. I would be so sad. If you killed yourself, you wouldn’t be alive.
sometimes being alive is v hard
This was a strange thing to say. I tried to make sense of his words, but they didn’t make any sense. How was being alive a hard thing? All he had to do was keep breathing, eat food and not get too hot or cold. Did he have a disability about those things too?
I’m sorry, Jeremey. I don’t think I understand what you mean. How is being alive hard?
It would take him a long time to reply, so I hummed and rocked while he did. When his text came through, I held myself still and read slowly and carefully, so I could understand.
my emotions feel loud and big. its hard for me to keep hold of them. they weigh me down. make me heavy and tired and overwhelmed. sometimes I feel like everyone else is carrying a bucket of water but I’m trying to carry an ocean. its very hard. sometimes I would rather not carry my ocean, even if it meant I couldn’t be alive.
I hummed loudly and rocked. I made hand signs and flapped too before I could type a reply. This is another good thing about Jeremey. He uses metaphors I can understand.
I replied.
Autism is like an ocean for me. Little things are overwhelming. Senses, touches. Everyone else can read faces,
but I can’t. Everyone else knows how to look people in the eye, but I can’t. Only autistic people have to have special classes and facial recognition charts to understand what people mean and say. When you’re autistic, everyone acts as if you’re not a real human. I’m angry at my family because they said I was a real human, but when I say I’m your boyfriend, they say I can’t be. So they lied. I’m not a real human.
The anger filled me up, but I told it no, I wanted to keep talking to Jeremey, not be angry.
That’s my ocean. I have to pretend as best I can to be like people on the mean so people don’t call me a robot. I’m not a robot. I’m real and I have feelings the same as everyone else. And I want a boyfriend. Except my ocean doesn’t make me want to be dead. It makes me want to fight. I want you to fight too, Jeremey. I want us to carry our oceans together.
I gave him time to read. I’d said a lot. I reread what he’d said about oceans and what I wrote. I don’t always understand analogies very well, but I liked this one. It made sense. My autism isn’t wet and doesn’t have any fish, but it is big and difficult to carry, and most people think it’s too complicated to deal with. I could see how depression would be the same way.
I tried to imagine a bucket big enough to hold an ocean, and I realized the bucket was the earth. Which meant Jeremey and I were trying to carry the whole planet’s water. It’s not fair, but Dad says little about life is.
Jeremey typed back to me.
I like you a lot, Emmet. I’m glad you introduced yourself to me. I wish you could come over. But I’m too tired to fight my mom. Sorry.
I wished I could go over too, but I didn’t want Jeremey any more upset than he was. He seemed better—he used whole sentences and capitalization now. But probably he should rest.
Jeremey, I’m going to stop texting now, but I will text you later. Don’t feel sad and don’t kill yourself. If you need me, you can text me. I will remember your codes, and if you want me to talk so you can listen, we can do that. Even if it’s not on our schedules. I will change the settings on my phone so you can always go through. Even if it is during my do-not-disturb times like sleeping or appointment, I can talk to you. If it’s a bad time, I will type X and text as soon as I can. And if I text when you need to rest or it’s a bad time, you use the X. Do you agree with this plan, Jeremey?
Y. T.
Then he made the sign < and a 3. At first I started to do math, but then I remembered. That was code for sideways heart. It’s meant to be right-side up, and Emoji will do that for you, but he doesn’t have Emoji installed in his phone. I knew, though, that basically he was hearting me.
I laughed and hummed as I hearted him back.
The week after Mrs. Samson caught Jeremey and I kissing was very stressful. I wore my Dalek shirt so much I had to wash it every other night. If you wear a shirt more than two days in a row it’s gross, and people say you smell. Everyone could have used a Dalek shirt, though, because everyone fought at our house. Mom and Althea fought with me. They fought with each other. My dad fought with them and took me to get so much ice cream I started to not like ice cream. We switched to watching The Blues Brothers instead, which made my tummy less upset.
I loved my dad before that week, but I loved him more after because he kept defending me to Mom and Althea. When I complained they weren’t treating me fairly, he said he agreed with me. How could you, Doug, Mom said, and Althea glared, but he shook his finger in their faces.
“You can’t tell him he’s as normal as everyone and then act like he’s retarded.” Usually when my dad says the R word, I tell him he’s supposed to eliminate it, but he had a red face and it wasn’t a good time to interrupt.
I told him he shouldn’t use the R word when we were watching the movie later. He laughed and tweaked my nose.
Jeremey and I texted, but he didn’t always answer, and I could tell he was getting sadder all the time. He still said I couldn’t go over, and my mom wouldn’t let me go, either. Even my dad said no. It wasn’t until my appointment with Dr. North that everything started to get better.
Dr. North is a medical doctor, but he’s also a social worker. He was a medical doctor first, a psychiatrist, and then he went back to get his social work degree because he thought they did a better job than psychiatrists. He’s been my doctor for a long time. We didn’t live in the same town as him when I was younger, but when we were trying to decide where I should go to school and Mom found out Dr. North was working at the Ames hospital, Mom said this was the perfect setup.
Mom says a lot of doctors at the hospital call him a crazy old hippie, but whenever Mom says that, she smiles. I guess she enjoys crazy old hippies. I like Dr. North a lot, so I enjoy crazy old hippies too.
I see Dr. North every six weeks. I enjoy talking to him, and it’s good to do maintenance on the brain. The same as changing the oil in a car, except there is no exchange of fluids. That would be gross. My last appointment had been just before Memorial Day, so I had a lot to tell him.
I told him all about how I’d rehearsed the meeting and used my social skills, and how well that had gone. I told him about Jeremey’s depression, how it was bad. I talked about how I had helped him clean his room, and how we’d kissed, and then about Mrs. Samson, about Mom and Althea and Dad and the R word, and how I still couldn’t see Jeremey. I talked so fast he had to tell me twice to slow down and enunciate because he couldn’t understand me, and I hand-flapped the whole time.
It’s okay to hand-flap with Dr. North. He says it’s a flap-safe zone.
“We talk every night, but always on text or IM, and it’s not the same thing. I can’t kiss him in texts. I know about putting X and O, but that messes the code.”
He asked about the code then, and I had to explain.
“But he’s using the code all the time now. He hardly ever uses capital letters, and three or four times in a conversation I have to repeat it back with proper punctuation and grammar for confirmation so I know I understand what he said. And we don’t talk long. I can’t see him because his mom thinks Jeremey has to be normal. He can’t be normal. Even if normal were a real thing, Jeremey has bad depression. But he doesn’t have any modifications or facial charts or any behavior therapies. His mom just says you have to be normal now and then they both get upset. It makes me so angry. I want to see Jeremey, and Jeremey wants to see me. He’s eighteen years old, and I’m nineteen. We can do what we want. We’re adults.”
Dr. North is a good listener. He sat still while I said all this, and when I was done, he held his beard for a minute to make sure I was finished talking. “This does sound like a serious situation, Emmet. I understand how this makes you frustrated. May I tell you that you’re doing a good job keeping your emotions in check during a stressful time? I daresay you’re doing better than most of the adults in your life right now.”
He always said things like that, may I tell you something nice. It always made me laugh, which is maybe why he did it. “Yes, you can tell me that.”
“You’re doing a very good job, Emmet. An excellent job. The behavior and accessibility modifications you’ve given your friend—”
“My boyfriend.” It’s rude to interrupt, but I was getting tired of nobody believing we were boyfriends.
“Pardon me. You’ve given your boyfriend some good advice and some excellent tools of accommodation. I hope you feel proud of yourself for being such a good friend and boyfriend.”
I smiled. “I do feel proud. Thank you.”
“Jeremey’s depression, as best I can understand it through your description alone, seems severe. And no, it isn’t something he can snap out of. Depression often requires therapy and sometimes medication for proper management.”
“We have to help him, Dr. North. We have to help Jeremey. I’m worried. He says sometimes he wants to kill himself. I don’t want Jeremey to do that. I can make him laugh and smile—I’m good at it—and people
who are laughing and smiling don’t usually want to kill themselves. But I can’t tell if he’s smiling sometimes in a text.”
Dr. North wore his thinking face, so I waited and let him think.
“Emmet, you remember I told you everything you say to me here is confidential, that I won’t tell your mother or father or anyone else anything we’ve talked about?”
“Yes. I remember.” I loved that part. My mother is bossy sometimes, and I enjoy keeping secrets from her.
“With your permission, Emmet, I want to request we spend some time talking with your mother today about this subject of Jeremey. For one thing, I would like to validate your independence and your right to have a boyfriend if you and Jeremey wish it, and to encourage her to follow up or facilitate your follow-up of this situation.”
I smiled. My mom would have to listen to Dr. North. “Yes, you may tell her.”
“May I give you some advice also, Emmet?” When I nodded, he said, “I would encourage you to keep texting your boyfriend and attempting to see him, with or without your family’s help. You know I don’t care to give you direction, that therapy is about self-exploration and discovery, but in this instance I believe it’s important.”
I felt confusing emotions. Proud because I’d been right about everything, but nervous because Dr. North definitely had his worried face on.
He spent twenty minutes talking to my mother. I counted the ceiling tiles, the stripes in the wainscoting, and the pages in all the magazines, and I still had to configure pi in my head when I ran out of things to count. I was too edgy to do pi for too long, though, so I murmured The Blues Brothers script under my breath.
I was all the way to Mr. Fabulous when Mom finally came out of Dr. North’s office. She was quiet, and she kept looking at me as if I had something on my face. I didn’t have anything on my face, though. I checked, and it was clean.
That night we had a family meeting, which was great. Everyone apologized to me, even Dad who apologized for using the R word. Mom told me she’d call Gabrielle and talk to her about not letting me see Jeremey and about how serious his depression was. We all went for ice cream at Hickory Park, which is the best place for ice cream in the world. Althea didn’t eat any because she’s vegan, but she came with us anyway and had a pineapple soda.
Carry the Ocean Page 9
