The last man standing

Munch, crunch, slurp, burp! That is what I have learned in the past month or so. I’ve been volunteering, for a couple of hours a week, at my sons’ primary school. In particular, I’ve been given the task of helping a student with her writing but I strongly doubt that I’m actually helping.

It turns out that you learn, at the age of 7, how to engage your readers by starting with action words and clues, to some dramatic event. My student’s narrative was titled ‘Mr Mac ate me’. I find this ironic because a year or two ago, I attempted to write an Autobiography¬†(just because anyone can, right?!). I went as far as to source an experienced author to look at a draft of the first few chapters and she was honest with me. She tried to be constructive in the short time she could spare a complete amateur in her busy schedule by telling me the exact same thing those 7 year olds are being taught right now.

I was also told that the story of being Autistic is no longer unique. We are too normal to publish it seems. Oh the irony! The third and final nail in the coffin of my Autobiography (besides not being able to write and being boring) was that I didn’t want to jeopardise any relationships that I have by being truthful about them and without the truth (or more accurately the truth the way I see it) the most interesting parts of my life can’t be told.

And now, I have a conundrum. My most recent blogposts have taken on a different angle because I feel I can no longer blog about the most interesting people in my life, my Autistic sons. Given that my sons’ truths are different to my truth, is it right for me to interpret their experiences and share them with everyone (even for the sake of sharing what I have learned)? Is it fair to them? Is it empathetic to them?

A¬†cousin of mine recently said to me “I miss all those Facebook posts about the funny things your boys say and do. I used to show my friends and they thought they were hilarious”. I wouldn’t have been comfortable with my mum sharing stories with some of her friends, about the funny things I did or worse the personal awkward things and the upsetting things (closer friends I would have been ok with if discussed respectfully).

Maybe there is an age limit where the private stories stop, like when you stop taking nudie pictures of them playing in the bath or something. Maybe, I shouldn’t have started at all. Anyhow, from now on it stops and you are left with just me.


(P.S. I’ve reinvented myself on Twitter @rachelmcnamar15 as a retweeter of the writings of others on all sorts of social justice issues. Don’t follow me unless you are seriously interested in social justice and keep in mind that many posts are Australia- specific)