Distillation

Winnowing, distilling, parsing, honing, exposing.

Great writing requires a ruthless pen. Re-reading the passage over and over, each time cutting paragraphs and sentences. Reviewing the subject matter again and again. Having someone else edit it. Getting expert feedback. That's what I did when I wrote legal briefs for a criminal judge, and later for a civil judge. I learned a lot about distilling the facts, presenting the case, selecting the appropriate rule of evidence. Line up the legal question and the legal standard, and attack.

To truly comprehend something, you must boil it down to its essential bits. You must gnaw on the same material, worry it like a dog with a bone. You must get sick of it and put it aside. You must let it percolate. You must go back and do it again, hopefully with fresh insight. In the beginning the ideas are amorphous and the delivery sloppy. Writing isn't so much about choosing the right word as in truly understanding the material so well that there is only one right word.

This journal/blog/exercise is not about becoming a great writer. Hopefully the writing will improve over time, but my goal is to distill my life. When I first describe an experience, often verbally to a friend, my words are messy, the story meanders, I go off on lots of segues, I justify and wonder and ask for reassurance. My pride gets in the way as does my fear. When I write it down, it's more understandable but still jumbled. But if I write about it again and again, and I seek expert advice on the feeling or condition or issue, over time I find clarity.

When C had a tantrum at school the other week and I had a difficult follow-up conversation with his teacher, I was lost in a sea of vague panic. I knew, at my core, that there was a better way for his team to handle the episode, but I couldn't articulate it properly. I was messy. I cried in front of the teacher and, later, other parents. I cried on my own. I cried and talked with my advocate. I talked with my husband. I wrote about it. I talked with my friends, some of whom work in the school district. I talked with an expert BCBA and then yesterday with my son's behavioral pediatrician. And guess what? My hunch was right and now I'm starting to locate the words to articulate it. I feel I am closer to distilling the problem and solution down to their essential bits.

Example: A student with a disability who has historically struggled with emotional regulation and self-esteem experiences an isolated behavioral outburst that stemmed, in large part, from an emerging illness (strep). Key words: disability, isolated, and illness.

Problematic response: The teacher, whose global general-ed behavioral goal (and, I'm gathering, district-wide goal) is to teach accountability, tried to debrief with C three days after the incident and viewed both his inability to do so and his articulated request for a break as avoidance, e.g., a disciplinary issue. Key words: general ed; accountability; articulated request; discipline. I want to be clear that C was not overtly punished and the conversation was not ultimately forced, but the teacher expressed her unhappiness at his "wrong behavior."

Better response: Since this was an isolated incident, the only of its kind to occur all year, and to occur at the onset of a serious illness no less, the proper response was to praise the shit out of C. Celebrate his rapid recovery time, his return to the school day, and his return the following Monday, and move on. I believe that the school did try to do this initially. However, his teacher's insistence on viewing a request for a break -- which is "goal behavior" on his written plan --as negative and avoidant wasn't the right approach. Key words: Celebrate, move on.

On the whole, his teacher this year has been amazing. She's a literacy powerhouse, provides excellent structure, and loves the kids. C can read sentences out of the young adult novels we read aloud as a family, a significant development. But she's a little rigid and does not understand why C has different needs. Which makes me feel like I'm that micromanaging parent worried about her little snowflake. But my job right now is not to care what other people think, however much I want to.

I listened to the first half of a wonderful interview today on the podcast Ten Percent Happier with Dan Harris. It was called "A Three Part Plan for Anxiety." Anxiety is, of course, my jam, so I appreciated guest Dr. Luana Marques' insights. Takeaways (some direct quotes, some paraphrases):

• There is no way to think yourself out of a panic; you just have to buckle up at that point.

• The brain has a limit on what we can muscle through. White knuckling it is not the solution - that is NOT exposure therapy. For example, if you are terrified of heights, the first step is not to throw yourself out a plane and sky dive. Nothing productive will come of it.

• Slowly train your brain to sit with the difficult sensations.

• Gradually develop the confidence so that you can be "comfortably uncomfortable" in situations that cause you anxiety.

Up until today I misunderstood exposure therapy. I was raised to believe that quitting or not facing one's fears was unacceptable, and the only option was to white knuckle it through much of life, while simultaneously empaling oneself on higher and more difficult goals. That is exhausting and depleting and a recipe for disaster. I like the slow and gradual approach much better. That's what I'd like to do with my children: teach cognitive flexibility over time. It's hard to sit with the fact that your child may learn some things later than their peers. But as long as my children are learning, hopefully we'll get there in the end.

I believe that C has gradually developed his cognitive flexibility over the last year and a half. He is able to remain in school even if he experiences bumps; he has not eloped to escape discomfort once. He has learned to ask for breaks instead of hitting. He is now mentioning to me when something was hard at school; he doesn't elaborate, but the fact that he tells me anything at all is huge. It takes 100% of my willpower not to attempt to cajole other details out of him; key word is attempt, because it's always fruitless anyway. Yesterday, I picked him up early for a doctor's appointment. He seemed cheerful and made a point to hug one of his friends goodbye before we left. On the drive to the doctor's, he told me that he had a really bad day. For C, this could mean anything from stubbing his toe to something much bigger. I responded, "Oh no, I'm so sorry." And although I waited, nothing else was forthcoming. So after a minute, I added, "Well, I'm always here if you want to talk." And that was it. Keeping my mouth shut WAS THE HARDEST THING I DID ALL DAMN DAY. I still have no idea whether his best friend was bitten by a snake, he ate a poisonous mushroom in the cafeteria, or he scraped his knee, and I probably never will. And, after our exchange, C went on to tolerate his behavioral health checkup where the doctor and I discussed grown-up stuff like IEP's and medication dosing. I told C that all of us - me, my husband, and his sister - have our mental health checkups and take our medication, but I know he picked up on some of the more serious undertones of the conversation. So that, for me, is proof positive that he's learning to tolerate tough things.

The expert Board Certified Behavioral Analyst we hired is observing C in the classroom today or tomorrow. From his report, I'm sure I will learn even more that will help me understand this journey that we're on.