persevere. symptom? heroism?

Perseveration.

• the tendency for a memory or idea to persist or recur without any apparent stimulus for it
• the act of persisting or persevering; continuing or repeating behavior

   It's a new word to me.  I heard echolalia two years ago for the first time.  These words were both revealed to me in reference to my son G.  He started using echolalia (repeating the words he hears over and over) about the time we started going to speech/behavioral evaluations to try to help him build his verbal language skills.  I was completely unconcerned.  It was obvious to me (the person who is with him every single day of his life so far, watching him, holding him, listening to him, talking to him) he was working at building his language.  He was repeating everything in order to understand it, to learn how to use the words himself.  It wasn't too long before he was no longer using echolalia all day long.  The therapists, however, saw the echolalia as a problem.  "He's stuck."  "He doesn't understand."  "We should fix that."

I use my own experiences as a compass on this journey.  It's all I have.  They are usually not too far off the mark.  When I am working through something I perseverate.  I replay a conversation over and over in my head.  I change things, look at all the angles.  Remember what each moment felt like.  Imagine what the other person was feeling at each moment.  Think about changing things.  This is what I do when I feel helpless, when I feel lost, when I feel like angry.

My gut tells me this is what G is doing now when he perseverates.  He is working on things.  It may look, feel and be an enactment of being stuck.  But it means he is thinking and feeling and working.  This is good.  He is growing, even when he is also pushing hard and going nowhere.

I think it's fascinating how perseveration is a problem, but perseverance is one of those words you might find on an inspirational poster.  They are so close.  One is a heroic act, celebrated, the other a symptom.  I don't buy it.  I think they are two sides of the same coin.  One the one hand, G and I have these horridly upsetting conversations that go around in circles and don't resolve as he says the same phrase or question over and over.  On the other hand, as we are having the looping conversations I believe that we are both trying to find ways to slow down the momentum, to find safe passage to resolution.  I may not be able to "change the topic" as a therapist put it, but (in my mommy heart I believe) that's not what he needs now.  He needs to resolve the spinning so that he can change the topic.  He needs to understand, not just memorize the next step in the conversation.  And the way he will get there?  Endless repetition.  I'll be there with him.

Many horribly miserable conversations with G have been retold in positive and happy new ways since I have been able to understand him better.  Now I now that he has a hard time understanding "not", I can rephrase what I say so he can take it in.  Example:  In the car on the way to school he takes a toy airplane he loves.  Before I would say, "G, you can't take toys into your class, okay?"  He would scream and throw the plane in frustration.  He didn't understand the rules.  He needs (like we all do) to understand the rules to feel confident and comfortable, to trust.  Now I say, "G, when we get to school you leave the plane in the car, okay?"  He looks at me and puts the airplane happily into the pocket of his carseat.

The hardest conversations right now involve time.  "Not tonight."  "Maybe later."  "In a little while."  "Tomorrow."  He seems to sort these responses into two columns... yes and no.  He counts my facial expressions, my tone, my enthusiasm as part of the response because he doesn't understand most of those phrases up there.    He asks again.  I repeat myself.  He asks again, this time looking angry and sad.  I say "I'm sorry; we can't right now.  I know you're sad."  I put my arms out in an appeal.  He pushes me away.  I stay and bear witness to his misery.  He puts his arms up for me to pick him up.  I hold him and tell him I'm sorry.  He asks for me to wipe his eyes, wet from tears.  I say "Okay." and wipe the wetness from his face.  I desperately hope he knows I am there with him, even when the language barrier is too high to scale.

One of the things about G's otherness that scares me the most is this:  There are things about G that I believe he would like help to overcome.  There are other things about G which could be called other or strange that I believe are who he is and are beautiful and good.  I want him to keep these parts of himself safe.  I want him to treasure and revel in who he is, not water it down, hide it, make it fit into some other person's expectations.  It's sometimes hard to figure out which is which or stop and ponder if I am trying to "fix" something because it is causing harm to him or because other people don't understand it.

What I want most for G now and always, is that he will be happy, that he will understand himself and other people, that he will love himself, that he will let himself wholly be who he is.