“The past is a great place to visit but never to stay.” This was the line my father fed to me as he put his hand on my shoulder as he left New Hampshire after 33 years.  I took it in, tried to digest it and watched him get into his car.  He went his way, and I went mine.  Any script that I had in mind combusted.

Like the demise of my parents marriage, the diagnosis of Autism hit me to my core.  I knew that I would have to speak to my mom and dad about Sawyer’s diagnosis before I was able to even consider speaking to anyone about it.  

I had zero fear telling my mom.  She had always been the parent I’d confide in.  With that being said, the few hours after visiting with Dr. Pinto, knowing that I would be able to talk with my mom brought me some comfort in a time in which I felt little.

Petrified would best describe my thoughts on reaching out to my dad.  As supportive as he is, he flourished on information to understand.  I wasn’t in the emotional state to explain any information and he would  be awaiting my call. I did the only thing I could do to get through the conversation. I got in my Jeep and just drove.

I didn’t go far.  Approximately 3 miles.  For the first time in 8 years, I returned to my childhood residence.  I felt it was fitting to dig into my past as a lifeline to guide me through my present.

14 Dodier court was built by my father.  I remember at age 10 when he brought the blue prints home.  I remember the foundation being poured.  I also remember closing the garage door the day after he left.  It was the day I finally felt like an adult. 

As I drove up the driveway, it was like I was an intruder.  Like I didn’t belong.  8 years later, I was out of place.  The trees were longer, the leaves covered all the grass and the bricks had darkened.  This wasn’t home.  All the memories were just that.  So I turned around.  I let my past reside in my rear view mirror.  There would be no lifeline, the most difficult phone call I would have to make would be outside of my comfort zone.  I had zero choice because I didn’t have a comfort zone anymore.

3 thoughts on “The rear view mirror. 

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