My book on Edward continues to come together in real time. This week, I finished up a chapter on conflict. Because Edward is non-verbal, conflict is complicated. When I make a mistake, and apologize, reconciliation can come quickly. But when Edward is in the wrong, it's more challenging. I've been struggling with how to best position myself to allow Edward to take the reconciling lead, to say 'sorry' and unburden himself (something he's never really done before). Here's a (draft) excerpt based on a story that played out Tuesday:
"But if a person with Down syndrome needs more time to work things out, then the first thing I need to do is to leave space for that. As a highly feeling person this is not my natural inclination. If something’s broken, I need to fix it fast. But perhaps that’s the exact wrong thing to do with Edward.
Once I’ve left room for Edward to process things, I need to find a way to revisit the conflict-moment from a different angle—and in a way that is fully present, wholehearted, and comprehensible. I need to come alongside Edward and help him name, as lovingly as possible, his culpability in relation to the conflict—so that he can be freed of any post-conflict angst.
I decided to try an experiment and broach the subject of a recent conflict in one of those loving moments we always have in the car. It was the day after Edward had acted quite unkindly toward me. With his head on my shoulder, just before heading into the pool, I gently reminded him of his anger the previous day, and softly said that he was not very nice to dad. I told him that he had hurt my feelings and almost made me cry. At this point in the conversation, he seemed to be taking it all in (and not recoiling or saying ‘all done’). I asked him how he felt about hurting my feelings. After a few seconds, I realized that he was unable to respond—the question was too abstract. So, I nudged him a bit more and asked if there was something he wanted to say. Immediately something seemed to click for him, and he slowly turned to me and said, “Thank you.” All I could do was laugh and say, “You’re welcome.”
As we walked to the pool it struck me that maybe Edward doesn’t need to be unburdened. Could it be that I’m just projecting what I think he should feel onto him? What if Edward forgives himself for his mistakes as quickly as he forgives others? Because he’s forgiven himself, what if it never occurs to him that he may need to make things right? In his mind he may assume that everyone self-forgives readily—that we’re all as free as he is. I'm starting to realize that, in trying to help Edward unburden himself, perhaps I’m looking for an unresolved thing that no longer resides in him."
This is what writing does for me—it clarifies things. Whether this book gets published or not, it's been so worth writing just for the understanding it's bringing.
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