Write To Life - Because

Because

Elana Horwitz

Note: This story is a work of science fiction. Parts of it may never even have happened. Bloopa is a made up disorder. Some people with it don't really behave this way.

The night my child walked out of my life was far from a strange night. He had been strange from the beginning, a stranger to his own mother. I had raised him with desperate, forgiving love, alternating with eerie, protective distance. My favorite son, I loved him the worst.

A silky baby with scrumptious caramel highlights in his sand colored hair, I had hoped to provide him with the ideal mother's love. I would be there for him, always. I would never bruise his ego. He refused to allow me to nurse him, though, averting his head from my warmth and thrashing about in frustration. My baby drank happily from a bottle instead, twirling a curl of his lovely hair in between his index and middle fingers. Thus were born the first stirrings of insult.

When my precious son was a toddler, I delayed sending him to preschool, preferring to take him on errands with me. He was super cute in his navy T-shirts and coordinating pants. He stared down admirers, never smiling at their coos, a little Mr. Cool. When he learned to wave bye-bye, he moved his little hands so deliberately that everyone laughed. I guessed he got used to the attention, because even as he got older, he continued to exaggerate his movements, from clapping his hands symmetrically and mechanically to the robotic way he walked and sat.

He just never liked me, though. When other children at his school end-of-the-year ceremony proudly presented their moms with small plants they had grown for them in class, my son stared at me, scowling and empty-handed. "He simply refused," the teacher blushed, embarrassed. He wanted nothing to do with the project."

As he grew older, our conflicts grew terrible. Friends said it sounded like all the typical teenage stuff, but it was hell for me. Once, tearfully, I begged to know if he even loved me. My son froze with a perplexed look on his face. Annoyed, he spat out, "I don't know what love is!" Staring at him in shock, I shook like a buzzing cell phone. After all I had given him, my son was disgusting, and I was disgusted. Eventually he left me, strolling mechanically out of my life, and leaving me even more bewildered than emotionally tortured.

Estrangement from my son affected my psyche in unusual ways. I denied the fact that he didn't care. I excused him. I screamed at him in my nightmares. In my daydreams, we reconciled and embraced. I ran hot water full blast and cried my mantra in the shower: why, why, why? There seemed to be no answer. This horrific tragedy just was. My son was just who he was, and that meant I, his mother, got left behind. A black computer screen, he had shut down on me, and I was clueless as to a way to restart the system.

I needed some way to cope, to garner the strength to carry on with daily tasks. To stay sane, I tried to make sense of the nonsensical, to understand the irrational; to sort into neat laundry piles the scattered mess of haphazardly stained swatches of rough material.

So the visitations began.

Mady was the name I created for her, my secret password I based on the hint of her reminding me of a little girl, a mere maidele. She had been hurt, but I didn't understand exactly how, or when. I got the feeling that neither did she.

Thin glass separated us, always. First we would stare at each other wordlessly, wondering. Then, once we began to talk, I was so drawn to her, and she to me, that we felt it challenging to part without losing a piece of our selves.

Mady confided her solitary thoughts.

"I say what I believe is right to say; not what I feel. I'm not sure what I feel."

"Why?" I wanted to know.

"There isn't any reason," she stammered. "It's who I am."

When Mady said that, it made no sense.

"I don't believe you," I asserted with trepidation. "There have to be reasons for people's behavior. When I ask 'why', you have to answer, 'because'. You have to give me a reason.

But she wouldn't, or couldn't. Mady seemed damaged beyond hope. Yet, I believed in that little girl. I never stopped rooting for her to attain personal success.

We were to meet on many occasions.

Her stories were sad, disappointing, and painful to acknowledge. She whispered them, as if she were trying to disassociate her self from her experiences. Mady spoke about herself in the third person, saying "she", instead of "I".

"But your life is amazing," she marveled. You know yourself so intimately. You have such self-confidence. You are so busy, so fulfilled. Your days are full."

"Don't admire me!" I felt like shouting. You limit me to a false icon. I'm less, and I'm more. I've worked. I've struggled. I had support. I had friends. I became. I still work. I still struggle. My life is so very full, and so very overwhelming. I am greatly burdened, and incredibly grateful. I feel Hashem's love. I have family. I have friends. My friends and family can sometimes understand that they don't understand. I'm blessed with opportunities to grow. I'm still becoming."

I would break my gaze with her, and return to my reality. Mechanically, I lived, even as I mourned my estrangement from my son.

Sleepless nights brightened into blessedly busy days. Weeks melded into months. My son did not communicate with me. When my family and friends tired of my despondence, determining that enough was enough and it would do me no good to discuss the matter further, I went undercover with my pain. I suffered acutely, silently, anonymously.

It helped to visit Mady, whose circumstances were more difficult than mine.

"I'm stuck here, you realize," she told me, and I nodded in admission. "I will never move on. All I can do is tell you my stories, and place my hopes in your successes. You are my future. Through you will I finally be free."

"Mady," I told her once, "we are the same, but different. You are an imprisoned child. I must live as a woman."
I knew that from her perspective behind the fragile glass, she could never understand.

Sunsets led to sunrises, but I didn't remember growing older. In my heart, I remained a caring mother to my son. People in my life advised me to let him go, but how could I abandon a puzzle with missing pieces? I had to understand.

After a long while, longer than I ever imagined I could hold on without freefalling into space, I found the answer to why. Don't ask me how I made my discovery. I have always wondered which is my stronger talent, intuition or determination. Now that I have grown old, I realize that the two are co-dependent. And when both determination and intuition come up short, sometimes a mother makes a secret agreement with Hashem. Hashem listens.
Hashem has compassion and sometimes tells a mother because.

I believe that it was Hashem who downloaded the page to my computer screen.

September is Bloopa Awareness Month, the article's heading read.

I read. And I clicked, link after link. Bloopa was why.

The articles told me this:

Bloopa Disorder was once thought to be rare, yet more and more people have been diagnosed in recent years. This could be because there is an actual increase in the number of individuals who meet its criteria, or due to improved diagnostic methods, and greater awareness of medical conditions in the general population. Another point to bear in mind is that due to advocate groups, Bloopa has been officially defined to include milder symptoms and a wider range of difference among patients.

Signs include:

Difficulty in associating emotions with humans or objects; the person with Bloopa may seem to forget that he loves his wife, or is fond of chocolate ice cream. This characteristic is often misunderstood, and the patient thought to have a different condition.

The patient may respond with feelings of insecurity; may need a lot of time to feel certain that a relationship is sincere, or that an object is safe.

Sensitivity to botanical triggers; there may be an aversion to table flowers or falling autumn leaves. Potted plants may appear frightening. Blades of grass may be perceived as painful as razor blades.

The patient may respond by avoiding nature. She may claim that she simply does not enjoy natural experiences or objects. Having no other explanation, she may believe this to be the case. Hearing others discuss these matters may cause anxiety.

Grasping pens and pencils between the index and middle fingers is common, rather than the normal way of grasping between the thumb and index finger.

Marked contrast in hair color (natural highlights).

The most outstanding characteristic of Bloopa is the individual with this syndrome behaving in a robotic way, seeming to exaggerate his movements, and abruptly halting physical motions.

Not all of the signs of Bloopa will appear in all people with this disorder. In symptoms that appear, some may be very pronounced and obvious, while others may be subtle.

I found my son. Don't ask me how. By the time Hashem led us to each other, my child already knew. Our reunion was low tech, low volume. I slipped a circle of plastic onto his arm.

"Look at this gold band on your wrist," I told him sincerely. "Wear it always. See it, and associate it with knowing that your mother believes you have a heart of gold. I truly do."

He stared at me. I was no longer a suspicious stranger, but not quite a trusted friend.

Pressure built in my sinuses and I struggled to breathe. "I truly... truly..."

"Truly what?" he prompted.

"I truly love you," I assured him, completing my upload. His eyes double clicked astonishment.

"Just because I have Bloopa?"

"Nope. Just...because."

Like expected sponsor ads, tears popped up on my face. My surging arms reached for my son to draw him close. He stood still as a frozen computer screen, his eyes flashing red warning signals. But he didn't tense his muscles to push me away. Trapped by confusion, he was unable to give a hug. I began to appreciate his struggle to accept one.

He started his journey to adulthood, and my rendezvous into childhood was helpful no longer.

So the visitations halted.

I met her one last time, to thank her for letting me visit. I peered at Mady in the glass that brought her into view. Then I prepared to walk away from her domination of my thoughts. As always, we averted our gaze precisely at the same determined moment. We would escape each other for a while. In one synchronized movement, Mady turned back to her world and I moved on to mine; the hesitant, hallowed dance of each mirrored identically in the other.