Listen closely; I know you well. Even though I can’t see or touch you, I’ve encountered you directly over the last decade. You are an enigma—an intricate mystery—puzzling educators, therapists, coaches, and even bus drivers. You confuse me too. Yet, I feel I understand you almost better than I do myself.
You are an illusion, a deceptive veil. You’re the last participant in the dodgeball game, skillfully dodging and weaving until everyone else tires out and leaves. You are the panther who demands melatonin to achieve just six hours of sleep each night. You are the constricting snake of anxiety, curling around my child’s spirit, whispering irrational fears about dogs and wind chill factors. You are the thief trying to steal my son away from me. You are Autism. And I despise you.
Yes, I said it. Autism, I truly despise you. I cannot stand how you compel him to touch every morsel of food and dip his fingers into each glass of milk before he can take a single bite. I loathe that he won’t participate in sports because of you. I detest the loneliness you impose on him. I hate watching him struggle to find words while the world rushes past him, flooded with jokes, irony, and conversations. I want to scream at you to leave him be, to let his mind rest for just one brief moment. Honestly, he doesn’t even like strawberry jam.
And what about his body? Why can’t you allow it to be still? Observing you manipulate his arms, legs, and hands—making him stim, jump, and grunt through every room—is like watching a puppeteer pull the strings.
I hate the way you make me feel. With you around, I feel foolish, exhausted, and ineffective. I am filled with uncertainty. Just last week, our family of seven took a trip to visit my sister in Connecticut. Don’t pretend you weren’t there; I know you were.
For nearly the entire two-hour drive, my sandy-haired son occupied the second row of our minivan, insisting we play the same three songs repeatedly, at the same volume. If it wasn’t the correct song in the right order at the right level, he screamed as if the world was ending. You drove us all to madness.
Here’s a little secret: I know you think you hold all the secrets, but I have one too. Occasionally, when I’m overwhelmed and lost, I retreat to our bedroom and cry. I sit in the big leather chair by the window and weep for the boy who dreams of living independently but may not, who wishes to walk across the graduation stage, have playdates, and open his own bakery, even though at ten years old, he can’t grasp the concept of money. I weep for his innocence, the way his heart and mind can’t keep pace with his growing frame. I cry for the boy he might have been.
You and I are engaged in a relentless tug-of-war, each of us holding onto one of his hands. I pull him toward me—into a world filled with diplomas, karate classes, and financial literacy—while you drag him back into a shadowy abyss where, presumably, nonstop Nicki Minaj concerts take place.
About an hour before we arrived at my sister’s, you relinquished your grip, allowing him to drift into sleep. When I glanced at him in the backseat, his face relaxed, his breathing steady, and his eyes shut, I was grateful he could finally find peace. But you struck again ten minutes from her house.
“Why is the radio off? Where are my songs? Turn them on, turn them on, turn them on!” he demanded.
“Her dogs. The dogs! I don’t want to see them!”
“Come on! You aren’t scared of dogs anymore, remember? Now that we have a puppy?”
But you wouldn’t let it rest, would you, Autism? You crept back in and tightened your grip on his fingers.
“No,” my ten-year-old whined in his unique way. “No dogs! No dogs! Put them away! Into the basement.”
After a couple of hours at my sister’s house, we were all exhausted. I don’t know about you, but I had a headache. I could sense you sitting next to me on the couch, watching the kids play, dance, and unwrap presents. I could almost hear your uneven breathing. But for the first time that day, we both let go of his hands and took a step back.
As I slumped against the cushions, I noticed her dog—a large chocolate lab with a graying muzzle—lying in the middle of the floor. I watched my tall boy cautiously step around him at first, then over him, before finally plopping down next to him with a sigh of relief.
I realized I can’t live with you, but I also can’t escape you. You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I. Autism, you must believe me when I say I will never give up the fight. But while sitting with you on the tan couch in my sister’s living room, I thought maybe, just maybe, we could coexist as uneasy friends.
You’re laughing now, Autism, I know it. You’re grinning in the corner, your eyes sparkling like the Cheshire Cat. Deep down, you know I could never truly hate you. Because, like a classic tug-of-war, I find myself pulled in two directions simultaneously.
For all the ways you make him rigid, bossy, lonely, and sad, you also make him humorous, lovable, charming, and intelligent. In some bizarre way, you complete him. To love him is to accept you too. And oh, how I love him.
Sometimes I weep for the boy who might have been, but every single day, I smile for the boy who is. I laugh, chuckle, giggle, and love. I know who you are. You are the quiet joke at the dinner table that catches everyone off guard. You are the unexpected one-armed hug from behind and the first bite of rich chocolate cake. “Mom. This one. I frosted it all by myself!”
You are opportunity, risk, chance, possibility, and hope. You are progress. You are the ten-year-old boy in a red turtleneck, casually draped over a big, gentle dog. You are Jake.
In peace and friendship,
Jake’s Mom
For more insights on navigating parenthood, check out our post on the home insemination kit, or learn more about the process from Cryobaby’s home intracervical insemination syringe kit combo, a trusted resource. And for excellent information on pregnancy week by week, visit March of Dimes.
Summary:
This heartfelt narrative reflects the author’s complex feelings towards Autism as it affects her son. Despite the challenges, she acknowledges the joy and love her son brings to her life, emphasizing the duality of their experience. The journey is one of struggle and acceptance, wherein the author learns to coexist with Autism, finding moments of laughter and connection amidst the difficulties.
Keyphrase:
Autism and Parenthood
Tags:
[“home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”]