As the door swung open, Ethan came in, one hand clutching a greasy fast-food bag while the other held a soda. He tossed his blue backpack onto the hallway floor, and I moved in for a hug. He offered a half-hearted return. Sundays are family afternoons, and with my partner, Mike, we have five children, with Ethan being the middle child. Born second in a set of fraternal twins, he has large hands and the sweetest dimpled smile. When he turned 17, we faced the gut-wrenching decision to place him in an Intermediate Care Facility for Individuals with Intellectual Disabilities (ICF/IID), a choice many refer to as a group home.
In the year leading up to his move, Ethan exhibited violent behaviors, sexual aggression, and even began smearing feces. Looking back, I realize we should have sought placement sooner—for his well-being and for the safety of our other children. Ethan has Autism Spectrum Disorder Level 3, which is often described as severe autism. He can utter a few words but is mostly nonverbal. His extreme pica, a condition that drives him to ingest non-food items, requires constant supervision to prevent harmful incidents. Despite years of toilet training, he still wears diapers. With the combination of raging adolescent hormones and rapid physical growth, he became a formidable presence in our home. It felt like we were living in a constant state of alert, prisoners in a chaotic existence.
I vividly recall waking Ethan one morning, only to find that he had deliberately removed a clean diaper, soiling his bed and smearing it across his face. In those moments, I had to suppress my disgust and tend to the mess, cleaning him and everything around him. The emotional toll was immense, and I often found myself detached, referring to my actions in the second person as a way to cope.
Daily episodes of violence became our new normal. Ethan often targeted Mike, but I wasn’t spared either. While Mike managed to largely protect the other kids, there were times when he had to restrain Ethan, resulting in bruises on both sides. Occasionally, a glimmer of humor would break through the tension. One evening, while trying to prevent Ethan from lashing out, Mike channeled a deranged Buzz Lightyear, exclaiming, “Not today, Zurg!” This startled Ethan enough to momentarily diffuse the situation, but it was a fleeting victory.
Just a week after Ethan’s placement, I found myself crying in the grocery store, mourning the loss of our routine—no more lactose-free milk or Pop-Tarts. For the first six months, every sight or sound reminded me of him, and I was overwhelmed with guilt, anxiety about his well-being, and an aching longing.
Every Sunday, as soon as Ethan arrives, I mentally critique his appearance: Is his hair cut? Have they shaved him? How clean are his fingernails? Even though the group home may not meet my exacting standards, they provide round-the-clock supervision, something I could never manage while juggling four other kids and full-time jobs. This arrangement has ultimately been the best decision for both Ethan and our family, yet the relief I feel is tinged with guilt.
Ethan has been on a waiting list for funding to support his living at home for nine years. I hope his name rises to the top of that list soon. However, when that moment arrives, I intend to decline the opportunity.
If you’re interested in learning more about home insemination options, check out this article for useful insights. For those considering pregnancy, this resource can offer valuable guidance, while this page serves as an authority on the topic.
Summary:
Transitioning away from living with an autistic teen can be an emotionally charged decision, filled with guilt and anxiety. As families navigate the challenges presented by autism, finding the right support systems, such as group homes, can lead to improved well-being for both the child and the family.
Keyphrase: Autistic Teen Transition
Tags: “home insemination kit”, “home insemination syringe”, “self insemination”