Let’s be real for a moment. I see you, Autism. Although we haven’t met in person, you’ve been a constant presence in our lives for over a decade. You are complicated and elusive, leaving teachers, therapists, and even my family scratching their heads. You’ve become a part of my reality, and yet I often feel like I understand you better than I understand myself.
You are the elusive shadow, the smoke and mirrors that confuse us all. You are the last child standing in a game of dodgeball, ducking and dodging until everyone else has given up. You are the creature that demands melatonin for just a few hours of sleep. You are the relentless anxiety that coils around my child’s spirit, whispering irrational fears about everything from thunderstorms to harmless pets. You are the thief, trying to take my son away from me.
And I despise you.
Yes, I said it. Autism, I truly hate you.
I hate how you compel my son to touch every piece of food and dip his fingers into each glass of milk before he dares to take a bite. I hate that sports are off-limits because of you. I hate how you isolate him. I hate how you make him struggle to find words while the rest of the world speeds past, filled with humor, sarcasm, and conversation. I hate how his mind is a whirlpool of thoughts, racing from maps to melodies to the history of jelly brands. I want to scream at you to let my son have a moment of peace, to let him rest. The irony? He doesn’t even like jelly.
And what about his physical body? Why can’t you allow him to be still? Watching you control his limbs, making him stim, jump, and grunt through every space feels like witnessing a puppeteer pulling the strings.
You make me feel inadequate and exhausted. I am lost and uncertain with you around.
Just last week, my family and I took a two-hour drive to visit my sister. Don’t pretend you weren’t there, because I know you were. For the entire trip, my sandy-haired son insisted we play the same three songs, over and over, at a specific volume. If we didn’t adhere to his demands, he shrieked in frustration. You drove us all to the brink.
Here’s a secret for you: every now and then, when I’m overwhelmed and lost, I escape to my room and cry. I sit in the corner chair by the window and weep for the boy who dreams of independence yet may never fully grasp it, who wishes to walk across the graduation stage, have playdates, and even own a bakery someday, despite not understanding money at ten years old. I cry for his innocence and the heartbreaking gap between his heart and mind. I cry for the boy who could have been.
You and I are engaged in a constant tug-of-war, each of us holding onto one of his hands. I pull him towards a world filled with possibilities—graduations, hobbies, and financial literacy—while you drag him back into a shadowy abyss where distractions reign and logic is absent.
About an hour before we reached my sister’s house, you relented, allowing my son to sleep. When I glanced back and saw his face relax and his eyes close, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me.
But as we approached her home, you struck back. “Why is the radio off? Where are my songs? Turn them on, now!”
“I don’t want to see her dogs!” he cried out. “Put them in the basement!”
“Jack, remember? You’re not afraid of dogs anymore since we got a puppy!”
Yet you wouldn’t let go, would you? You tightened your grip on his fingers.
After a couple of hours at my sister’s, we both grew weary. I could feel you lurking beside me on the couch while the kids played, danced, and opened gifts. I could almost hear your ragged breath. But for the first time that day, we loosened our hold on him.
As I sank into the cushions, I noticed her big chocolate lab lying on the floor. I watched my tall son carefully step around him, then over him, and finally settle down beside him with a sigh.
In that moment, I realized that I can’t escape you, nor would I want to. You’re here to stay, and so am I. Autism, I will never retreat from this battle. But sitting on that couch, I thought maybe, just maybe, we could find some common ground.
You’re probably smirking at me right now, grinning like a Cheshire Cat in the shadows. You know I could never truly hate you. Because for every rigid, lonely, sad moment you create, you also bring out the funny, lovable, charming, and brilliant parts of him. In a strange 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 daily I celebrate the boy who exists. I smile, chuckle, and beam with pride.
You are the unexpected punchline at the dinner table, the spontaneous hug from behind, and the first bite of rich chocolate cake. “Mom! Look! I decorated the cake all by myself!”
You represent opportunities, risks, and hope. You embody potential and progress. You are the ten-year-old boy in a red turtleneck, with his arm draped over a gentle giant of a dog.
You are Jack.
In peace and understanding,
Jack’s Mom
For more insights and support, consider visiting Infertility Resources to explore valuable information about pregnancy and home insemination. If you’re looking for at-home insemination kits, check out this reputable retailer for your needs. And if you’re interested in related topics, read more about our experiences in this blog post.
Leave a Reply