Let’s get one thing straight: I know you, Autism. Although I can’t physically see or touch you, for the past decade, I’ve faced you head-on. You are a puzzle—confounding teachers, therapists, coaches, and even myself. Yet, in a strange way, I feel like I understand you better than I do my own self.
You are a mirage, an illusion. You’re the last one picked in a dodgeball game, dodging and evading until everyone else gives up in frustration. You are the shadow that demands melatonin to secure just a few hours of sleep each night. You are the insidious coil of anxiety that wraps around my child’s spirit, whispering irrational fears about dogs and temperature. You are the thief attempting to take my son away from me.
And I dislike you—yes, I said it. Autism, I truly dislike you.
I resent how you compel him to touch every piece of food and dip his fingers into every glass of milk before he can even take a bite. I cannot stand that sports are off-limits because of you. You make him feel so isolated. I hate the way you force him to struggle to find words while the world rushes around him, filled with jokes and conversations that seem to pass him by.
His mind is a chaotic whirlwind, racing from maps to melodies to the history of strawberry jam. I want to shout at you to let my son have a moment of peace. He doesn’t even like strawberry jam!
And what about his body? Why can’t you allow him some stillness? Watching you control his movements—his arms, legs, and hands—is like witnessing a puppeteer manipulating strings.
You also make me feel inadequate. You turn me into someone who’s tired, unsure, and overwhelmed.
Last week, our family of seven took a trip to visit my sister in Connecticut. I know you were right there with us, causing chaos.
For much of the two-hour drive, my son sat in the second row of our minivan, insisting we play the same three songs repeatedly at a specific volume. When things weren’t just right, he erupted in frustration. You drove us all insane.
Here’s a little secret: When I’m feeling lost and defeated, I retreat to my bedroom and cry. I sit in the big leather chair by the window, mourning for the boy who wishes to live independently, who dreams of graduating, enjoying playdates, and baking, even though he struggles to grasp the concept of money. I mourn for his innocence and the way his heart and mind cannot keep up with his growing body. I weep for the boy he might have been.
You and I are locked in a constant struggle, each of us holding one of his hands. I pull him toward a world filled with diplomas and opportunities, while you drag him back into a confusing darkness where bizarre distractions reign.
Yet, just an hour before we arrived at my sister’s, you loosened your grip and allowed him to relax into sleep. Seeing his peaceful face in the backseat filled me with relief. But, of course, you returned with a vengeance just ten minutes from her house.
“Why is the radio off? Where are my songs? Turn them on!” he shouted. “The dogs! I don’t want to see them!”
I reminded him, “Jack, you’re not afraid of dogs anymore, remember? We have a puppy now.” But you wouldn’t let it rest, would you?
After two hours at my sister’s, we were both exhausted. I could feel you beside me, watching the kids play and open gifts. For the first time that day, we both stepped back from my son.
As I slumped against the couch, I noticed her dog—a big chocolate lab—lying on the floor. I watched my tall son carefully navigate around him at first, then finally sit down beside him with a sigh.
And it hit me: I can’t escape you, Autism, nor do I want to. You are here to stay, and so am I. Believe me when I say I will never give up on my son.
Sitting there on that couch, I wondered if we could coexist peacefully. Perhaps we could become tentative, unlikely friends.
I can sense you chuckling in the shadows, thinking I could never truly dislike you. But the truth is, I’m pulled in two directions. For every struggle you inflict—making him rigid, lonely, and sad—you also contribute to his humor, charm, and intelligence. In your strange way, you complete him. To love him is to accept you as well.
And how I love him.
Sometimes I weep for the boy who could have been, but I smile daily for the boy he is. I laugh, chuckle, and revel in his existence.
You are the unexpected punchline at dinner. You are the spontaneous hug from behind and the first bite of homemade chocolate cake. “Mom, look! I frosted this all by myself!”
You are possibility, hope, and progress. You are my son, who stands proudly in his red turtleneck, arm draped around a gentle dog.
You are Jack.
In peace and newfound friendship,
Jack’s Mom
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Summary: This article is a heartfelt exploration of a parent’s complex relationship with Autism, capturing the struggles and joys of raising a child with this condition. It reflects on both the challenges posed by Autism and the unique gifts it brings to the child’s life, emphasizing the importance of love and acceptance.