An Origin Story
How our autism journey shaped our perspectives and prepared us for a world turned upside down
On a Sunday morning not long ago, I was sitting at our back door, my hair wet from the shower, wearing only a skirt and an undershirt, having been caught mid-going-to-church-preparation by a massive meltdown by my 11-year-old. A big one. Like the damaging kind.
We were huddled by the back door, and he maintained a vice grip on my skirt. The bite mark on my arm was just forming into an angry red arc. He was starting to quietly sob. Now was the coming down moment - the struggle was over and we now had to process what had just happened.
I caught sight of an old photo on the floor nearby. In an extra insult to the moment, it happened to be a photo of my son as a new baby, laying on a blanket next to a plush Snoopy - a photo I used to take every month of his first year to document his growth.
Seeing that was the last straw, and I gathered him in my arms as best as he would let me, and we both sobbed.
These moments are not uncommon in my house, thanks to autism. They are raw and they are terrifying. I don’t actually tell people about these moments, because why would I? It’s not helpful. But after two years of watching the world spiral out of control, and watching the almost zombie-like adherence to medical directives that defy logic, reason, and even data, I started to wonder if my story, HIS story, is helpful to tell. Perhaps some of us need heavy experiences to force us to question medical authority. Hopefully in a respectful way. Respect not often being a reciprocal attribute when you’re chasing answers or help that potentially leads down murky roads with heavy implications.
I am not an activist. I am not a sociologist, scientist, or have any medical training. What I am is a mother of complicated kids who has spent countless hours reading, researching, questioning specialists, and waffling between giving up and powering through.
And what I am is a logical thinker. And a writer. So it’s story-telling time.