I feel like people are born to do certain things. Some are meant to achieve greatness; some become famous, cure illnesses, or live their dream life. Some become lawyers, doctors, teachers. Others, like myself, achieve mediocrity at best, and are completely content to wallow in that mud. Some, I think, are born with the patience to chip away at mountains with an ice pick, with kindness so sweet it could rot your teeth, and so full of love that they could literally explode.
Those last people are the ones who should be given this challenge.
You see, I have an amazing son. A handsome, loving, intelligent, almost 4-year-old boy who cares deeply for his little sister. He learns quickly, enjoys the outdoors as well as being inside and loves his cousins. But he also has autism. The doctors suspect Asperger's. We won't know for sure about that last part until April; even so, it's not an official "diagnosis" anymore, they're either on the spectrum, or not. That's fine. It's fine that he has autism, it's part of who he is and I love him more than air.
But I was not built for this.
If I had the patience of the hunter stalking his prey, then maybe. If I was inherently a really kind person, they maybe. If I was full of love, definitely. But life has not made me so.
You're shaped by the challenges presented to you and how you react to them. If you choose to look only at the dark side, then you miss out on the light (and maybe the force?) and the good that can come from it. My life has hardly been easy. Raised by grandparents from a young age due to my mother being schizophrenic and my father committing suicide, I learned early on that a lot of people judge you by your family; or in my case, my mother. My grandfather died of lung cancer when I was in 8th grade, and my grandmother was sent to a nursing home. I moved in with an aunt and uncle in a different state and went to a school more than 5x bigger than what I was coming from. I didn't understand my feelings, and depression ran rampant, unchecked. My grandmother died while I was in high school. So I lost both of my parental figures in the span of five years. I hate to admit it, but this made me bitter.
I moved out on my own and made mistake after mistake, with boys and with my life. I never could stay in school as I never settled on a degree. I moved across the US for a boy, and then came home. I got pregnant unexpectedly, at age 23. I was about to start nursing school. I dropped out after he was born. My then-boyfriend and I got married. I went to school for massage therapy (something I found out that I actually liked), but failed at starting my own business. I'm not a people person; I'm socially awkward, nerdy and clueless. All this made me more depressed.
I lived for my son. I got on medicine for my son. I didn't make time to take care of me. He was my life. And it felt like it shattered the day he was diagnosed.
He's a difficult child. Always has been. Threw tantrums as soon as he figured out he wanted to get to something but couldn't move. Fought like a demon to not sleep, and then never slept a full night. Didn't want to be held. Didn't make eye contact. Didn't learn from his mistakes/punishment. My concerns when he was very young were ignored; all I ever heard from family/friends/doctor was "that's normal for a boy his age," while strangers were pelting me with "I've never seen a kid act that way!"
While his diagnosis was sort of a relief ("Whew! I'm not just a failure as a mother"), it showed me how out of my depth I really am. I try and try and try to do what the doctors and my research says will help him. He's in OT; I applied him for an intensive therapy program. I stand up to his father about being mean. I set a schedule. I try to use positive reinforcement. I try to tailor his diet.
But he keeps getting worse. More violent. More angry. More tantrums. More meltdowns. He's starting to hit and headbutt harder. He's starting to take it out on his sister. He's throwing things, and screaming at the top of his lungs. My friends say medicine may be the only answer; others say cutting out gluten. My head is spinning, and I find myself exhausted and out of patience.
He's so sweet when he's not in one of his "moods." That's what really gets me. But today is a bad day. He is not listening, and when he asks me a question I legitimately don't know the answer to, he keeps pushing. That is actually what led me here today. Because I'm sick of repeating myself. I'm sick of talking to a brick wall. I'm sick of being beat.
We see the doctor on Thursday again. I sure hope we can figure something out, because I'm going crazy and those positive Autism parents drive me bonkers. Because it's not perfect. No one fix is going to help all. And my son is different than yours.
Some people were meant to handle children with special needs. I'm not yet convinced I am one of them.
