Strawberry Milk Moments: Raw Breakdown

Be prepared… This isn’t my typical positive, up-lifting post. Expect profanity. Expect the incomprehensible emotions of a mother feeling lost, angry, and scared for herself and her child. Expect to read the selfish thoughts and feelings about being the mother of a child with autism. Expect absolute honesty.  Judge if you may. I, quite frankly, don’t give a damn...

“You’re over-protective. You know that, right?”

I felt the heat of absolute fury rise from the pit of stomach until my cheeks were bright red and I was certain smoke would be pouring out of my ears at any second. That particular evening, the filter that usually tames my deeply hidden emotions was disintegrating quickly.

My fingers pounded against my laptop’s keyboard. For a second, I wondered if the “F” key would fly right off. I replied,

“I’m over sensitive… It still hurts.”

I needed her to know that I was still hurting in a way that I felt far too weak to explain to anyone else. Only she could understand me. We share a bloodline full of extra-large hearts and larger than life emotions. We share a lifetime of priceless childhood memories and lessons that only we find solitude in. There are some sad and lonely nights that only a glass of strawberry milk and the memories of innocent, care-free summers spent with my cousin, Carrie Mae, can get me through. She knows I’m crazy. She understands my crazy because she loves just as insanely unfiltered and unconditionally as I do. She understands that when I say “it still hurts” that it REALLY FUCKING HURTS! Still, every single day… it still REALLY hurts.

I continued, checking that CAPS LOCK was turned off to ensure that I didn’t appear as absolutely insane as I felt…

“It still doesn’t seem fair. I hate autism. I hate it more than anything… ever.”

As you all know, I wasn’t smacked by surprise when I was told that my child was autistic. I knew. I’ve known. It has been apparent to me that something wasn’t “quite right” for years. 

Quickly she replied,

“Then say that.
Feel that.
Stop trying to be tough… hate the shit out of it.
And when you’re done hating it… It will take a new form.”

I rolled my eyes. She doesn’t get it. It will still be autism. My kid will still struggle every single day… no matter what I do or how much I love him. Nevertheless, she was the only human on the planet that I felt secure in sharing my insanity with, so I replied with paragraphs full of vulgar language, the only words I found appropriate for my raw, painfully admitted emotions.

Shamelessly, I begged,

“I just need someone to tell me how to take care of my baby. That’s all. No one does. No one will. No one knows, I guess.”

I pressed SEND and felt my body weaken. I slouched down, feeling lifeless, and melted into the cushions on my couch. I found myself lost in hopelessness. I was the weakest I have ever been.  I needed her more than I can remember ever needing anyone… She replied,

“You don’t need that.
No one on the planet is more equipped to deal with your child than you are.
I can guarantee you that.
God gave him to you….
Not to the psychologist.
Not to the behavioral doctors and special schools.
To you.
Don’t forget that.”

I felt the break. I don’t know if it was my heart, my soul, or the tough “dedicated, determined mother” front that I have been putting up for so long… but something broke and all I had to say was,

“I just don’t know why sometimes. I haven’t made it easy for him. I just feel trapped. Desperate to escape… but no where to go… No where to run. Like a lost little puppy.”

She knew. She could feel the desperations in my words as they appeared on her screen. She could see my terror. She knew exactly what I needed… and she offered the words of kindness and love that I was in dire need of hearing;

“Angel wings often come in the form of diplomas and experience.
And in the mean time…. Trust me… you are doing a fantastic job.
No one else could…..
I couldn’t. I know that for a fact.
That may sound fucked up, but I’m not built with that type of heart. I couldn’t do it.
I’m no where near strong enough.”

I poured my heart out. I literally felt it shooting straight out of my fingertips as I wrote to my cousin about all the fear, hurt, resentment, and absolute hatred I felt towards autism. It was humiliating, humbling, and rejuvenating all at the same time. I felt free. Someone knew. Maybe she didn’t understand but I told her… and someone finally knew that I am absolutely clueless about how to care for my child.

What She Didn’t Know

What she didn’t know was how I had spent the last week and a half consumed with the darkest sense of loneliness I could ever imagine. Kelson and Kaylee spent the week of Christmas at their dad’s house. The baby was sick. I spent day and night wandering this house, checking my phone, peeking out the windows of my home, desperate for the slightest sign of “family”… of stability… of unconditional love… I needed it. I was desperate for someone, anyone… to show up and love me through the holidays without any huge expectations in return. I just needed “family” to show up simply because they loved me and wanted to be around me. I needed someone to anticipate the fact that my heart would be aching for my children, to know that I may have little to offer in return, but love me enough to have a selfless desire to lighten my day and ease my pain. I wanted my babies home and I needed someone to tell me that I was alright… that I’d make it through the day and everything would be okay… that I, myself, was loved… but no one showed up.

The love I needed from someone outside of my home is (or was) nonexistent on Christmas day. Perhaps I am dramatic. Maybe holidays without Kelson and Kaylee will get easier… I can only hope. I am not used to feeling like I have an “empty nest.” I am a mother. It is my greatest accomplishment and although I have made my fair share of mistakes, it is the only thing I know I can do. I know these babies. I know and love every ounce of them. I know what is in their thoughts, dreams, prayers, and hearts. They are a piece of me. They are the best piece of me. I wanted them but I needed someone to understand why and how. The emptiness still lingers but I can move past that because I survived the day and all the family I need is within the walls of my home today. Christmas was a day of weakness and an intense pain that was all too new for me. The day was full of hurtful reminders of years full of wrong-doings but we won’t go all in to that...

A few days later, FINALLY, Kelson and Kaylee came home. We spent the day watching cartoons, giggling about silly things, talking about the magic of Christmas, and playing with all their new toys. My heart was coming back together. For a moment, everything felt right again.

The kids were exhausted. Kelson was a little off because school had been out for a while and he really struggles when his routine is thrown off. I don’t even remember how we got there but suddenly Kelson was spiraling into a rarely intense meltdown. He was hitting me. He was swinging his little fists as hard as he could at my face, my stomach, my back… All I could think was how I just wanted to hold his hands up to my face, rub them on cheeks, and kiss his little palms like I did when he was a baby. His lack of emotional control consumed his little body. He would never hurt anyone intentionally. He rarely hits anyone but himself… but he was at a breaking point that I should have seen coming. He screamed,

“YOU DON’T LOVE ME! You are not my REAL mother! I hate you! Get out of my room YOU… YOU…. YOU… DUMBY!”

Like a wounded dog, I scurried out of his room and listened as he screamed, releasing his frustration. I was numb. I sat on the floor outside his room, rocking back and forth a while helplessly listening to my baby lose all control. Grant cried and broke me out of the zombie-like state I was in. Eventually, Kelson calmed down and we went about our day as if nothing had happened at all.

It took a few days to catch up to me. He doesn’t mean what he says. He knows I am his mother. He doesn’t hate me. He knows I love him. Nonetheless, hearing my child scream from the bottom of his soul, “YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” may haunt me for the rest of my days.

Kelson’s behavioral and emotional being has improved so much over that last few months. Sometimes I feel like my baby is coming back to me… like he is coming home again. I’ve missed my care-free child and it tears me apart to watch as he stresses about concepts far too mature for his little imagination and sense of understanding. It isn’t fair. I know I say that all the time… it is all I can come up with. It just isn’t fair. He doesn’t deserve this. How desperately I wish I could just accept the fact that Kelson may never lead a “normal” life… I spend the late hours of the night and early hours of the morning obsessively worrying about Kelson’s future school days, friendships, and romantic relationships. Despite my obvious emotional instability with the subject, I will continue my relentless search for answers… for a solution. I will continue loving this sweet, beautiful boy with my entire heart. I wish I could escape my sadness for him, for us... I wish I could escape my unwarranted anger and hatred for autism spectrum disorder. But I can’t. I’m not ready. So I won’t until I am ready. I am going to take my cousin’s advice and “hate the shit out of it” until it takes a new form.

I HATE AUTISM MORE THAN I HAVE EVER HATED ANYTHING… EVER!

I want to stop my rant and take a moment to thank my dear cousin. Thank you for being the family and friend that I was so desperate for. Thank you for loving me, like only you can.

Things are getting better. Things will continue to get better… Things can ONLY get better.
God gave him to me.
But it still hurts.