I can't sleep. I know why. Too many things on my mind. The boy, the dogs, the world outside my door...they all lie there, mocking me with their restfulness. I haven't had a night like this in a while.
Monday morning, I finally heard the words I've been waiting to hear for months now: "your son is on the autism spectrum."
My. son. has. autism.
No, wait, you must have me confused with someone else. It finally hit me that I had still held onto some bit of denial where that was concerned. Deep down, I was sure that after those 4 hours of testing, this woman would come back and tell me that something ELSE was causing all of this and that he just needed to grow out of it. He would start talking VERY soon and go on to lead a normal life; with no trace of the troubles that plagued his development early on.
Surely THAT was what I really prepared to hear....but, alas, Monday I would not hear those words.
So I sat there, at what felt like the biggest round table in a room with the grayest walls and the tallest ceilings. Alone. Feeling like I was four feet tall.
My. son. has. autism.
No matter what that woman said after that, it wasn't going to trump those words playing over and over in my head.
I didn't really hear her when she asked how I felt about it. Nor did I want to hear when she told me I would have to find six different therapists soon. Nor did I give a damn when she told me I needed to get a therapist of my own. Nope. All I could hear were those words in my head: my. son. has. autism.
I've spent the better part of the last 2 years hearing that word but it didn't really resonate with me until Monday. Now, I couldn't run away from it. It would be mailed to me in the next two weeks along with a stack of papers that outlined just what is "wrong" with my child.
There is no pain on this earth that compares to the pain you feel when you can't help your child. I feel useless. I feel like a failure. I feel cheated. I feel lost. I feel, I feel, I feel.
But mostly, I feel tired.
Tired of being angry with the universe for making my child such a mystery. Tired of hearing that "A" word. Tired of feeling compelled to explain to people why my four-and-a-half year old son has the vocabulary of a two-year-old or why it's okay that he needs to go play by himself sometimes when he gets overwhelmed. Tired of being the most important person in his life.
Tired, tired, tired.
On top of all this, I'm supposed to be a functioning member of society. How is that even possible when all I can hear in my head are those words.....
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This afternoon, I cried. I cried and I cried and I cried and I talked to the social worker at the boy's school about all of this. Apparently, my strife was written all over my face. She listened, just like I'm sure she has listened to hundreds of people before me in the same situation. She hugged me and reminded me of all the positive things about that little man that is the source of constant worry for me. Because she knows him almost as well as I do.
She reminded me that this sucks and that I am grieving the loss of that dream I had for my child.
She reminded me that I must give myself some time to let all of this sink in. That I have to just focus on getting through today. That I'm not Wonder Woman. That I am not going to lose my mind.
Today, that table was much smaller, I was much taller, the ceilings much lower and walls much whiter.
Today, I feel a little less broken.
