Friday, May 14, 2010

Yet Another Letter to Smockity About the Library Girl

Dear Smockity:

I read about the dust-up regarding your encounter at the library with an autistic child. I also had a chance to read the original post on Google Cache. It hurt and I'm having a hard time not crying right now. I know that the post is several months old now and you're probably sick of hearing about it.

My almost-four year old son was just recently diagnosed with an autism spectrum disorder. You wouldn't know it to see him ... most of the time. Most of the time ... he is cute and charming; his sunny disposition causes old ladies to smile and the ovaries of young ladies to twitch. He's creative, bright, enthusiastic, full of wonder and in love with the world. This is who he is... most of the time. Then there are the bad days. Yesterday was one of them. I got the old "side-eye" from people as we walked along with him shrieking, thrashing and hitting both himself and me.

Believe me, I know that from the outside he looks like a spoiled brat. From the inside, I know that he is experiencing a terrifying runaway train of emotion that he can no longer control, in response to having his expectation of what will happen next derailed. I know this because I remember that feeling all too well.

I was diagnosed 31 years ago at the age of 11 with sensory processing disorder. If the child I was then was diagnosed now, I wouldn't be surprised if the diagnosis was ASD. I remember the feeling of drowning in a tidal wave of emotion. 80% of the ferocity of the tantrum was sheer terror at the overwhelming, unnameable feelings I had inside. Sometimes, I thought I was dying. While this was all happening inside me, my mother would often be spanking me, telling me what a bad child I was and how much I was embarrassing her. Once she asked God out loud what she had done to deserve a "retard kid".

When my husband and I were trying to conceive, I prayed, telling God that I would welcome and love any child He sent me. I was both overjoyed and terrified when I found out I was pregnant. What if my child was like me? Turns out that the child that God sent me to love is a lot like me.

When you see someone like me seemingly coddling a disruptive kid, know that I am not trying to reward bad behavior or cater to the whims of a spoiled brat. I am trying to help my child rein in that runaway train of terror. I am comforting him, reminding him to breathe. I'm trying to teach him survival skills.

I've tried "time outs" in his room - they terrify him and make the freak-out even worse. I'm ashamed to say that in several moment of exhaustion and being at my wits end, I've given him a swat on the hand or butt once or twice. That just seems to add confusion and a sense of betrayal to the terror he was feeling, and an overwhelming sense of shame and inadequacy for me.

I realize that you have gotten raked over the coals for your comments. I know that you were hoping that it was all behind you. I just wanted to (belatedly) give you a little more perspective about what it's like on the inside.


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