This morning I was on my knees on the kitchen floor and I was not cleaning. I was begging for divine intervention. Ten years since the autism diagnosis. Ten. Years. A full fucking decade. I have aged threefold. I am baffled and broken but no closer to an answer than I was when we started this journey. I believe I believe I believe, I repeated over and over as if faith could function like magic. If I just prayed hard enough a fairy godmother would appear to grant my wish. Heal my son. Or give me his pain. My prayers soon turned into an angry soliloquy, a version of the rant I I have said more than once before. Leave him alone now, you son of a bitch. I have done all that you asked. I have tried every potential solution you have given me. Every medicine. A special school. Holding out. Holding on. I cannot hold it in lately. The rage keeps bubbling over at the most inopportune moments—when I’m packing lunches or standing in the middle of the mall starting at someone else
The content of this blog revolves around one mother's experience parenting an autistic child. Autism and parenting stories are relayed through touching, often humorous, anecdotes. Daily struggles about education, medical and psychiatric issues, social challenges, and other autism-related topics appear here at least weekly.