Flinch

I have a bad history with the significant men in my life.  My father was a violent paedophile, who physically and emotionally abused me.  A number of ex partners have been physically, sexually and emotionally violent to me. 

As a result, if a male raises his voice at me, I will shrink slightly into myself.  I have been on long boozy nights with male friends, lads that I have known since primary school, and should they, in the midst of over animated conversation, raise their hand to enforce what they are saying, I will flinch.  It isn't noticeable unless you know that I do it, but it happens.  Every time.

I had never met a male that I felt completely comfortable with when clothed.  Make it a naked party and it's fine - I seperate sex and love so completely that whilst doing the former the latter never even occurs to me, and nor has it ever done.

It is slightly bizarre that a naked party led to the arrival of the one male that I trust and love above all over, the person who taught me what love actually means, that unconditional love was real and existed - The Boy.

The Boy is a lovely, funny, sunny ray of bonkers.  He is clever.  He is kind.  He is decent.  He can look at a person, ascertain that they need help and give it to them.

He also suffers, as do we, from extreme mood swings.  They can make it very hard to like him as much as I'd like to at times, as part of The Boy's autism experience is extreme violence. 

He hits, kicks, spits, headbutts, sometimes relentlessly.  During the holidays and the time around it, when they were off from illness, or because of snow, it felt like he was constantly beating me up. Mostly because he was.  Lid also has violent tantrums, and these are progressively worsening as she gets older.

There are times when the pair of them kick the living shit out of me.  They are strong children, phenomenally so.  At any time, I have numerous bruises.  I have had my nose broken, black eyes, broken fingers, chunks gouged or bitten out of me, have been spat at constantly for hours.  Whilst it isn't an everyday event, it isn't and neither has it ever been an occassional occurence.

As he grows older, the incidences of violence are happening with more frequency and force.  It mutates into other forms - he now shouts almost constantly, he spits regularly, and the hitting has graduated into full on punches to the face - he has broken my glasses in the past.

I love him.  I can't imagine anything that would stop me from doing so, despite the beatings.  But I have noticed that now, when he comes near me, I flinch.  This is something I had always hoped wouldn't happen.  I know that I am, silently, scared of him.  I am frightened of him.  I don't always like him as much as I want to.  I want to like him as much as I can, but the behaviour can preclude that.

I have been, as of late, attacked with increasing frequency and ferocity.  When he finally goes to bed, I am slightly relieved.  I know that he doesn't actually sleep until 1am, and until then I will be called upstairs to reassure him that he is safe, to receive extra slaps and to generally calm him down as much as I can.  By the time he is finally asleep, I may get a few hours before Lid wakes up, when she will start her tantrums within the hour.  Her brother will join her and join in the hitting, by 7am.

I am exhausted.  I am depleted.  I have refused a job working with autistic children, not because I don't think I could do it, but because it presents me with a possible future for both children that I do not wish to contemplate.  I cannot believe that their future will include heavy medication to regulate their behaviour to a level that society expects.  I do not wish to contemplate putting them into assisted living programmes.  The fact that it is a possibility for the future horrifies me.  What makes it so much worse is that I can see that this may be a probability for The Boy, whilst it remains only a possibility for Lid.

I know he is young.  Tomorrow is a different day, a new beginning, and he may have a great day where there is no hitting, no spitting, no shouting, no kicking.  Lid may have no tantrums at all.  We may all wake up in a fluffy wonderland, where Labour is actually left wing, the BNP is merely a French bank, and I fart out fairy cakes. 

In the meantime, I will continue haranguing the professionals, turning up on their doorstep, writing them emails, phoning them, in the hope to get help for the midgets.

When you ask me how things are, I will fall silent.  I will distract you with something else.  I will play up the good parts, even if the good part lasted ten minutes in the course of a week.  I will tell you that everything is fine.  I will think you are asking out of politeness, and do not require a middle aged woman sobbing, clinging to you and begging you for help that you cannot give whilst you look on puzzled and wishing you hadn't asked.

Just know that things aren't fine for me, not even slightly, and the reason I don't discuss it is because I can't.  I can't even think this stuff without flinching.