Fine

It is a Friday in July.  It has been yet another rough week in an academic year of rough days. 

The Boy has commited an act seen as so heinous by the school, his autism provoking him into reacting in a way that a neurotypical child would not, that the result is he has been put under internal exclusion.  This means that he is excluded from his class, instead being placed within another at his school.  He is to sit at the desk, in silence and on his own, completing the work he has been given.  He is not allowed to speak to the other children in this class, nor they to he.

His behaviour at home is collapsing. He is almost consistently violent. He screams and shouts.  He does not listen.  He reacts violently to the slightest provocation, even when you do not consider your actions to be provoking (an offer of an apple juice has been met that morning with a headbutt so violent my nose is still bleeding).

There are meetings; there are phonecalls.  I am at the school daily.  I try to talk to the teachers.  I try to get my son help.

My son is lost and I do not know how to get him back, but I want him back. I will accept this imposter, I will love him, but I want my boy back.

I am physically exhausted, I am mentally spent.  I wonder if it is my parenting that has made this change.  In private moments, I admit to myself in hushed tones that I do not like my son right now.  I wonder if it would be better for all concerned if I disappeared.  I consider whether it would be okay for me to die.

I cannot listen to classical music anymore without being drenched in sorrow and anger; enraged by the futility of life.  It hurts to hear it, so I stop.

I am asked how things are and respond, in a montone, that they are "fine." Everything is utterly, utterly "fine."  I appear to be in control, but I can't remember the last time I slept for more than an hour in 24.  I can't remember the last time I felt comfortable in my own thoughts.  I can't recall a time when I did not flinch in horror at the phone ringing, expecting there to be another conversation where I am told that he has been poorly behaved at school, and I am left at home, powerless, deflated, feeling judged and unable to do anything apart from apologise for my son's disability.

I try to make myself go out once a month, but I don't really feel like it.  I make myself go.  I try to be like everyone else, but I'm not.  I'm hoping that someone else will put me out of my misery as I am too frightened; too obliged to continue living; too scared of losing control.

I drink too much at times, but only on these monthly nights out.  I act like a bit of an arse, because I don't know how I am supposed to be acting.  Is it acceptable to be unhappy? Is it acceptable to just be locked into your own misery?  I'm not sure anymore.

I've stopped being me. I've stopped living in my body.  I'm floating above it, watching myself go throught the motions.  I'm living my life like one of the social stories I draw for The Boy and Lid; get up, wash, smile, get kids up, get them clean and dressed, feed them, laugh, smile, pretend.  Repeat to fade.

I ask my GP for help.  I ask for a referral for counselling.  I know that things are really bad for me, and I know that there's a chance that my pessimistic optimism isn't going to get me out this time.  I am planning.  I am thinking, thinking far too much about things that I wish I could file away because they hurt too much.

The counsellor does not turn up for our first appointment.  She does not call me.  I smile and congratulate myself for being so ridculously shit and unloveable that even someone who is paid to care about me doesn't.

Things get worse.  There is not enough chocolate to cover them.

Still, I tell everyone that I am fine.  "Yeah, great!" I say, when asked how The Boy is, how I am, how Lid is.  I cannot say aloud that sometimes I feel crushed, suffocated.  That the responsibilty of my situation seems unending.  That I am still trying to be responsible for everyone I know, even those that I know by the slightest association.  I want to ask someone to look after me.  I need to be looked after, and I am ready to admit this, but I fear I will be laughed at.  Even if I wasn't laughed at, who would look after me?

This continues.  I am frightened.  I attempt just dis-connecting myself from my body entirely, ignoring my thoughts in an effort to continue.  I fill my days with activity.  I work more nights.  I stop writing because I just can't anymore.

The Boy's behaviour worsens.  Lid becomes more challenging.  I paint the house.

In all, it lasted for over a year.  June 2009 until August 2010.  That entire period constitutes nothing more than a lost weekend to me.  I have forgotten more than I remember of it.  I am unconvinced that this will not happen again, as it has happened before.

During this period, I have metaphorically lost my Boy, my Lid and myself.  I have misplaced our direction.  I have lied to people who care for me.  I have covered up and pretended.

Slowly things have resolved and become clearer.  My head is less fuzzy.  I am close to being me again.  I can listen to classical music without feeling sad.  Life's still hard; nothing is perfect but I like it.  I like me.  And when I say things are "fine", it feels like they are.