My son, Oliver, is nine years old. He has autism. I don't know the severity of the diagnosis; his last evaluation was when he was four. His reassessment starts next week. In most ways, he is still a four-year-old if not younger.
Today, Oliver had one of his meltdowns.
It was one of the worse ones.
He wanted to go outside, so I got him ready and gathered up a story I'm editing, my journal, and my Kindle book. But when I opened the back door, he said, "Wanna go dis way," running toward the front door. So he wanted to go to the park. I don't take him to the park by myself anymore because the last time I did, he ran from me screaming down the middle of a street. Twice.
I said no. I said we could go play in the backyard. He insisted. I wasn't willing to put us both in danger.
He started shouting, "Wanna go dis way! Wanna go home!" For some reason, going home seems to refer to riding in a car.
He pulled down Josh's TV, scratching the screen. I don't know if it still works. He picked up a book we've been reading together and started tearing pages out of it, shredding them. I put him in timeout. He screamed, sometimes "Mama," sometimes just guttural sounds. He threw around a piece of art. Then, he calmly asked to watch a video.
I turned the video on and let him out of timeout. He went to the kitchen and poured an entire glass of milk and an entire glass of Gatorade on the hardwood floor. While I scrambled to clean it up (tense change: he's still screaming), he grabs my journal and rips it. He knows exactly what he's doing.
I give him his medication. He throws himself into the dining room windows. He finds Josh's water bottle and pours out as much as he can. He's foaming at the mouth.
My insides are full of glass shards tearing tissues. He goes for the lamp.
Three months ago, I almost killed myself. I had the pills lined up. I had the razor. I had written the notes.
He recovers suddenly. I do not.
