It’s upsetting to not have options for my son’s autism. Marcus is exploding daily, his anxiety shows in his stiff, desperate shaking of the flimsy piece of toilet paper he is given to stem with. He shakes, glares at it, stifffens as he inhales deep, bending toward it, seemingly desperate for it to listen to his needs, solve the anxiety that his father, his caregivers, his teacher (new every few months), his teacher’s aide, and I can’t figure out. There has been no miracle, no magic elixir, no special age that has produced speech, regulated his neurological system, quelled his anxiety. I am not in a place to hope for a miracle. Maybe tomorrow, but today, I just hope for him to become stable enough to sleep through the night for more than one night a week. I wish he would not see people as objects to take out his aggression. I hope he gets back to bowing his head toward mine when I ask for a kiss. It’s funny. Writing about who I want him to be makes me realize that maybe my miracle is who I had all along, and who he is on a good day is okay.
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