Ask About Anxiety
My sweet boy,
This morning we had some alone time. You peeked around the staircase at 5 am and when you saw me open one eye you smiled and waved.
Down you came. Slowly. I’ve often commented how you walk like a little old man most of the time. Cautiously. Studying every step before you take it. I know when it’s you because of the pauses. I can hear you coming.
When you got near me I held my hand out to you like I always do and you placed your cheek in my palm. You cannot verbally say good morning. You may never be able too. But this is just as precious.
I watched you make your nest on the couch. Half a dozen blankets. A couple ipads. And hundreds of DVDs. Last week you only cared about the cases. You would hold and study each one. I think you can read although no one but you knows for sure. But the way you look, moving your eyes, smiling as you study, tells me you can.
This week the cases are nonexistent. This week it’s the actual DVDs. They are stacked up next to you on the couch. When they tip over you get frustrated. To me it looks like stacking jello. But you don’t give up.
I see my favorites in the pile. Dazed and Confused. Face Off. A Cutting Edge. They will all be wrecked. Ive accepted it. You are happy. It’s a small price to pay.
As I watched you I thought about anxiety. And how out of all of my regrets, my mistakes, it’s not knowing about your anxiety. And how it’s like a train coming for you. How we can see it coming, building up speed before it circles around and consumes you and no matter how hard I hold onto you…you disappear.
Today you are fine. But the days that you aren’t, my heart breaks for you.
For far too long I listened to the professionals say it was just autism. That this was just who you were.
A boy who couldn’t sleep. Or sit. Or be present. A boy who hit his head and picked his skin and tore his toenails.
They were wrong. Those parts were anxiety. And they were and are treatable.
Parents ask me daily what anxiety looks like for you. For their children. How will they know.
For you we couldn’t say certain words like swimming or pool. They were triggers. They would set you off.
We couldn’t talk about leaving the house until the last minute. Doors couldn’t be open. Boat trailers and campers couldn’t be parked in front of our house. The blinds had to be closed. The chairs lined up.
We couldn’t stop and get gas or turn left in the car. And the things that brought you joy always resulted in causing you anger, pain, and stress.
Parents, ask about anxiety. I think about the years we didn’t know. And how he must have felt. The train taking him away from us, from his family, from his joy.
We have you back now. And we will never let go again.
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