That Dark Place
That dark place…
I wasn’t even going to write this because it hurts too much, but I feel I should.
Reading and hearing all these stories about adults with learning difficulties being hurt, abused, neglected, and killed, it’s too much.
I don’t share everything I read because if I’m honest, I find it too hard to face.
You see, my mind has a dark place in it, and I go there when fear for my perfect boy kicks in.
It doesn’t happen when we’re having a bad day when he is having a meltdown.
It happens when I look at him, smiling, stimming, happy, and beautifully innocent. My joy fades, and my smile turns into a frown.
I feel a cloud go over my thoughts… They become dark, scary, fearful.
My heart races, and my eyes well up.
All I can see is him in a world without me in it.
I feel pure fear. It’s real.
He is sweet, gentle, and trusting, These qualities put fear into my heart
He deserves a world better than this, one worthy of him and others like him.
He deserves love always, kindness, dignity, and respect.
To always be able to enjoy being outside, by the beach, park, or water.
All the places he loves.
I hope he always has these options.
I hope he is always seen how I see him.
I don’t think like this often. Thankfully, most days are joyful and happy when I’m with him
But it’s my love for him, the not knowing the future.. It’s scary, and that’s a reality.
I know we make everything in his life as wonderful as we can. I overthink everything he has, does.
I want to make sure he is happy and feels equal to everyone in his world.
This is why I blog
Create awareness, speak honesty.. So our children, adults, are out there.
Part of this world.
Part of people’s hearts.
Written by Kelly of This is Carson, His Autism Journey and Our Family
I, too, have these fears. I don’t know that they ever go away. My son is 30, and went through a very difficult period where I was no longer able to keep him home with me. He moved into a group home at age 16.
Here’s where I say, he’s two miles from my house, his situation couldn’t be more perfect, and he’s safe, loved and happy. Here’s where I say, he has two caregivers dedicated to him, 24/7/365. Here’s where I say, we can see him as much as we like (currently taking him out for 2 hours, just our family, every week, for dinner and ice cream, every week.) I also go on all his appointments, attend all his meetings, and am in charge of his team. They love him too, and his house manager reminds me, when I’m feeling down, that she hired 11 people to replace me. (Not replace, but you know what we mean.)
Now here’s where I say, yes, I still worry. I still pray. I still fear. I have two neurotypical daughters, and a lovely son-in-law. I worry about them, too. I worry about car accidents, house fires, all kinds of things. But not in the same way. My boy can’t tell anyone the simplest things–if he has a headache, a toothache, a tummyache. Or if someone says something mean to him. Or even hurts him. I worry less than I used to about that, since the agency which runs his group home is extremely careful, and he’s with 2 people at all times. I still worry. I always will.
And then I remind myself that we fought like tigers for everything he has, and we will until our last breaths. His sisters and brother-in-law will as well. They’re involved in his life, and they’re learning what to do, just in case. The house manager has become a close friend, and I love a number of the staff, past and present, like my own family.
Still, every night, I pray.
Because I love him.
And the world is hard.
God bless you all.