FrançaisSymptoms of autism: How did you know Charlie was autistic? I often get messages asking me questions… How did you know he had autism? What are symptoms of autism in babies? What…
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Symptoms of autism: How did you know Charlie was autistic? I often get messages asking me questions… How did you know he had autism? What are symptoms of autism in babies? What…
![[Snippet from my book about autism and grieving/Link in bio]
When Charlie needs something and I’m unable to understand what it is, it’s the most powerless feeling. I usually spend a few minutes showing him various objects and food items around the house in hopes that he’ll want one of them. When I’m wrong—and that happens often—he gets frustrated.
Cereal? Pushes it away.
Juice? Pushes it away.
Toast? Pushes it away.
You can feel the intensity of our growing frustration as I fail to comprehend what he wants to eat. He gets infinitely more impatient with each wrong guess. The restlessness, the grunts, and then the quiet whines. Believe me, Charlie. I’m trying as hard as I can to get you what you want, but I can’t because I don’t know what it is. Eventually, we’ve exhausted all our options, and this is usually the moment when tears slowly start rolling down his face, and he resorts to screaming. I feel sad and frustrated too. Powerless too. Once we’ve reached that point, there’s nothing else I can do. I’ve failed, and now we just have to wait. I wait until I hear the silence. Not the kind of silence you want to hear. It’s a silence full of tension. A silence that means that Charlie has given up because that’s the only thing he can do. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t communicate and he can’t make himself heard. The only thing he can do now is surrender.
Still, I love Charlie. All of him. I’m not grieving him. I’m grieving my dreams of him. I’m grieving the dreams of Charlie as a seven-year-old, sitting next to me outside, at sunset, debating which Pokémon is a better starter option in Pokémon Blue. I’m grieving my youth, the naiveté that led me to believe that all moms get to hear their child call them mommy in a purposeful way, the innocence that tricked me into believing that all children love and cling to their parents. I’m grieving the dream of speaking French with Charlie, and secretly laughing at the first putain he pronounces. I’m not grieving you, Charlie. I’m grieving my dreams. �](http://scontent-frt3-1.cdninstagram.com/vp/949748cae8dba4ebeaa2330943a1e957/5D1AECC1/t51.2885-15/e35/c22.0.1035.1035a/s320x320/52762732_282700752662877_556964404511934262_n.jpg?_nc_ht=scontent-frt3-1.cdninstagram.com "[Snippet from my book about autism and grieving/Link in bio]
When Charlie needs something and I’m unable to understand what it is, it’s the most powerless feeling. I usually spend a few minutes showing him various objects and food items around the house in hopes that he’ll want one of them. When I’m wrong—and that happens often—he gets frustrated.
Cereal? Pushes it away.
Juice? Pushes it away.
Toast? Pushes it away.
You can feel the intensity of our growing frustration as I fail to comprehend what he wants to eat. He gets infinitely more impatient with each wrong guess. The restlessness, the grunts, and then the quiet whines. Believe me, Charlie. I’m trying as hard as I can to get you what you want, but I can’t because I don’t know what it is. Eventually, we’ve exhausted all our options, and this is usually the moment when tears slowly start rolling down his face, and he resorts to screaming. I feel sad and frustrated too. Powerless too. Once we’ve reached that point, there’s nothing else I can do. I’ve failed, and now we just have to wait. I wait until I hear the silence. Not the kind of silence you want to hear. It’s a silence full of tension. A silence that means that Charlie has given up because that’s the only thing he can do. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t communicate and he can’t make himself heard. The only thing he can do now is surrender.
Still, I love Charlie. All of him. I’m not grieving him. I’m grieving my dreams of him. I’m grieving the dreams of Charlie as a seven-year-old, sitting next to me outside, at sunset, debating which Pokémon is a better starter option in Pokémon Blue. I’m grieving my youth, the naiveté that led me to believe that all moms get to hear their child call them mommy in a purposeful way, the innocence that tricked me into believing that all children love and cling to their parents. I’m grieving the dream of speaking French with Charlie, and secretly laughing at the first putain he pronounces. I’m not grieving you, Charlie. I’m grieving my dreams. �")