My Daughter Is a Gift, But Her Autism Is Not
By Jody Allard
It began like it usually does — not noticeable to anyone else, but I saw the signs. A little squeak. Hands pulled up to her face. Her body moving frenetically, as if powered by an inner, malfunctioning switch suddenly flipped to high.
Her older sister said something to her, or maybe just looked at her, and that was enough. She began to roar, scream, bang her head. The sounds emitting from her mouth alternated between guttural and ear-splittingly high-pitched. I tried to speak to her, but that only made it worse. She looked at me with the eyes of a caged animal, crawled away to huddle into a corner and screamed louder. There was nothing left to do but wait it out. Nearly 30 minutes later, my nerves frazzled and my teeth grinding subconsciously, it was over. She began crying, came to me for a hug, then ran off to play.
This is autism in my house. Not high-functioning. Not low-functioning. Just middle-of-the-road autism. Autism that weaves its threads through the tapestry of our household. Autism that is always there, waiting to assert itself. Autism that is the furthest thing from a gift that I can imagine.
I do not hate —> Read More Here