Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Parenting PTSD

Parenting Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I swear to God.  This a thing. You cannot convince me otherwise.

AND I am not just saying this is one of those "Only Autism parents get this.".  I'm betting those Neurotypical parents get this too. We can't claim everything.  (Come on, you know if I don't say this one of them is bound to get their knickers in a twist over it. Oh shit. They're probably reading this too.  Just kidding NT parents.  Mama Fry is just being shady!) 

But "BECAUSE AUTISM", I can only speak about the parenting experiences I know.  Case in point. Every time one of you lovely and good looking readers send me an email or leave a comment telling me your story, so many times I go from "Gurl, I feel you!" to "HOLY CRAP!!! That's us!".  I am thrown right back into that place of worry, fear, and anxiety.  Even if the topic in question is something way in the past.  I have literally felt my chest tighten, my breathing quicken, and my head starts to sweat. (Which is annoying as feck because I have enough going on, let's ruin my hair on top of it. I'm from New Jersey for Christ's sake. You know how important hair volume is here?)

If you have been reading this blog for a while now, you know we have been in the mists of a loooooooong ass back and forth with New Jersey's Perform Care, a group that's suppose to help out kids like mine.  So far our experience has been that they neither perform nor really care. Honest to God,  I have never seen so much bureaucratic paperwork nonsense.  Countless meetings about what they are allegedly doing for my son without actually doing anything.  A lovely caseworker comes by once a month to tell me everything I already know but gosh darn it, he's got to get my signature on his chart that he saw me.  It took SEVEN months to get a therapist in here but finally we got one.  What did she bring with her?  A lot of early intervention memories that come flooding back.  Here we are again, therapists in my house.  Herding the dogs into a bedroom.  Trying to keep one area of my house clean so that it doesn't look like a dumpster on fire. A Kiddo that's delighted for the first few moments that they are here only to turn on the cranky side after twenty minutes because it's not fun anymore, it's work.   He knew she was on the schedule of things happening today and in his mind it was checked off as "done" the moment she walked into my house.  Hearing him whining and asking when she will leave every five seconds, makes me feel like a failure.  I wince every time I hear him complain and think "Oh Jeez Kiddo. Come on. DO you have to be that rude to company?" Of course, I know she's not company and it's not the first time she's probably heard complaints like that from a client but I can't help how I feel based on experiences I have had.

I feel bad too because it's his house. It's his safe spot.  It should be the one place on earth where he feels the most comfortable and happy and he's not.  Therefor, I feel just as stressed out as he is feeling and it sucks! I did not miss this shit. There's something to be said to going out to a therapist office.  You can kind of leave all that crap and junk at the door once you leave to go home.  Plus, I have to wear a bra and real pants while she is here.  That's a drag.  In my own house. That ain't right.

This week his school will be going to a local minor league baseball team game.  Should be fun right? Or it could be seen as returning to the scene of the crime.  Kiddo had a pretty EPIC meltdown at that place when he was a lot younger with us.  Bad enough for us never to return to the ballpark again. You have no idea how glad I am that I don't have to be on this trip with him.  I gladly hand this outing over to his teacher.  It's also on Wednesday, as in "WTF Wednesdays", as in the day that Kiddo hates more than any other day in the week BECAUSE AUTISM. Even though I'm a lucky bastard who doesn't have to go on this field trip, I know I will be wound tighter than a clock the whole day till he comes home.

Because autism, parenting PTSD flashbacks happen.  A lot. Sometimes they hit hard, sometimes you ca shake it off.  Either way, staying stuck in them doesn't help you and your kid.

If there was a soundtrack trigger to Parenting PTSD, it's anything from the Disney Pixar genre. 

Wednesday, May 10, 2017


"Forgive, sounds good. 
Forget, I'm not sure I could. 
They say time heals everything
but I'm still waiting."  
Not Ready To Make Nice by the Dixie Chicks

It starts with such an innocent interaction but once again I had to play bomb squad and diffuse a situation about his old school. It's rather astounding that as much as we try to push forward and move on from it, we can get dragged right back to that horrible time in an instant.  All it took today was the sweet high school aged student that works the cash register at the local pizza joint to ask "Do you go to "W" middle school?"

We go this pizzeria every week after speech therapy. It's our thing. Probably started because I brought him there once and because autism, we are going there infinity.  I use the routine to our advantage. Making the Kiddo request what he wants and pay. The staff has gotten used to us and is patient with him.  I consider this a walking autism awareness educational opportunity.  So it wasn't odd for this young employee to want to ask him questions to be friendly but I'm betting she wasn't expecting his eyes to bug out of his head and yell "NO "W" SCHOOL!!!!!" in a sheer panic.  I quickly jump in and explain how he goes to a private school in another town and Boy, it's getting late, we got to get going and get home and Gee, it looks like rain. Better hustle. Thanks again! See you later! and I pretty much bum rush the Kiddo out of there to my car hoping like Hell we won't get into it about the school.

The ride home was a bit dicey. Him, constantly repeating that he doesn't go "THERE" anymore.  Me, reassuring him that he won't and also trying to explain that the question from the girl wasn't mean or really that out of line.  Let's move forward.  We were able to get home and he tucked into his pizza and I did some deep breathing in the kitchen that I narrowly avoided a rather explosive meltdown.

It also made me incredibly mad and upset.  He left that place in November and yet the fear is still there.   The pain is still very much raw, for the both of us.  I'm emotionally exhausted from when I have to play not only his Kiddo to English interrupter but also his "fixer". I never realized how many times I would have to be explaining his emotions to someone or in this case not so much explaining them but just trying to redirect the whole exchange.  The gal at the pizza place is nice but explaining that whole story to her?  Yeah, not happening.  Wrong time and place.

And I can't help but wonder when will I or Kiddo for the matter stop getting upset from these innocent exchanges. It's really hard to teach the Kiddo the idea of "forgive and forget" when I'm pretty sure he'll never forget.  While I'll most likely forget to do the simplest tasks like switching the wet clothes from the washer to the dryer, how my son was terrified of a school and that look on his face is etched in my brain. It's kind of hard to forgive a place that traumatized your heart that walks outside of your body.

All these months I have been purposely driving out of my way NOT to drive by the old middle school with the Kiddo in the car. I guess I'll keep doing that.

I however, have no problem when I am alone in the car to give it the proper one finger salute it deserves.  ;-)