06/09/2025
READ THIS!! YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
"Still My Son"
The house was filled with rare quiet, the kind S_____ had almost forgotten.
For three days, R_____ had been away at respite— And now he was back.
He stepped through the doorway, smiling. His eyes lit up as he dropped his worn Spider-Man backpack onto the floor and ran into the living room.
“Home!” he said loudly, flapping his hands in excitement. “Home, home, home!”
S______ smiled softly, arms open. “Yes, baby. You’re home.”
His carer stood at the door, giving her a quick update—“He did great overall. Some sensory stuff last night, but he bounced back.” S_______ nodded, thanked them, exchanged exhausted smiles.
Then the carer stepped out.
The back door clicked shut.
And the smile vanished from R_____’s face.
His body stiffened.
And within seconds—it began.
⸻
At first it was just pacing. Then muttering. Then the pitch of his voice changed.
“No! No! No no NO NO!”
He grabbed the side of the bookshelf and pulled it down with a crash. Books scattered across the floor. S_____ stepped toward him gently.
“R_____—it’s okay. You’re safe, you’re home now.”
But it was too late. His system had already gone red.
His face twisted, fists clenched, his breathing ragged like an animal cornered.
He turned and lunged.
⸻
The slap cracked across her cheek, knocking her backward. Her arm flew up instinctively, trying to shield her face as R______ grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled, hard. She stumbled to the floor with him on top of her—fists flying, biting, kicking—his 80kgs of muscle fueled by panic and confusion.
“R______, please! It’s okay—it’s just the change! Just the noise—the shift—you’re okay, baby, you’re safe!”
But her voice couldn’t reach him. Not through the thunder in his head.
⸻
This wasn’t the first time.
S_______ had learned how to cover bruises. She had memorized the steps of de-escalation. She had safety locks on every door, soft padding on every corner, and an emergency plan laminated in her purse.
But nothing prepares you for the moment your own child doesn’t recognize you.
Nothing prepares you for the terror in their eyes—and the violence it unleashes.
After twenty minutes, he was spent—his breathing ragged, his body trembling, curled up in her lap like a baby again.
And she held him.
Even through the scratches, even with blood drying on her skin—she held him.
Because she loved him.
Not in some cliché, inspirational quote kind of way. But in the way only a mother can love—deep in the bones, in the places where pain and devotion live side by side.
⸻
That night, after he finally fell asleep—tucked in safe under weighted blankets—S_______ sat alone in the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror. Her lip was swollen. Her eye would bruise. Her ribs ached from the impact.
She cried without sound, not because she was weak—but because she was tired.
Tired of being afraid of her own son.
Tired of pretending everything was okay.
Tired of smiling politely when people said, “He doesn’t look autistic.”
Tired of teachers calling to say they “can’t handle him anymore.”
Tired of watching other children avoid him on the playground.
Tired of wondering what would happen to him when she was gone.
She didn’t hate him.
She hated that the world didn’t understand him.
She hated that he couldn’t tell her what was wrong inside his brain.
She hated how he hurt—and how he hurt her—and how alone it all felt.
But then she remembered…
The night he traced her face with his small fingers and said, “Mama’s face is soft.”
The first time he looked her in the eye and smiled.
The way he lined up his toy cars like they were sacred.
The way he clung to her shirt in every hospital waiting room.
The way he trusted her—even when his mind was at war with his body.
⸻
Autism isn’t always beautiful.
It can be terrifying.
It can break things—plates, furniture, bones, hearts.
It can make you feel invisible in a world full of people.
It can look like violence—but it’s really just fear, trapped in a body that won’t listen.
And yet, through it all—she chose to stay.
Not because she was a hero. Not because she was perfect.
But because R______ was still her son.
Even in his scariest moments.
Especially then.
⸻
“He didn’t mean to hurt me,” she whispered to the dark.
“He’s hurting too.”
And tomorrow, when he wakes up and forgets what he did,
She’ll make him pancakes shaped like hearts,
And she’ll start again.
Because love doesn’t run from the storm.
It stands in it.
Bruised, bleeding—and still loving.
This account was shared with permission and de- identified to protect the family.
You are not alone.
Big hugs.
###Chrissy ♥️
