Tag Archives: depression

Random Thoughts during a Meltdown

Posted on by
2

Mushroom Cloud

• It’s only a video game. Why can’t he see that? He has a lot of others; he doesn’t need to play this one.

• Why would his older brother forbid him to play this game? “It’s mine. I bought it with my own money, and I don’t want anyone else using it.” This is such a hard policy to enforce when you are one of six children. But he seems oblivious to how much anguish he’s putting his brother through. That part of the equation doesn’t enter into his calculations.

• Ah, the two-edged sword of autism! Perseveration and emotional dysregulation on the one hand (the younger brother), and a cold, hard adherence to fact and logic on the other (the older brother).

• The poor kid! He can’t stop crying. I know I shouldn’t talk yet. Just keep rubbing his head and let him get it all out. Still, there are so many things I want to tell him. Even once he does calm down, there are still a few things I’ll have to keep to myself. Like my fear that he may never find a way to take control of his own emotions. Like my reluctance to think about the kind of future he may have if he doesn’t work through this stuff.

• Okay, so we’ve been up here in my room for, what? Nearly thirty minutes. Dinner is getting cold, and I’m hungry. But this boy needs help. He was yelling at everyone, throwing things, and shouting me down every time I tried to calm him down. Now he’s just crying quietly, bemoaning his fate and asking why his brother has to be so mean to him. Give him a few more minutes, and he might shift a little more.

• You know, meltdowns are curious things. You can’t just say, “Oh, he’s just having a meltdown; he’ll be back to normal in a few minutes.” I used to say that, but I don’t think it’s fair—to him or to me.

—It’s not fair to me because it keeps me trapped in the mode of thinking that this isn’t his “normal,” that these are just aberrations to be endured when they crop up. Kind of like when you get the flu once every few years. So every time this happens, it takes me by surprise. “Where did this come from?” As if I didn’t know. And that makes it all the more draining emotionally.

— It’s not fair to him because I’m not helping him learn how to deal with these things. He’s getting older now—he’s into his adolescence—and he’s going to have to start figuring himself out. I can’t be there to hold him every time something goes wrong. He needs to learn how to stand on his own two feet. But it doesn’t occur to me until we’re in the middle of a meltdown. Then, it’s too late to make any progress.

— It’s also not fair to hold him to expectations that he cannot fulfill. That will only make him feel guilty and inadequate.

—At the same time, his oldest brother has been through a lot of these behaviors and has come out the other end. Granted, he is not as severely affected by ASD, but still he is leveling off. I wish I knew what the future holds for this child of mine!

• This is who he is. At least for right now. Meltdowns are part of his make-up, not just random things that descend upon him. He is autistic, and that means he will get overwhelmed. He will take things too literally. He will get overwrought over issues we consider minor. He may never get over it. Maybe he will, but it’s not a sure thing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. How can I help him right here, right now? And tomorrow and the next day, how can I teach him?

• Okay, now he’s moving into quiet, occasional sobs. He may be ready to talk. Maybe I can walk him through what happened so that he can get just a little bit smarter, just a little more self-aware. “What do you think, son? Can we talk about this?”

• Dammit! That made him begin crying again. I wish I knew how to read him better. I hate being the one to push him over the edge. Not because dinner is still waiting—stone cold by now—but because this is only going to make him feel worse about himself.

• Back to his older brother. What should I do about him? I know if I talk to him about sharing and being generous, he’ll use his [flawed] logic and his [unnecessarily] strict sense of right and wrong to push back. And when he pushes back, he really pushes back. If I don’t address this, he’ll lose another opportunity to learn how to understand other people and their emotions.And I’m getting tired. And really hungry. How far do I push him? How can I reach him and help him think with his heart as well as with his brain?

• Oh wait, the boy is coming around. He was hunched over himself on the bed; now he has unwrapped himself and is lying down with his head on my chest. Progress! I don’t have to keep rubbing his head now. I can just grasp his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

• “It’s going to be okay, son. Don’t worry; I’m not mad at you. Are you ready to go down and have dinner? Yeah? Okay, let’s get something to eat.”

• Well, the fries are cold now, but at least the BLT is still okay—it’s a sandwich, after all. There he is, quietly eating. His brothers and sisters have already left the table. Now it’s just him and Katie and me. She calls him over and gives him a big hug. He smiles, somewhat sheepishly. She speaks words of consolation and encouragement to him. God, I love her! She is so good at mopping things up.

• Now he comes over to me, wraps his arms around me, and doesn’t let go. God, I love this kid! Whatever happens—meltdowns or no meltdowns, the future be damned. Right here, right now, I love my son. Just like I loved him when he was crying. Just like I loved him when he was throwing his fidget spinner across the room. Just like I’ll always love him. No matter what.

Good Golly, Miss Molly

Posted on by
1

fullsizeoutput_47fd

See that little ball of cuteness on the left? No, no, not the cat. The little puppy in my daughter’s lap. That’s Molly, the latest addition to our household. (For those of you who are keeping count, that makes 6 kids, 5 cats, 2 dogs, and 1 fish. That’s right; our four-legged children now outnumber our two-legged children.)

Why another dog? Because we like chaos, that’s why. At least, that’s what more than a few people must be thinking right now. But there’s a method to our madness. Molly is going to be our family’s therapy dog. We had been toying with this idea for a number of years, but recent events have convinced us that having a therapy dog is more than just a neat idea. It’s a necessity. Too many of our kids are dealing with anxiety and depression in addition to their ASD. Too many of them find emotional regulation a challenge. Too many of them lead too isolated a life and need help in getting out of themselves.

Molly is a mix between a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel and a Cocker Spaniel. That means that she is pretty smart (Cocker), but also a love bug (Cavalier). It means that she will be perfectly content to sit in your lap for hours on end (Cavalier), but she will also love a good romp around the back yard (Cocker). Our hope is that we will be able to train her to recognize when one of our kids is getting too agitated, and feel free to go over to him or her and offer comfort and friendship. We also want her to sense when one of our kids needs a warm, affirming cuddle. And, of course, we want her to not pee in the house.

This is much more than sit, heel, and roll over. Our goal is to get Molly to the point where she can wear a vest and be recognized as an “emotional support” animal. We want to be able to take her out in public, bring her into stores, and even get approval for her to accompany one of our kids to school. So there’s a good deal of work to be done.

Of course, none of us is an expert in training puppies. Which means we’re going to need some serious help. Fortunately, Katie found a married couple who have experience working with kids on the autism spectrum and their dogs—and they’re willing to come into our home to train both the dog and us. This is so important. Training out on a farm or in the middle of a PetSmart can only go so far. Molly will have to become very comfortable performing her job in our home, and it will help our kids immensely if they learn about Molly in their own environment.

Oh, and these trainers are going to work with our older dog, Roxie, too. (That’s her below.) According to them, Roxie is going to train Molly as well, even as she gets some training herself. After all, she speaks dog! So by the end of the training—months and months from now—we’ll have two support dogs.

fullsizeoutput_47fe

So stay tuned. I’ll be giving you updates every now and then. Besides, she’s so cute!

Failure Is Not an Option

Posted on by
3

fullsizeoutput_41c8

A couple of days ago, I posted a picture of my oldest daughter and described her struggles with anxiety and school. I talked about how proud I was of her for fighting—even when she is fighting me. Although it looked like she was being obstinate and resistant, I could tell she was getting the message that she can’t give in.

Well, now it’s my oldest son’s turn. Continue reading →

The Struggle Is Real

Posted on by
6

 

fullsizeoutput_41c4

Remember my story about my girl having a couple of seizures last summer? Remember my story about how hard it was for her to go to Mass during the summer? Well, the saga continues to unfold. Continue reading →

When Darkness Isn’t Really Dark

Posted on by
1


I have a very creative kid. Well, more than one, actually. But the one I’m talking about right now is a sneaky kind of creative. As in, he stays quiet, under the radar, and then out of nowhere, he surprises you with something that blows your mind. Like this picture. He showed it to Katie last week in a very nonchalant way, as if it wasn’t a big deal. In fact, he had drawn it a few weeks back, but never thought to show it to anyone. Clearly, his still waters run very deep.

When Katie first showed me the picture, I was more worried than proud. It’s such a grim, depressing subject, and the title was alarming . “Is this what he thinks about his life?” I wondered. “Does he really feel trapped inside his anxiety?” But Katie saw it differently. She was super impressed with his artistic talent–the shading, the level of detail, the combination of hard, rectangular bricks and the softer, rounded glow of the light. “I knew he was good at building things like Legos,” she said. “I just never knew he was good at illustrations as well.”

That helped. Frankly, I don’t know why I was so surprised. We know he has anxiety issues. We know he is keenly aware of his aspie differences, and that he tends to isolate himself because of them. Why wouldn’t he try and find some outlet? Besides, there are far worse things he could do, like keep it bottled up inside until he implodes. Still, I was cautious. 

So I asked him about it, and he confirmed that this is how he often feels. He was so matter-of-fact about it, too. As if he were a clinician describing a diagnosis to a group of interns. No sadness. No desperation. No obviously personal investment at all. Just the objective, rational, clear facts. I made sure he knew to talk to one of us, or at least his counselor, if he ever felt really bad, and his answer was classic: “Of course I know that. I’m not stupid.” Again, objective, unemotional, calm, cool, and collected. 

“I’m Not Suffering.”

Now, if you’re an autism parent, or if you are autistic yourself, you’re probably chuckling a bit. You’re familiar with “professor syndrome.” If you’re a parent, you’re also likely familiar with the tendency toward catastrophizing every new insight into your kid. You know you shouldn’t, but you can’t help yourself. It’s a gut reaction. 

At any rate, I asked him if I could share the picture and the story behind it. He agreed–too quickly, I thought. So I pressed him a bit, explaining what that might mean. “I may have to give some background, including that you suffer from anxiety and depression.”

“Don’t put it like that,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t suffer from it.”

“What do you mean? You’ve told me yourself how depression can make you stay in your room all day and keep you from getting together with friends.”

“Yeah, but that’s not suffering. That’s coping.”

“Okay, so what’s suffering?”

“Well, I haven’t killed myself, have I?”

I was so surprised by this that the only thing I could do was laugh. I could tell he was completely serious, but the answer was so extreme and yet seemed so obvious to him that it was comical. 

The best part? He didn’t get offended by my laughter. He just flashed me a sheepish smile and laughed a bit himself. 

This kid’s going to be all right.