I am not alone with my thoughts often. A mom of three rambunctious and very loud boys, coaching basketball since I was 19 years old, and running my side business, me... alone.... with my thoughts? Seldomly happens, and quite honestly, I'm thankful for that.
Last night, or I should say in the wee hours this morning, I was not alone but next to Alan, with my thoughts and pure quietness. I was scrolling through one of my "Autism Mom" Facebook pages I belong to, and a mom had posted about the possibility of there being a full moon in the last couple days and I agreed. Alan had been a little "off". Probably transitioning back to school along with the regular schedule of ABA again, he couldn't fall asleep last night at all. I should have known by the trouble he had going to sleep, that sleep was not going to be on the docket for me last night. Around 3:45am I heard him, stirring, moving, starting with little peeps, gradually getting louder and eventually turned into a cry. That's when I went in his room knowing I would be in there for a quite a while.
Every time I go in his room at an odd hour, I have to assess the situation. Is he wet? Did he pee the bed? Is it toys? He is notorious for hoarding toys in his bed, then he finds them in the middle of the night and bam we are up for the day playing with those toys. But last night or this morning I mean, was none of that. When it's none of the above, I always think something hurts him or he had a bad dream but again, no way of knowing what is what. So here we are, between 3:45am and 4:00am now, I'm kneeling on his floor next to his bed and he is tossing and turning, dozing off for a minute here, minute there while holding my one arm. There's not much for me to do when this happens other then be there for him, and be his human weighted blanket (well my arm) for as long as he needs. But it is always always always during this time that me being alone with my thoughts, in the quiet, is tough. I don't even know how it happens, or where it comes from, probably from a deep down guilt that I have always had and I push it so far down daily. But it never fails, I start crying. Sobbing, really, but a quiet sob because as I'm crying he's dozing for longer minutes, then two minutes, then three but if I move, his eyes shoot open and we start all over. Throughout my sobbing I start whispering, whispering to my brother asking him for help, asking him to guide Alan and be with him throughout life. Help him find his voice. Just sobbing and whispering. I start whispering to Alley, how sorry I am for his difficulties he has and if I could fix them in a heartbeat, I would do absolutely ANYTHING. Lastly, I start whispering to God. Since my brother passed away from the most ugliest, most brutal cancer to have, I have lost my way in faith. It's hard to wrap my head around faith when I watched my little brother suffer through what he went through and to watch my son suffer every day because he can't speak. But somehow, on my knees this morning, I just said a couple simple words to him. I invited him in, to walk with Alley, to be with Alley and to help him be able to speak. All through more tears, these were the only things that I could say. As I got myself together, it had to be close to 5:00am at this point, Alan was peacefully back asleep (thank goodness, this was a feat in itself) and I needed to gather myself and army crawl out of his room so I wouldn't wake him.
When I finally made it back to my bed, I felt better. Felt like a weight that I have been living under bouncing from one sporting event to the next, one activity after another or one therapy to the next session, always means I put my thoughts on the back burner. I know this is not healthy because when I do let myself feel what I need to feel, it's beyond overwhelming. To the point I can't breathe I cry so hard. Those quiet hours are scary to me and I know it's because of where my head and heart are going to go. The place I don't want to go because those feelings physically hurt. It would be naive of me to think these late nights and early mornings are not going to keep happening because they have happened since he's been born. But those quiet hours kill me, however I did feel the presence of my faith last night, for the first time in a very long time. So, in a way I'm thankful for the quiet hours, with my boy, just being his safety blanket, which is the only job I ever need to be.
If you're on this Autism or Special Needs journey, just know you are not alone. We all feel these heavy feelings probably more than anyone else in our life knows. Sometimes we just need to embrace them and know that we are chosen to have our child just the way they are for a reason. We are the lucky ones.
With grace-
This Autism Mama
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