Last Night, I Had the Tantrum

I hate autism.

I know I’ve said it before. Maybe I sound like a broken record. But last night, I hated it all over again.

After dinner, we took Dylan for ice cream. It seemed like such a simple thing. He wanted to go. We were at the lake. We were in the golf cart. It should have been easy.

Until it wasn’t.

We were waiting for our ice cream, surrounded by probably 60 people, when Dylan flipped out.

He didn’t understand why we weren’t doing our normal morning routine. He wanted to walk and get breakfast. In his mind, being in that golf cart meant we were supposed to do what we always do in the morning.

Except it was nighttime.

And you can’t reason with autism- believe me we tried

He yelled. He threw his iPad. He hit Kevin. He laid down in the parking lot.

And I'm not going to lie, I was scared.

Not embarrassed. Not worried about what the 60 people around us thought.

Scared.

My thoughts were Could we get him back into the golf cart? Could we get him home safely? Was he going to hurt Kevin? Was he going to hurt himself? What was going to happen next?

We finally made it home

And then he hit me.

He was upset and He was overwhelmed. I know that.

But then I became overwhelmed too.

And last night, I was the one who had the tantrum.

I told him he was going home. I cried. I said things out loud that mothers of children with disabilities probably aren’t supposed to say.

I said, “Why can’t I have a typical son?”

And then I cried some more.

I felt sorry for myself and I acted like a baby. And even today, when Dylan is okay again, I’m still sad.

Sad for so many reasons I can’t even put all of them into words.

Because Dylan is my sweet boy. I adore him. I would do absolutely anything for him.

But I hate that sometimes I am scared of him.

I hate even typing that.

I don’t want to be afraid of my own son when he gets upset. I don’t want to get hit. He is a grown man 6'3 and over 250 pounds- it's scary and it hurts.

I don’t want Dylan to be so overwhelmed that he can’t tell us what is wrong. I don’t want something as simple as getting ice cream to turn into wondering whether we can safely get our 25-year-old son home.

And yes, sometimes I want typical.

Sometimes I want to get ice cream with my son and just get ice cream.

I want to stand in a crowd and not scan Dylan’s face for signs that something is changing. I want to know that if he gets frustrated, we can talk about it. I want to know that my husband and I aren’t going to get hit.

I want things that other families probably don’t even realize are things to want.

And then I feel guilty for wanting them.

Because today Dylan is okay. He’s still my Dylan. The same sweet, funny, beautiful human being I love more than words could ever explain.

But I’m still sad.

That’s the part of autism I don’t think people always understand.

The moment passes for Dylan. Sometimes it doesn’t pass quite as quickly for me.

Twenty-five years into this journey, I can know why something happened. I can understand the behavior. I can know he wasn’t trying to ruin our night.

And it can still break my heart.

So last night, I had my own tantrum.

Today, I’ll pick myself back up.

But I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t hard.

I’m not going to pretend I don’t sometimes wish things were different.

And I’m definitely not going to pretend that I don’t hate autism.

Because I do.

I hate autism.

I just love Dylan infinitely more.