A lot has happened over the past few weeks. We had a gorgeous family weekend in the mountains, where Liam toured the Biltmore Estate, his ear plastered to the audio tour device as he took in the Gilded Age in all its finery. We came home, settled back into the routine, and then I was laid off from my job.
One of the things people often ask me is whether or not I think autism is on the rise. Or if I have any ideas as to how Liam became autistic. Was it the traumatic birth? Was it the Zoloft? Are there other people with autism in the family?
“Why was today so rough, buddy?”
He’s sprawled out in bed, shirtless as usual. I scratch and rub his back and massage his scalp. It’s one of the few things he will almost always ask nicely for and not demand outright.
Sometimes I feel like Liam takes up at least 90% of my brain function. The rest is reserved for the rudimentary necessities of life — the lizard brain, as it were — and just enough to get by at work (forget creative endeavors lately… that’s a hoot). I worry about him ceaselessly, and it doesn’t help that mainstream media has a way of playing to those fears with their portrayal of high functioning autistic kids. Even though the last week has been a triumph, it’s also been at the long tail of a rather frenzied few years. And really, there isn’t much of an end in sight.