Written a few months ago, in a darker time for our family.
Dedicated to, and also about, Stephanie.
Screams echo down an empty hallway, but I do not hear them anymore. Perhaps they cry for help, perhaps for a darker purpose. What they are trying to demand, I have no idea; I'm simply hiding.
Living in a house like this will make any person callous to such displays of utter desperation. Tears no longer seem the result of sorrow. They seem contrived, no matter from whose face they stream down. Those tiny rivulets of pain make me shrug and roll my eyes, having lost faith in the ability of mankind to truly feel.
Is this right?
Can an adolescent girl truly cause such an effect in someone who has traveled the world longer, one who should know better than to accept the example of one human being as the epitome of all of man? She can, and she has.
The worst part of all of this, she has no true idea of what she is doing. Her simple mind cannot fathom how badly she is ripping me to shreds, how the family is faltering under the weight of her problem.
Autism. Family. Both six letters, yet they cannot exist together. How can this be? They are words similar enough to share a count of characters, the same sequence of syllables, but they cannot be anywhere near each other. The fear, the uncertainty, it overpowers both.
I stop and I wonder sometimes, how it must feel to be her. A thirteen-year-old girl who cannot grasp what is happening around her at any given time. Every sight, every sound, every thought means something, yet to put a name to it is impossible. When all these somethings flood your mind at once, and you cannot piece them together to make one thing, you are unhappy. You are confused. You are frustrated.
You cannot learn.
But they tell us to expect it from her. To treat her as though she is capable of growing, of learning, of being "normal,�" they say, will help her get as close to normalcy as she ever can. What they tell us is a lie.
She is not normal. She can never be. Drugs do not help her. Therapy has failed. Fancy renaming of the old-fashioned bloodletting has had no effect on purifying any part of her bad humors.
She is autistic.
They have no cure.
They.
Who are they? This collective group of medically trained men seems to have all the answers we seek, yet instead of giving us anything concrete, they send us in circles. Money fuels them. Insurance will deal with this for a time, but when that runs out, what then?
Will they care? Probably not.
The screaming picks up again.
She does not WANT to go to school.
But honey, this isn't regular school. This school will help you! You liked your teachers, remember?
But she doesn't FEEL good.
We took you to the doctor, baby, you aren't sick. You need to go to school.
But she IS sick. Why won't you just BELIEVE her?
The doctors said otherwise. We have some allergy medicine to help your sniffles and headache, you have to get dressed and go to school.
You HATE her. Why do you HATE her?
We don't hate you, honey, we don't. But you need to go to school. You can't miss any more days, you'll get in trouble.
She has no other argument. She restarts, she screams, she moans, she wails, she throws, she slams, she kicks, she punches, she sobs, she stomps, she demands, she accuses, she wins, or she loses.
And the family falls just a little bit more.
Screams.
2007-05-17
