A Mother's Perspective

Paula Barnes

His entry into the world should have told me something! From day one it was not his intention to be social. A reluctant bottom with its unseeing eye made a tentative move toward myriad ghost like figures, clad in white, peering above flimsy paper masks. He was rushed to "special care" whilst I was told baby had a bit of a shock. I waited, legs akimbo to be sutured, feeling more like an accident victim than a woman delivered of child.

Almost two weeks later we were home. His incessant crying seemed in contrast somehow to his beauty. Long dark eyelashes curled above dreamy blue green eyes, his flawless face crowned with thick brown hair in which the slightest hint of auburn glinted in winter sunlight. "You'll break a few hearts when you're older," I cautioned teasingly. I little knew as we set out upon this journey together that the heart to break would be mine. After weeks of crying he finally settled into a routine. His apparent reluctance to be held I dismissed as colic; indeed I had answers for most things in those early years. He was well into his third year before he spoke, he was lazy. He wasn't interested in playing with other children - well, he was an only child and unused to sharing. We lived in the country and visits by others were not as frequent as perhaps those in town - he'd be exposed to more children when I enrolled him at kindergarten.

The years which followed have been written in various ways by different field workers. We can pick up most of the current texts and take a soupcon from this and a generous helping from that but more plentiful than the texts were the adjectives applied to my son by the misinformed and the ignorant of those earlier years. He was deaf, defiant, inattentive, antisocial, dreamer, loner, loony. The list was endless and I believed them and those directed towards me, conveniently packaged under the heading "Poor Parenting".

I determined to go into battle, not with the accusers but with the accused. With Dickensian firmness I pushed him harder and harder to achieve. He learned, if not altogether understanding concepts entirely, certainly by rote. When I pushed him too hard he would "disappear" from me and the rituals and obsessive behaviour would increase.

Our family became the increasingly unfamiliar "extended family" - my mother came to stay and stayed. Whilst I celebrated my triumphs as her grandson made monumental strides - she saw only his deficits and mine as a parent but our feuds were few and her judgments borne of ignorance, initially shared by my husband.

His vocabulary increased and he was able to read (though his comprehension was often in doubt) I was too busily applauding every minor scholastic achievement to focus upon his lack of social skills. In retrospect, I think it was easier to ignore them. Whilst other parents complained of their youngsters mixing with undesirables, my son never had friends - it was never a problem. I little knew of the taunting, teasing and at times bullying he was subjected to as an outsider.

The angelic face changed over the years to become handsome but the dreamy look was little altered. It had now become difficult to ignore his loneliness and concerted efforts were made to "socialise" this aloof young man. We dressed him up in scout uniform - he stared admiringly at his reflection in the mirror, for what seemed hours, before finally agreeing to go to the first meeting. He went twice, or was it three times before begging us not to insist he go again. We tried the sea-scouts. The uniform was far more appealing. I think he went to several meetings before saying he did not want to go any more. All those uniforms, so many things we tried. It was his insistence that he look the same as others which found us constantly burrowing deeper into out wallets.

Cricket was more successful although he was not blessed with marvellous co-ordination. On one occasion his team had won their match but they decided to play out the time and give the less able youngsters a chance to bowl the tailenders. The kids preceding had bowled with a determination and speed which would have had most adults running for cover. Nervously our son took hold of the ball. It was like a slow action replay, the batsman hesitated a second before attempting a hook shot which was proudly caught mid-field. Surrounded by players shouting, "Well done."  His smiling face turned to one of sheer horror as the kids jumped on him, tousling his hair, acknowledging his wicket. Instead of congratulating his fielder he stood rigid, terrified in the middle of the pitch. He didnt play again.

High school was a difficult time both scholastically and emotionally. It was a time of remedial classes, guidance officers and educational psychologists. He had made so much progress in his primary years and suddenly it appeared to stop. He became more and more introverted.



At fifteen he left school to go to Art College. Beautiful drawings adorn our home but his drawing forte was unsupported academically and he left college after only one year. Attempts were made to find some sort of employment and pardon me if I use that prohibited F word but we failed.

He sank into a dark abyss and we were unable to reach him for a long, long time. He began to gain insight and acknowledged that he was different but to be so different was too hard to endure. The deterioration was heart breaking as he began to contemplate suicide.

Followed two years of the darkest despair for us all during which Psychiatric Services were at times supportive, at others frustratingly uncooperative. My diary was to read like that of a depressive. My son became increasingly withdrawn and when agitated his rituals would increase.

It wasn't a sunny day indeed it was most unremarkable but I suddenly discovered a new energy and resolve to do battle once again, this time with government agencies. My efforts and those of our sons social worker, Wayne and the manager of what we formerly called Self-help or Sheltered working environments, were rewarded when he was offered a place. His confidence increased and very slowly he began to recover from this nightmare.

Today, some years later at the age of twenty three, he is a handsome young man coming to grips with his differentness. He does some casual work occasionally for a company whose directors and staff have strong moral values and are sensitive to his special needs. He is a conscientious worker but needs constant supervision and reassurance. Employees see him as rather an odd character who appears at time to be a bit of a contradiction.

For most of the time he appears aloof, sits alone but occasionally mimics the voices of characteristics of fellow workers. He is trying to control some of his stereotypic behaviours but when stressed seeks reassurance from these. His father is concerned for his future. His sons naivete makes him a vulnerable target for the unscrupulous. Although he has learned some social niceties he does not have the skills to develop friendships.

Sadly, he finds it difficult to initiate conversation with friends and extended family members so he is always on the periphery of such gatherings. To visitors he seems indifferent but I ponder often on the indifference exhibited by visitors to my sons difficulties.

We have come a long way together but the road never ends and it will be one, eventually, he must travel alone. Today he went to visit some retired friends of ours.  The afternoon light became dim and they were tiring. Periods of silence were broken occasionally by their yawns and sighs but they went unheeded. "Its been nice seeing you," they said; to which he politely replied, "Yes, you too". Finally, my friend had an inspiration. She led him into the garden asking him to help her pick flowers, filled his arms to overflowing and asked him to take them home to his mum before, bless them, they died!

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