Someone Let Me Out: Autism and Trapped Communication

Years ago, I won a trophy (small, albeit) speaking about my son’s autism and my homelessness and how these collided.  “Serendipity,” I called it. I spoke of how it took an autistic person like my son, Cullen, to understand an ex-homeless fella like myself and vice versa.  Some 5 or 6 years later, after years of pure frustration and helplessness dealing with his autism and delays, I never dreamt I would feel the way I do about him now.

Today (in CoronaVirus time this was a couple of months ago) as I sat in a coffee shop near my house, school is out and sitting next to 7 of Cullen’s peers, my eyes began to water. Their shirts announced “Sand Creek High School” all over them.  His school.  With tears on my cheeks, I watch as they laugh, talk, listen to music, and stare at their smartphones.  I ache with a feeling of emptiness for my son; of missed opportunities; of reaching for something he may never grab.  I can’t stand that he probably feels this way every day! 

Part of me wants to interrupt their fun-filled conversations and tell them about how great my son can be. 

 “Do you know my son?”  

“Would you do me a favor and be his friend?” 

or with sadness ask, 

“Do you even care that he’s alive?”  

I don’t though.  Instead, I watch in jealousy as they seamlessly connect.  Continuously emitting belly laughter that appears trapped by their bodies and then released.  Over and over.  Sighs of social relief and joy radiate out of them...fluidly...naturally.   Communication comes easy.  Like a pressure relief valve on a pressure cooker. It gushes out at the release of a button for these giddy girls. 

I can’t help but ruminate on where the pressure from pent up desires, frozen dreams, and trapped laughter that’s meant to be shared with others goes in my son.  Desires with no car to travel the road of adventure/discovery. Laughs with no one to blow the steam of life on.  Communication tightly trapped and squeezed of its life in the jail of autism before it has a chance to enhance this world. 

At home, when I look into Cullen’s eyes, I can see the hope to be like other kids.  Not because he wants to be normal, or liked even.  But so that he can attach. With someone.  Anyone. I believe he aches for an attachment, with someone, anyone.  Instead, he’s hunkered down in a house staring through the windows at a world he can’t reach. It just doesn’t make sense to him.

The other day someone says that they want to make lots of money in business and what they’d do with it if they were able.  Fast cars, trips around the world….  As a therapist, I’ve seen where such dreams lead.  And all I can think of doing with said money (should I be granted it) is finding a way to give a sweet, sweet boy what most of us already have.

Honestly, I’m not sure what this post is about.  I think since most people will likely never meet him, I just want people to hear his story...connect with who he is in some way.

Thanks for reading…

Jeff