This is the face that breaks my heart. It is the face of sadness, fear, anxiety, and social withdrawal. It is the window to Ian's feelings of inadequacy, of being different, of being alone.
Ian's summer has been difficult. We've been using this time to try to determine which medication will treat his bi-polar disorder the best and have the least side-effects. We've seen plenty of those, from facial tics to stimming. Even he realizes things are different. He is scared.
There was a man in the first autism support group I attended 3 summers ago, whose son had severe bi-polar disorder in addition to his high functioning autism. When he would tell us about the monumental difficulties he and his wife had with their son, I felt so sorry for them all. The cabinet full of medication that must be administered precisely on time to prevent complete chaos from erupting was only one factor taking its toll on them. The father was exhausted, as was the mother, and the boy seemed to feel tortured within his own body and mind. At the time, I was grateful Ian only had Asperger's and sensory issues. I had no idea that my own family would one day face the same scenario. Strangely, I don't feel the same way about us.
When we first arrived in Denver on July 3, the kids were tired from the long drive, yet energized by the cool, dry air and soft backyard grass they had to run in at my aunt's house. They did pretty well for the most part. The next day, when we returned to the same spot after our family reunion at a park located close to Columbine High School (yes, the very one), Ian felt easily overwhelmed. The tic that caused his mouth and jaw to grind wreaked havoc on his sense of self-confidence, and he took refuge in a dark corner of the house to play with toys. At one point, he got into a scuffle with an older cousin over a nerf rocket. Steve had to physically restrain him from attacking the other boy. Ian started growling like a vicious wolf and scratched, kicked, and bit Steve. He was going over the deep end quickly.
I stepped in, slid my arm gently around Ian's waist, nodded for Steve to let go, and glided him slowly to the ground. After positioning him in my lap like a baby, I began stroking his hair and rocking him, until his body went limp. I wasn't about to let my son alienate a cousin over a piece of foam. The sooner he was calm, the less damage would be done. If there is one thing I have learned in 40 years, it is that cousins in my family will love you and accept you no matter what you do or how dorky you are - as long as you don't throw a punch. Ian needs to feel that kind of acceptance.
The rest of the evening went well for Ian. For the first time in his life, he stayed awake to watch the fireworks.
He sat in my lap on the cool grass, watching the colorful explosions, and thought they were the coolest things he had ever seen. Every once in a while he would squeeze my arm, partly out of surprise at the loud cracking and popping, and partly as a way of letting me know that moment was as special to him as it was to me.
Watercolor entitled: "Cool Canyon Morning"
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