I feel guilty all of the time that my son is bored; I forget that letting kids get bored can often be good for them because I place myself under constant pressure to entertain, or to come up with good activity ideas. Part of the problem is that we now have technology whose ‘entertainment’ advantages can render us instant couch potatoes and slaves to the brain’s dopaminergic system (akin to addiction’s pathways). Every time I see my son on my iPad I feel a stab of despair, and know I ought to encourage better pastimes: reading, drawing, writing. However, I am fortunate that, in the course of the present situation – my son has been failed by the education system – my medication means that I only have mini breakdowns.
‘Fortunate’.
It’s all I can do to think straight most of the time. If I lift weights I make endorphins, and this helps me to stay calm and focused; but to get to the state in which I want to lift anything heavier than a tea towel takes the most incredible effort.
The effort required to focus is exhausting. I function and then, when the hurt inside begins, it feels like a raw wound, then something tight that needs to crack; it remains like that, in semi-raw, semi-tight suspension, causing my brain to fog and my movements to become dyspraxic. It is with great effort that I perform the simplest task, and the very act of holding things together wears me out. In the end, I cancel my gym class and retire to Mum’s spare bedroom, where I close my eyes and have not the energy to move.
ASD: on being a special-needs single parent 