It's always the blue-haired ladies. Always. We can not figure out why.
Now before I insult a large (and growing) section of the population...which I'm surely going to do in the next few paragraphs, I'll state that I know that I am painting with a broad brush here...and of course, dear reader, I'm not talking about you specifically, no matter what color your hair is, right? (And if I am...well, you know who you are...no matter what color your hair is.)
It's true though, nothing brings the blue-hairs out of the woodwork like a 5'4" 110 lb good-looking boy, screaming...no, let me re-phrase that:
Slathering-at-the-mouth, red faced, babbling incoherently, nose running SCREAMING at the top of his lungs-type screaming; all the while kicking, hitting, pinching, pushing his aid or his mom...in public. It's like a beacon for this particular demographic of omniscient wonders of parental guidance and child care. Of course, they never can just keep their mouth shut. Oh No, no, no! Why do that and waist all that free advice it's their mission to impart?
Why does Tim go off like this? ' Don't really know, but as his parents we have our thoughts...
Tim speaks but has a very hard time getting his thoughts out. Its been said that autistics see the world in large blocks of images, like a bunch of snap-shot photographs. (Photos that are not always in chronological order to boot.) The following is my opinion only; but I take that to mean that they see the whole photo at once...not just focusing on the central area of importance like most would; but a global, diffuse focus. It all "hangs together" when its one image, but try to break it down and the individual parts loose their relationship to the whole, so it becomes near impossible to determine where to start in describing what they see in their mind. Either that or they become fascinated with one trivial aspect of the scene, loose themselves in it and again, do not know where to start.
These are my thoughts on what it must be like to be autistic trying to describe a scene...
Take a look out your window sometime and describe everything you see at once...not, "I see a bird flying through the sky and the grass is green..." To do that you have to focus on various aspects of the picture: the bird, the sky, the grass. You instantly deconstruct the whole scene, filter out the important from the trivial and then translate word-less image into image-less words so that you can put it into a linear, list-like format.
Now, don't do that.
Describe the whole, entire picture the way you see it: all at once...but where do you start if it all looks of equal importance? Maybe there are parts of the picture that are very interesting to you...so interesting that you can't think about anything else and your mind becomes filled with that one little aspect of the picture...maybe its the way the water in the bird bath reflects light. Add to that a sense of urgency because its important to you to describe the picture or you will not get something you need at the moment.
Go ahead, do it. Right Now. Can you? Are you getting a feeling of what a social life might be like for Tim?
It must be terribly frustrating to see clearly what you want in your mind but not be able to get the words out. Add to that a scrambled wiring pattern in your head, enough antipsychotic, antidepression, and antimania medication to knock over a small pony and sometimes that frustration gets to be too much so you start screaming. No one understands you and that's frustrating as all hell, so you start swinging at them to make them understand. Pretty soon you're just raging on, yet STILL no one understands you and so, like Tim, you're over the top, bug-eyed ranting and honestly can NOT get it under control.
This happens at Walmart, book stores, libraries, car dealerships, parks and when it does my poor wife and all of Tim's aids have had to endure glaring death rays of matronly disapproval from anonymous grandmas. One aid, while waiting Tim out at a local park as he alternately flailed at her and threw himself on the ground, had to put up with two old bitties tsk, tsking among themselves while saying loud enough to be heard as they walked by, "He's too old to act like that!". The aid just endured it. I would not have.
For some reason, I have not had to put up with much of it, Allah be praised. It may be "The Dad Effect" or it may be that I just tend to get reeeeeal nervous when I take him to certain locations (like a store with toys) and consequently, with heightened awareness of his mood, will give him the bum's rush out the door and into the car at the very firstest, slightest sign of detonation; but the aids and my wife do not always have such luxury.
My wife, like me, is signed up for the full tour; but I have to hand it to the aids, they can quit and leave; yet they keep coming back for more...even when the stress of Tim's set-backs, rage attacks and the know-it-all callousness of the public breaks them to the point of tears at times. Lord knows, it's not the money. We love our aids. Yes, we do.
In the lore of Tim's rage attacks...and that's what they are..Rage Attacks...what has become known as "The Library Incident" just takes the cake though.
***
Tim loves the library...any library. This is good. Tim can read and this is very good! Plus, its a big kick for him to scan the books out with the laser bar-code reader. So, we love to take Tim to the library, which is just what one of Tim's aids did a couple of weeks ago. She chose the Whestone library because its close.
Tim was having difficulty getting his point across that he wanted a book of some sort. On top of it, he was getting an ear infection, unbeknownst to anyone at that time...so he was not in the best of moods. They got to the check out and Tim just Lost It.
Totally.
Do-Not-Pass-Go-Lost-It.
As in, Everyone Outta the Pool, Full Tilt, Game Over, LOST IT!
He went after his aid...kicking, biting, screaming, pinching, scratching and the aid grabbed his arms to keep herself from getting flayed and prevent Tim from either intentionally body-slamming something hard or attacking the next nearest person (Tim is not too picky about who he goes after when he blows like this...in the words of Shakespeare, "All are punish-ed", helpful strangers included.) She was not wrestling with him, she just grabbed his upper arms and held them down against his sides as best she could, while he tried to kick and bite her.
Enter the blue haired lady.
She started screaming at the aid to "Let him go! Let him go! You're hurting him! Let Him Go!"
(Quality intervention like that always helps.)
Now Tim is screaming and the blue-hair is screaming and no one can hear the aid trying to calmly explain the situation while keeping Tim from either ripping her or our geriatric Joan of Arc to shreds, but there was no calming our heroine from her self-ordained mission, she just kept right on ordering the aid to "Let him go!" Of course, in the quiet of a library, this was a hell of allot more interesting than anything on the shelves, so they had an audience. At least, a well-read audience this time. To their credit, the library staff...whose seen Tim before, kept their cool.
Finally, Tim blew himself out enough for the aid to get right into his face without getting head butted and in her best Drill Sergent more or less shouted the order to "STOP NOW!". Tim will almost always stop after his fit runs for awhile if you loudly order him to "STOP NOW!" The aid had timed it right. Tim Stopped Now. Just like that. Like a light switch, he just turned it off. (This "On/Off" is always a bit disquieting...but, hey, it works.)
Dudley-Do-Right-with-the-Blue-Hair looked at the aid and said in her most self-righteous tone, "See what a little prayer can do. I prayed for him."
Gee, thanks.
If there's one thing parents of disabled children know is how to pray, how to bargain, and eventually, how to grovel.
Then you learn how to endure..endure the deafening silence of a dispassionate universe, the stupid words of a rude and harsh public, ham-handed meddling bureaucrats, and time flying by. It eventually dawns that it's you who must endure that which a parent should never have to endure: a life sentence to outlive your own child.
So, for all the prayers we've said ...
and for all that have gone unheard and unanswered...
this smarmy freak-show of a self-appointed miracle worker had the nerve to say something arrogant and stupid like that.
Might I recommend another prayer that would be Dudley Do-rights and others of omniscient parental wisdom might employ?
Just say this..it works well: "Oh Lord, help me to keep my mouth shut, my opinions to myself and my feet fast to where I stand for I surely am an idiot and willst insert my foot into mine own mouth to the regret of all for I have failed, (as usual) to walk in anyone's shoes but my own. Amen."
The aids are trained, have known Tim for years now, they know what to do, do it real good-like and will tell you what to do and where to go, if they need help; but, they probably won't need help if you don't try to "help" them. So please, just get out of their way and let them do their job.
If you really want to be a hero, give generously to the American Society for Autism or say something encouraging and kind to the aids...that's free.
