When your 4 year old son decides in a fit of rage his best recourse is to attempt to break the body of an acoustic guitar over your back, his cries are suddenly heard loud and clear. At the time I was in reactionary mode; I didn't hear that muffled cry, embedded in the splintered case and sprung strings. I heard the dampened echos of something alright, but his cries were still crouched in the nonverbal corner of his autism. It was enough, it was the clearest he'd been since those first screams of afterbirth.
I sloughed off well meaning relatives, doctors and friends and he and I took that first step together. My justified fear carried me through the next few days; I blocked out the world, it's criticism, advice and judgement. Jacob and I took that broad step together into the realm of pediatric psychiatry.
He couldn't tell me much, his action with the guitar had said enough though. Eight years on and last week Jacob expressed an interest in his own medication regiment. After eight years of speaking for him, I both relieved and reluctant allowed that red headed chatterbox speak for himself. He asked to stop.
Who am I to say no? Three days in and weaned off his main mood stabilizer we wait. The wait is different now, because Jacob asked.
