Me, A Troll?

Today I was accused of being a troll. Really not a big deal, I've been called far worse in far more polite forums. What bothered be about this was the context of said name calling. It was a reply log to an article about something exceptionally close to my heart. A 3 year old boy with autism who was subjected to a 5 hours ride from his school to his home; a trip that would usually take his parents 20 minutes. A dear friend of mine posted his own scathing article; well written, composed (considering the subject matter, he is al so a parent of a son with autism.) Along with the usual platitudes, "Oh my GOD.....That's horrific......if that was my child," I could easily pin point those with children with Autism and special needs comments.

Then, there were the others

You see, I have been spoiled. I am in a private group for parents of children with Autism. I have several face book and twitter friends and followers who just get it. I have cut out all those that are cruel, or refuse to learn or understand.

The Meh and the heartbreak

I hear "My Heart breaks,"...."doesn't it break your heat." Even from those that have plenty enough to bear heartbreak wise. If it's not your child though, that heartbreak seems warranted, even accepted. I have read and followed many an article and thread and it seems "My heart breaks" leads the view. I can only speak from personal experience, my heart doesn't break. It just doesn't, my emotions are pulled, like a tug boat against it's will. You know you should but you don't want to, in fact beneath it all you're irritated you are asked an emotion at all. This is America where American emotion's are worn, expressed and thrown like confetti. Our real emotion, well, we don't know. We have been lead and drawn to convey and spread out emotion like a thin quilt.We cleave to theater to help us express said feelings: Golden Globe's, Oscars's. Oh trust me, I am as much to blame, I cleave the play, the distraction. I read a tweet tonight that said their "heart broke",while watching a recipient's acceptance speech. It reminded me,all the times I see similar tweets for stories about people, kids and adults how their "hearts broke," for an illness,a death,a child with cancer, that child's death from cancer, a celebrity's death. I have lived heart ache from a few seconds after Jacob was born. Not lack of love,not lack of longing but a heart ache. A knowing something didn't fit. The professional's around me knew as well. They shared the heart ache. Periodically we cried together. I lived that heart ache until he was medically diagnosed as Bipolar and Autistic. Then my heart broke. When your heart breaks it's the ache you've been carrying, it slows down, rests and stops. It's quite peaceful really. Seven years later I still carry it,although it's not an ache or a break. It's a hike. Don't laugh, that is what Autism and Pediatric Bipolar is, it's a hike. You slog, someday's you keep the head down and trudge on, someday's it's head's up and uphill and looking around. Many day's is head forward,no movement,forward,the blinker and both side's of his face, keeping him forward, his wide guide. Because those days you are his guild, compass and counselor. So,when I hear "My heart break's, my heart aches...."I think, really, my heart goes meh. I couldn't survive breaking and aching. Meh means I can aide him,all of them, and me. My heart goes meh, a lot, but it's my meh.

When Jacob asks!

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.

When My Well Is Empty

Unfortunately I don't write about the everyday things that would warrant a daily, weekly or even biweekly experience.  The Island of Autism and special needs is far more mundane than you think.  You see, us parents, teachers, leaders, go out of our way to try to make everything the same.  Changes in schedules, glitches in an everyday habit can throw our children and thus ourselves into a meltdown, anxiety attack or even as tonight proved a few flipped chairs, slammed doors and irrational yelling.

I sense you are either nodding or curious.  While tantrumming over a negative response Hannah flipped chairs, by "accident," Jacob interfered with everyone's personal space and screeched for about 30 minutes, John declared he needed space and locked his door, (the sanest of all reactions).

Slammed doors?  Oh, that would be me.  Irritable and snappy, that would be me too.  It was a long few weeks and today when school was out I was effectively on essential mode.  If you know Maslow's Hierarchy of needs I was pretty much at the base two tiers of the pyramid, although you can snip out the sex bit ;)

http://two.not2.org/psychosynthesis/articles/maslow.htm

My children would be of course given food, water, shelter, clothing and security.  Basically I was down to my absolute last enth of an ebb.  Of course you tell that to a child.  Now tell that to a child with hypersensitivity, hyper anxiety, hyper activity, and basically a need to treat your (meaning my) physical body like a lamp and they are the moth.  The more I pleaded for space, the more my two sensory seekers sought me out.  It wasn't anything mean either, just a need to feel loved, wanted, understood, held.  Still, by the evening I had nothing left in my personal well to give.  Even me, (and I know many close special needs parents can avow to this) was empty.My well was empty.

When this happens I simply need space, as simple as sitting on a bath tub with a locked door for 20 minutes; yet even then the fingers slid around under the door gap asking "Mommy...where are you!"  I found time to go walk for 30 minutes, I arrived back to hysterics as to where I had been even though they had an adult with them.  We were now in full fledged Autism and anxiety.  This continued all night in flurries and clouds of moments.  I flitted from crisis to crisis, like a ladybird with one wing.  When I felt we were all finally settled, out of nowhere I was asked something actually quite neurotypical, I don't remember what it was, most probably something simple and easy.  Yet my well was still empty.  I stormed down the hall, slammed a door, heard a picture frame crash on the ground and fumed quietly to myself.  Of course later I emerged and found my little girl playing with stickers.  I apologized and she hugged me no matter what.

Isn't is comical, we deal with the special needs as best we can,  maybe irritant and grumpily when overwhelmed,  but after that a typical child request just edges us into slamming doors and fractured picture frames?!  But, what a hug, and I know I didn't earn it.

Hierarchy and Humility

There is a natural order to things, even if the thing itself is a bit off center.  It's been around since I first became unofficially and then officially aware of my three puzzle piece's special needs.  If you are a parent I know you will relate in some fashion to what I mean, regardless of your child's needs, typical or diverse.  It's the hierarchy we are pushed into, the realm of others that technically should be on the same playing field.  It starts as soon as we tell family and friends excitedly we are expecting, then ripples out into the community as bellies show and people question.  You're in a select group now, a joyous clique.  Of course along with that comes people's opinions, advice and stories.  It's all met with appreciation, real and plastic and then there you are nuzzling with this blotchy pink warbling creature, one eye wide like Popeye; "he's a cryer..."  we all laugh.

18 months later, he's still a crier, also not speaking much, if at all.  He holds his belly a lot, writhes on the floor, spins, steps back and forth like going over the same four steps in a dance. Constant ear infections, adenoids removed, ENT's, multiple doctor's, specialists.  My clique shrinks a bit, ok it shrinks a lot.

Play dates are rare, as months and years move on birthday invites diminish to nothing.  Neighbor's whisper things you know you never want to hear.  Once you receive a definitive diagnoses, no matter what it may be, you feel validated, angry, devastated, triumphant, weak, strong all at once.  Now you know why that clique, that hierarchy of parenting had no place for you.  Surely there must be other's out there....just....like....us.

This is the kicker, yes, there is a place, a clique, in fact many many cliques.  And within' those there are sub cliques and off shoots and support groups and support groups that become support to survive the initial support group.  There are play dates, jealousies aspersions and projections  There are those who would shower you with advice and knowledge until you want to scream for a flotation device, then there are those that look you up and down like you really should take a bath, and why on Earth is your child shoe less and only in an over sized onesie. Yet most, so overwhelmed in their own closeted world have become so insulated out of fear, judgement and society; remember the one we used to know until the birthday invites vanished. Our children are still placed on pedestals to share symptoms, milestones, progressions.  However, they are also compared in terms of regressions, symptoms and diagnostics.  Sometimes it appears that if another's child is faring worse on the disability scale, you've been one upped.  It took me years to realize that these parents do actually exist and I wasn't being paranoid.  Took me years more to understand they are trapped, back in the stage of diagnoses, when they have no parental hierarchy to feel accepted.  Literally trapped in a moment in time, terrified.

In my experience, it is near impossible to find someone who can share, grieve, celebrate, cry and laugh together, certainly  in a local support structure.  Even among each other we cleave to our leaden roofs, our thick emotional walls.  The cliques are smaller yet still flourish in their own way, still most of us are frozen out. And again, as individuals we feel we are alone.

I'll be honest, I have cut out my fair share of those who I felt didn't "understand," or were too "involved" with their children's diagnoses.  Nothing puts you on your egotistical horse more than dealing with three Aspie meltdowns and seeing someone tweet or post a blog about the tough time they had at the grocery store with one.  I have also been told by several people they want nothing to do with me as they feel I am too much.  And for a long time I was, I was too much.  Don't get me wrong, I'm still a fiercefully opinionated, arrogant advocate and I am prone to pissing off one or two here and there, still experience tends to show one's humility, especially when one is ready to let it go, let it all go.  I sense my letting go may take a bit more patience and time though.  Hope that's ok.

Too able to be disabled

A dear friend pointed out to me I hadn't blogged in a while.  This is true.  There's no real deep reason why, honestly I've been busy.  School ended about 6 weeks ago and it's incumbent on me to tell you my children are too able to be allowed extended school year yet too disabled to attend day camp.  The boys, now 12 and 9 did attend a special needs day camp for a week.  They have gone there there there last few years.  Hannah is in a different realm, she is too able to be disabled for sure.  However, she also hugs the edge of Neurotypical enough so she craves friendship and interaction openly. I took a risk and enrolled her the same week in the day camp for typical children her age.  I mean, it was a week.  What on earth could happen?

Never ask such questions.

Cue one broken wrist through two bones and a cast from her thumb to her armpit.  The boys both declared they hate their camp and never want to return.  So, yep, I'm a tad overwhelmed.  In the interim, all three are doing their best to disembowel each other, I have applied to nursing school and roll the fuck on school ....for us....all!!!

Different is OK!

I am prone to the odd documentary or even feature where the protagonist or central theme involves autism.  Tonight I just finally finished "Dad's in Heaven with Nixon." Yes, alright, I'm more than prone, blame it on my back ground in Film Studies and having three silly Aspie beans.  Most films and documentaries about Autism are hit and miss.  One I may have been angsting for might be rather disappointing, while one that I stumble upon purely accidentally is flat out enlightening.  The reality is Autism and film has has a rather "interesting" history.

I think this is where I am expected to laud the acting ability of Dustin Hoffman in Rainman.  Forgive me if I don't.  It may be exquisitely acted, have a fantastic sophomoric dalliance with relating to a person with autism, but please people it is an extreme, so far to the fantastical edge of reality it really has no place in the muck and mire of Kanner's Autism, Asperger's Syndrome, Pervasive Developmental Delay, Pervasive Developmental Delay (NOS), Retts Syndrome, Fragile X and yes, ADHD.

See what I did there?  I took the perfect isolation of a Hollywood reflection of what so much of the public still consider's Autism and just bombarded you with real diagnostic reality.

Many of my compadres in blogging crime have already written about the impending changes in the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manuel of Mental Disorders).  The DSM was envisioned just before the end of WWI.  I can only assume the pervasiveness of Freud, Jung and the burgeoning of psychiatry as a legitimate field was finally permeating.  Unfortunately it certainly didn't mean the new born DSM was all that helpful.  Still, it was the only real starting point modern day psychiatry had in terms of cohesive understanding.  If I were to dissect each DSM and it's tangents I'd be here for years, into two Phd's and you would all be long gone screaming into the wilderness.

What I do want to focus on is what happened between 1980 and today.  The DSM III emerged the year the US boycotted the Olympics (just thought I'd throw that in there, well, because I can).  Sometime around 1986 Homosexuality was removed from the DSM as a mental illness; perhaps that may give you an inkling as to the sludge still stuck to the moral and well being of these supposed objective specialists.

The DSM morphed into it's fourth Doctor (Nerd speak), in 1994, a mere three years after Asperger's Syndrome was formerly introduced to the English Speaking Psychiatric world by Uta Frith.  Never mind, the syndrome was named after it's original identifier, Han's Asperger in 1944.  Unfortunately, he had the audacity to be Austrian, speak and publish in German right at the end of WWII.  Who knows what other brilliant mind's work was ignored at the time.  Miracle his work was found and researched.

From the early 1990's thousands of children, adults, families of deceased relatives have been able to put a face to the way these brains worked.  Give it a name, accept it's not a fault and try to move on.  Do you remember the awkward kid in school?  I know you do.  The one that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflections, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination.  They may have been non Athletic, bullied in the locker room or the changing room, maybe you egged it on.  They just weren't 'normal.'  If you say no, I see brown brimming in your eyeballs.  I can say now, it's ok, you were a kid too.  No one suggested you to lay off, step up or ask that kid to sit with you at lunch.

There is nothing as satisfying as having lived with a neurological or mood disorder all your life and finally it be explained as organic, developmental, not typical, but much more important, NOT YOUR FAULT!  Once upon a time Mother's were blamed for their infant's autism, due to Refrigerator Mother's.  They supposedly didn't hold or bond enough with their children.  Please note it was the 1950's/60's and no one was calling out Refrigerator Father's.

The DSM V will be published officially in May next year (2013).  From what I can gather, (remember it's a blog, not a news reel) all genetic connections to Autism shall also be dropped from the DSM.  There's an argument on both sides here.  I know in my son's self contained classroom, he is moderate Autistic, seeping into Asperger's; he also has significant challenges with a mood disorder and Adhd.  Not at all uncommon.  He has classmates with Rett's Syndrome, Fragile X and Tubular Sclerosis, yet all benefit from similar special education instruction.  Come the advent of the DSM V those with genetic disorders lose all DSM notice and all other's are lumped under Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).

For two of my three special needs children they will qualify under the new DSM V. It's ok for them.  My youngest likes to play with the edges of Asperger's and as she grows I could certainly see a burgeoning Aspie diagnoses.  However, under the DSM V's guidelines most probably not, as Asperger's will be gone.  Will she lose out?  Will she do ok no matter what?  How do I know, all I do know is another possible bridge, another future support has been erased for her.  Where will our fringe children go when all the rope ladders have been cut?  I would hope, they go to your children.  Why?  Because perhaps you have taught them that classmate that talked odd, perhaps had monotone inflection, talked in a monologue about his or her personal fascination, was not athletic, and bullied in the locker room or the changing room, was just different.  Different is ok, it's more than ok! Oh and she'll do his math homework for fun ;-)

Autism Day.....same as yesterday!

April 2nd was Autism Awareness Day.  I had grand notions of links and diatribes, explanations, moving stories and emotive words.  I had my blue light bulb.  I was poised, ready.  I was about to tell you all about the enormity, the dignity and the need to pay attention.  Then I awoke.

Screams, hollers, toilet paper strewn around the house, demands for hot dogs for breakfast and oppositional defiance that makes a rock look argumentative. Out of control hyperactivity, little bodies squeezing me so hard it was beyond a hug and my kidney's were texting me to be donated.  As a sensory introvert, you may as well scrape those nails on the chalk board already.  In fact, I spent the ensuing hours playing zone defense; tag team is not just a sports analogy you know.  Somewhere in the middle one of the unholy trinity made it to therapy. It was a miracle anyone was fed today.

This is not everyday, however it's not an unusual day for me.  I can handle the large hurdles like Atlas, shoulder it and muddle on.  It's the little things that tear me down, like muscle torn with each overextended stretch.  The need to be more than parent, provider and caregiver.  It's when I have to be Father as well as Mother, when I have to be confident, best friend, play mate, punching bag and the most hated thing on the planet.  Most hated, because I love them so much I can say "No!" and stick to it.  Yes, sound like Neurotypical parenthood, doesn't it?  Now add the bubbles to the bath water.  That's autism, your typical world, effervescent, hissing, bubbling and frothing.

Aware!  Oh yes, I am aware, I have been aware for about 12 years now.  I am extremely aware that tomorrow my 8 year old son, officially diagnosed with Autism this year has to be sedated completely for a small filling.  That's $400 of awareness with dental insurance.  Autism is not aware, it is heedless.  It's agenda  is blinkered and unrelenting.  To be aware is something, to battle the heedless is noble and ironically also relentless.

The Race of Autism

Dearest Jacob,  today you caught me off guard, the way a sleeping soldier, snoozing against his wall in peacetime is suddenly jolted awake with horns and the rushing tide of the shouts of fear and unpreparedness.  There I was watching the beginning of my sports show that comes from the UK.  As usual, I only focus on the first 12 or so minutes, once it gets to rugby, golf and cricket it's already been deleted.  There you were, slumped on the couch, I was casting my eye and ears between something 'terribly important' on the internet and half taking in the initial headlines of said sport show.

The commentators spat the headlines and updates out like a fiery geyser, attempting to rev up their unknown audience.  I paid minimal attention as I awaited to hear of my football team (soccer you irreverent lot ;).  Liverpool had battered Everton in the Liverpool Derby and I was eager to see the highlights and the interviews.  I turned my head to the screen.  You asked a question; I heard you speak but not your words.  Frustrated, I asked what you said.

"Why does that man speak with a British accent Mom?"

I look to see a non UK player on the screen.  No one there but the sports anchor and his co anchor.

"Who love?"

"The man in the suit......is he faking an English accent?"

"The man on the left?"

"Yes."

"Why would you think he shouldn't have an English accent hun?"

"But he doesn't look English....."

I knew immediately why Jacob asked this innocent question, although I struggled with my immediate response. The Sports anchor was black.  I inhaled my mortification in a single breath and turned to my son.

"How many black people in America have an American accent?"

"All of them Mom."

"How many white Americans do you feel  have an American accent love?"

"About half."

"I mean not including Latino's hun."

"Oh, then, most."

"How many white people in England do you feel have an English accent?"

"Well all....duh..."

"OK, how many Black people in England have an English accent sweetie?"

Jacob's little face scrunched up, his head tilted like it always does when he is struggling with a quandary.  "Well, none.  There are no black people in England!!"

My heart snagged on emotional muscle tissue, it tore and spotted blood on my ego.   I was stunned into silence.  I have always prided myself on being a pretty liberal, left winger.  I assumed' my children were absorbing my openness by how we lived our lives and by daily family cultural osmosis.  However, add to that Jacob's brain is not wired like yours or mine.  His autism and our coexistence of almost 12 years had me fooled into believing I was in step with his cultural understanding.

He and I talked a bit about people speaking languages with accents and no matter their skin color it was based on their country and their upbringing.  I could see he understood the concept but in his mind he was shaking his neurological head. It's time Jacob met the country that gave birth to his translucent Mom, and be exposed to all of Ireland and Britain.  We are all now mixed race and inclusion, regardless of our accents.  How nice though, to deal with race based on accent and not necessarily pigmentation.  Autism is a gift.

The Chosen

I remember my Mother commenting on how the babies we bear, whether to term or not choose their life's start, in a sense choose their family.  It seemed a wonderfully easy and ethereal plane to believe in, especially as a young woman, not yet to achieve that state of pregnancy and motherhood.  In the Bible, most especially the Talmud, the Hall of Souls is known as The Guf.


"The mystical significance of The Guf is that each person is important and has a unique role which they, with their unique soul, can fulfill.  Even a newborn brings the Messiah closer simply by being born."


Such a perception and belief is comforting, knowing every soul born is a rock across the tumultuous river that we pivot and slip upon to reach the "Messiah."  Of course this is probably only so if one believes in the concreteness of the bible and /or the Talmud.  As an older child and a teenager these mystical concepts fed me like a spiritual milk.  I was so desperate to believe in a reasoning for why certain children are born with needs beyond the everyday, or why someone I knew was suddenly not "themselves" after a car wreck or a medical procedure.  Even as young as my mid teens I had a deep draw to those around me with special needs, or as I now call them, needs.  I can not explain it and I gave up a long time ago attempting to pin down why.  That is and maybe truly beyond me, that's ok too.  Not everything, including intuition or perception needs scientific swordsmanship.


Having said as much, I have been struggling with something beyond my comprehension.  After years of catechism, a lapse, an extended involvement with the Episcopal Church, I have finally found my peace with the belief there is no built gathering of stepping stones, straight and pointed across that river of spiritualism.  It is for so many a teetering balancing act, with limbs outstretched, waving, gripping their rocks; calling every mossy slip "God's will," or "faith's challenge."


Parenting my children, the ones with "needs,"  I skipped across the same stones and green, glassy rocks for so long.  I could only see the next stone, the whitening rage or mild circular flow of the river that day.  I kept looking down, fearful, what if I fall?  Will my lungs with their heaviness and the Guf would be one less original soul?  When I think back to my Mother's original epiphany, she was and is by no means a religious enforcer. She is attune with the Earth and understands the water. She has, within' her own rocks and river found a quiet peace in the midst of the torrent.  


At times, when it's quiet or when my childrens' needs conquer an unimaginable milestone, I question if they chose me from The Guf.


I have watched my Mother, with a cocked head and an inquisitive eye for years now.  How does she live midst the same surge, yet never slip or become immersed, never washes away? 


"Go gently," she atones...."go gently."  I pause, eyes fixed on her, she is not looking down, scanning the slickness of the next rock like I am.  She is hunkered down on her rock, balanced, mid stream, looking up.  Her straight poise is palpable, her hand dipped in water that dances around her fingers like a well known friend, caressing her form.  I hunker down, some stones behind her, no longer studying the next rock, or the farther shore.  I allow my hand to atone and go gently with the river laughing around my fingers.  

Dearest

Dearest,
My apologies.

It was no accident you chose me,
We were the same, raging
in a world that blinked
indifference.

A fresh soul delivered from your
warm immersion into
sensory terror.
Your brain already fighting its mismatched puzzle.
Neurons bouncing like beads clicking against the floor.

Images of warm deep embraces-edged 
into the distance.
Childhood pleasures morphed into sensory diets,
play therapies,
mood stabilizers.

No Parenting magazine knew you.

Five years besieged 
by a mind brimming
confusion. 
Wide black eyes glazed, 
never willing to meet my gaze.

No immediacy of love,
It stood in the middle distance
trepidatious, edging silently forward,
a little,
at a time.

Until the day we heard that gentle porcelain doctor say
“autism spectrum.” 

There you stood, and I saw you
for the first time
looking right at me.

Falling in and out of love!

When one's child is born with an invisible yet neurologically different need, you are met with a physically beautiful and healthy baby.  However, until symptoms appear you just see that.  When you choose to breastfeed and thus room in with him you are met with certain supports, to do with nursing, bathing and the like.  When he starts screaming at 12 hours old he is planted on your exhausted body, as apparently nursing him will stop it.  It does not.  You are left with this teeny entity that had been telling you he has been alive from 14 weeks in utero.  The nurses can't manage his needs, thus he is thrust on your lap.

In hindsight, I should have checked myself out and gone home.  At least my baby's father would be there to support me, instead of as the nurses and doctor's did; chastise me for immediately recognizing, this baby needs movement, constantly. It was instinct with me.  I walked the halls, got yelled at by night staff for doing so.  From the very moment this little boy was born he needed more than the regular world would give.  That night the nurse yelled at me for marching the halls with him. I in post partum glory told her she was a fucking cunt and she could fuck herself.  Suddenly I was listened to, was given the empty neo natal unit and a rocking chair.

My life with Jacob began with me fighting for him, and I have no doubt will end with it.

Here we are almost 12 years later, I have two other kids, both with needs of their own.  The issue with having children with or without invisible disabilities is, you fall in love, out of love and in love again.  Of course you always "Love" them, however, their needs, personalities, behaviors and reactions truly test you to the point of wanting to run away.  Yes, I have googled how to run away.  You may judge, like I see society easily do, or you can at lease listen.  We do not want your pity or your judgement, just understanding.

We fall in and out of love with our children all the time, yet for some reason, the special needs parent is berated the most when they admit to this.

I was censured and made feel like dross the night I instinctively knew this child needed to be walked.  Next time you see a parent with an out of control child.........think, count to ten and ask yourself.  "Is this my place to judge?"

You know what, I still "walk" Jacob, in different ways now, although no one ever bother's to ask how.  How sad, and what a waste of marvelous information.

The PTSD of ASD and BP!

War, conflict, psychological assault.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  Quick, scan around for the dismembered soldier.  That's the rule right, only applies to boys and girls with blown off limbs, that we then fawn over and thank endlessly for their service, regardless of what that "service" entailed.  It's not these people in uniform that we should question for the reverence for the military, a reverence that boarders on psychotic sycophantic God worship.  I have see the latter in people I would call friends, who outside of this deification of the military are quite rational and reasonable.

The military, especially in the post September 11th world appear to have a patent on PTSD.  I know it's unbelievably prevalent in the forces and as they have all filtered home since the end of the Iraq War it will bubble up in the societal euphoria, thus quashing it like sand kicked on the glowing embers.  PTSD though is a human condition, not quartered off by the need to enter a mine riddled desert or IED strewn dust road.

Autism, Pediatric Bipolar Disorder.... ha, gotcha.  See the first sentence again.  The experience is so very different, the road not as dust ridden and choking.  Still the psychological experience, the reaction, the outcome, unless treated is the same.  

"Psychiatrists believe that PTSD can only be correctly diagnosed after at least a month has passed since the traumatic event. Before then the condition is considered a post-traumatic stress, but not yet post traumatic stress disorder. In addition the person must display all 3 classes of PTSD symptoms & necessary bases to differentiate it from other mental disorders.

• Class 1 symptoms: the sufferer re-experiences the traumatic incident
  ex. nightmares, flashbacks.
• Class 2 symptoms: the sufferer displays avoidance, wants to stay away from anything that may possibly remind her/him of the trauma. May also display lack of responsiveness or interest to all life circumstances.
  ex. sights, smells, sounds, conversations associated or reminding of trauma, unable to enjoy once joyful activities or have loving feelings
• Class 3 symptoms: hyperarousal
  ex.  irritable all the time or inability to sleep.

To raise and parent a child with a complicated neurological disorder is a draining existence, especially for the primary caregiver, usually the Mother.  Let me explain my symptoms as I hold my beating scarred heart in my trembling hand for you all.  I don't really have nightmares or flashbacks per se, although I do have vivid dreams, almost always being chased by people who are supposed to love and accept me unconditionally.  I do avoid, I stay indoors, I dislike meeting new people; it's a mental and emotional wrench to even answer the phone to close friends.  Mainly as they wish to talk about fluff; I am no where near fluff on a daily basis.

I have a marvelous wall, it has a retractable trigger, it can shuttle up or down depending on my mood, my company or my environment.  I used to read constantly, everywhere even  as I walked, I mean I would shove books under my school sweater and sneak out to recess with it just to read.  These days I can barely get though an article without losing focus.  I do not sleep.  I nap.  It's the best I can manage.  I am scolded constantly by those who truly love me that I never sleep, or sleep awkward hours.  I liken it to a recurring illness.  I can not control it. 

Irritable.

I laugh in a silly ironic way here.  I spend my days pulling myself out of irritability and living an open, cheerful exterior for the one's I love.  Periodically I slip, little things trigger me.  Having said that I have always been like that with irritability and anger, but an abusive alcoholic father and childhood sexual abuse ensured that one, (no the sexual abuse was not due to my father.....put your knives away ;).

I was dealing with my PTSD (as we all do in our own way) and slowly working through it.  Then life gave me childhood neurological disorders, from birth.  Jacob came out screaming and throwing up, and it didn't stop for two years.  By the time he was three I 'knew' this was something else.  Took another year to get a psychiatrist to concur. John arrived in a gentle earthquake, happy, quiet and non verbal until he was four.  Again I 'knew.'  I spent the next 6 years with psychiatrists, psychologists, neuropsychologists, developmental pediatricians, special schools, special education meetings, occupational, speech therapy.  I fought with the state for medicaid, I fought with anyone who tried to nail my children into their designated corner. I simply fought.; I fought all....the....time.

It got to the point that anyone who even raised a quizzical eyebrow was deemed an enemy combatant and I was in immediate conflict .  I have been doing this for 11 years.  I am burnt out.  I have nightmares, I avoid life, I choose numbness over feeling, my central nervous system is in constant flux.  

I am tired, yet, I know no other life.  PTSD is like the Python that consumes prey.  We are digested slowly.