What I'm doing

I'm pretty certain that I'm keeping debauchery to a minimum. Except for in a certain area that needs work, or does it, I am rather straitlaced. And not even on my own volition- it's like the universe/uterus has deemed my future choices and actions to all fall within a certain pendulum that swings barely higher than a tot.

I had a scary experience last week. I was outside with an autistic child I care for, let's call him Skyler. No, let's call him Jake. No, Alex. Alex is an enigma to us all. I know upwards of 2 handsful of people who care dearly about him, but none of us know just why he does what he does. And it drives us batty. He does not take interest in the things that most of us take interest in, and if he does, it is for an inimitable amount of time and for a reason so foreign to us. Can we even assert that he "likes" stuff? If he does something a lot, like tap long thin things/ random manipulatives on any surface he encounters, is that him doing something he likes, or is it him doing what he was predisposed to do, or cannot get out of the mind of the beast that causes him to do that so incessantly?

The scary thing that happened. I was out with him, and he got pissed. Or so I think. Maybe this is just his emotions running their course. Whatever it was, it was a bad meltdown. And As he grows and becomes bigger and stronger, it is harder for me to sedate him. Especially in public. I am learning to do what a colleague tells me to do in public "have no shame" and do with him what I need. I hate hate hate to lay a hand on him, but he often does stuff that is dangerous to himself or to others, and I need to stop that, and if verbally terminating the detrimental action does not work, I need to use my body. He darted towards the street. I grabbed him back and said to him sternly "you know you cannot run into the street" because he does know. Or at least, he usually knows. He began to jump around and flail his arms, trying to smack my chest and face, scratch my neck, and when I held his arms down by his sides, he tried to bite my arms, and succeeded a few times. I held him by his elbows and faced him forward and marched him down to 3rd ave, the goal now was to get him home where there were more readily available resources that have been proven to help him chill out, like ice, a bath, and peanut butter (a boy after my own heart.) And hopefully, his dad. No such luck, I found out. After he managed to break my hold of his elbows it began to get unclear for me. We essentially spent an unknown amount of time causing a huge scene on the street in front of a blockbuster and next to a fruit stand. He pulled my hair, bit me, hit me, and was clearly very mad. Certain passersby of course stopped to stare, tried to intervene, asked me what was happening, threatened to call the police, all the while I tried to explain to them "he's autistic, he doesn't act the way we would expect and he doesn't mean to be hurting me or understand what you are saying right now." (At least, that's what I think. Granted, I have no fuckin clue what it is all about, and that is the hardest part of this. The line of empathy that I would like to establish with Alex, as I do with any person I meet ever, can only grow so far until it is severed ruthlessly somewhere in the abyss that exists between my consciousness and Alex's. It is almost like I am trying to connect with someone who does not speak the same language as I do, but it runs deeper than that. Alex understands English full well, but he does not speak. He does, however, make lots of sounds. And as I spend more time with him, and by now, I understand much of those sounds. The nuances are there albeit subtle. It is the forehead position and the slight pout that accompany more whimpering and whining sounds that alert me that something is brewing just under Alex's super sensitive/ not sensitive enough thick/thin/? skin.

The terrible climax of this event for me was cerrainly after a passerby had taken my phone to call Alex's dad and recieved his answering machine, and as an elderly woman came up close, too close, she waggled her finger at Alex as she chastised him. I explained through my chapped lips, mussed hair, and welled up tears that she should continue on her way, and he is autistic and does not have control over what he is doing the way we think he should. She continued to scold him, and he turned his energies from me to her. So he managed to slap her tan old-lady coat a few times pretty hard before I grabbed his arms again. In response to getting slapped by Alex, she did the unthinkable: She hit him back. Not just a light tap, but a strong hit. And then again. And then she punched him. By this time I was crying hysterically, a crowd had formed, and I was in pain, scared, stressed, and felt responsible for stuff that was over my head. I have invested a lot in Alex, from when I met him 9 months ago at the 92nd st Y until now. I have had wonderful moments with him, frustrating moments, funny moments, and most poignant of all, humbling moments. Being caught in this scuffle was too much for my frail emotional fortitude, or lack thereof. I wailed "please stop!" to the old woman, and finally she headed off, muttering, as passersby called after him "you can't touch him- he's autistic!."

Next came a godsend. A black woman who was certainly over age 45 offered her help: she took Alex's right arm and I took his left. To my absolute surprise, Alex did not act too aggressive toward her, but rather he complied as she stroked his pasty hand and repeated in an overly-soothing tone "thank you so much little boy, for allowing me to hold your hand...and what a handsome young man you are!" (he totally is). As soon as we made it down the block we were back at his fancy UES high rise, where the security guards know him. They saw me in my state and him, still bouncing around with that spark of fire in his eyes, and were very helpful and calming. Alex bounded down a back hallway after some official looking men in suits holding clipboards, and I ran after him, sputtering and hardened, both on the outside and on the inside. I say the word "hardened" because that is how I felt inside my chest. In the face of adversity and stress such as a freaking out autistic child who I am responsible for who will not see me and realize that I am serious and somtimes just not listen and bo absolutely crazy, I freeze up inside. I harden. But my exterior knows it cannot shut down, so I continue to go through the motions, manually preparing my senses of pain for the impending hit they may have to take soon, and to face it with fierce objectivity and nonchalance.

Why did this bother me so much? Well, For one, it was the fact that we were in public and it's not that I care what strangers think of me per se (anyone who sees how I dress on a regular basis knows it's true) but I have not found that comfort zone in the world with being responsible for a child who is obviously very peculiar, and while he looks like a gorgeous young boy, is clearly a violent, bipolar, and well, disturbed child to some degree. In so many ways he is a loving normal boy who just wants to play and connect, but he is trapped in this enigmatic body/psyche of seeking and or needing these intense stimulatory sensations at specific times, in specific degrees, and to different parts of his being. And when these cannot be met, he cannot regulate himself and has trouble keeping control of his body. Or maybe it's not that there is a "him" and a "his body" - maybe he just IS his body and that is the problem.

Another reason it bothered me: I hate to see him upset, and hate even more that he cannot explain to me what is the matter and I cannot help him. It is ultimately a huge guessing game, and I feel so fucking feeble and low offering him peanut butter, olives, and koubideh to sedate him as he freaks, when obviously something greater is going on.

It hurts when he hits me. It really does. He slaps hard, and he bites hard. Not because he wants to hurt me, but because he wants so much to express something and does not possesss the means to express it in a way that will be cathartic and operative for him and will reach me and my understanding. At least, that's the going assumption.

In the end, I had to run down that hall after him even though the guard told me "don't worry" because nobody would, and what if he ended up somewhere he shouldn't be, or got caught somewhere with someone who tried to talk to him and eventually got him upset and frsutrated because they were not expecting this cute little boy to have such a profoundly different way of being?

As much as I want to be selfless, there is definitely some part of me that is hurt emotionally by this. It is basically what I fear most I am doing to my parents, or to someone above me who is caring for me, what I feel he is doing to me. Here I am trying to give him some time outside because he loves to be outside and on the swing, and he lashes out at me like this? I am not evil! Why does he do this to me? Right there, is the problem. He is not "doing this" and it is not "to/at me." I am there and I am his closest confidante for the time, and he is trying to communicate. Bottom line.
The teethmarks are faint on my arm, surrounded by darker bruises. I note them solemnly as I remember last Friday, and wonder what to do from here on in.