Free ALIEN INVASION by Peter Hallett Page A

going to let him hurt himself.
    “I can’t now it’s started. I’m sorry.” Panic was rushing through me. My breathing was fast. It always was when he had a meltdown, no matter how many times it happened.
    “Now what’s started?” he asked as he kept hitting his head into my hand. I was sure I’d have a bruise there when he’d calmed. It was a small price to pay. The cheapest of the costs involved in having an autistic son.
    “The machine, honey. I’m sorry, I put a load in.”
    “It hurts. My head hurts. My skin hurts. Make the banging stop.”
    “It will finish soon. Why don’t we do something to make it easier for you while it spins?”
    “Help me!” He was sobbing, rocking in between the banging of his head, his knees pulled into his chest. “I want it to go away.”
    “Is it the machine?”
    “What machine? My skin feels funny. I can feel it on me.”
    “Feel what on you?”
    “The air. It’s on my skin. It’s stinging.”
    “Is it too warm, cold, do you want me to turn the heating up?”
    “NO!” he screamed. He intensified his rocking and his head banging. My hand was going numb. I so wanted to remove it from the wall, to rub some life into it. I couldn’t risk that though. I was so concerned when he did the banging routine that one day he would cause too much damage, do some harm that couldn’t be easily fixed with a cold compress or Band-Aid. Not that he ever let me put something cold on him anyway.
    “What should I do? You tell me, Freddie, and I’ll do it. Tell mommy what she should do.”
    “I don’t know. Help me, please. Please help.”
    “What’s stinging your skin? Can you tell me that?” I could feel tears welling. The meltdowns really took it out of me. It was the most difficult part of Asperger’s Syndrome, for the both of us. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally. The social awkwardness and inappropriate language, the routines, the repetitive behavior, the obsessions, the literal thinking, and even the sensory sensitivity, when they didn’t lead to what I was dealing with at that moment, were nothing in comparison.
    “It’s the air. It’s on my skin.” He stopped banging his head.
    “Good boy.” I removed my hand from the wall. I had a bruise there already. I rubbed it with my other hand. It didn’t ease the ache.
    Freddie rocked a few more times. Then he started pulling at the neck of his jumper, stretching it out. “Please, take it off, Mommy.”
    I went to help but he slapped my hands away. “I can’t help if you won’t let me touch you.”
    “Don’t touch me. Help me!” His voice was cracking. He always had a sore throat after a meltdown. Once, he’d sounded croaky for days, as if he’d had the flu.
    “I can’t help, if I can’t touch you.”
    “It fucks.”
    I was able to smile a little. “What do you mean, Freddie?”
    “It fucks me.”
    “What does? I don’t understand.”
    “The air.”
    “I don’t think you’re using the word right.”
    “Fuck you! Fuck you, Mommy. Fuck the air.”
    “I stand corrected.”
    “You’re not standing, you’re sitting.”
    “That’s right, I am, isn’t Mommy stupid?”
    “The air is stupid.”
    “Do you want to take your jumper off?”
    “I want to take the air off my skin. Please, Mommy, take it off.”
    “Can you wait here, while I get your cards?”
    He just nodded as he continued to pull at the neck of his jumper, tears running down his face, fear etched into his features, desperation plain to see. A tear managed to sneak from me as I stood and ran into the kitchen.
    I grabbed his cards from near the microwave and ran back to sit next to him. I held the first one up, a cartoon drawing of a light blub. He shook his head. I threw that to the floor and showed him the next one, a drawing of a radio with illustrated music notes sounding out of the speakers. He shook his head again. The next picture was of a roaring fireplace.
    He nodded, his breathing hastened, he screamed out, “Yes,