Uncharacteristic Honesty

The next entry in my 2009 journal has some uncharacteristic honesty about raising an autistic son.  Ferretfingers was 15 and Thunderthighs 13.

Monday 6 April 09

Thunderthighs had a taste of my coffee.

“Oooh that is nice.  It would be even nicer if I had some biscuits.”

Or, as Mother used to say, “A cup of tea’s too wet without a biscuit.”

I went to see Dad on my own today.

He was being showered when I arrived so I sat and chatted with the old ladies in the Elderly Mentally Infirm unit.  Very pleasant, if a little surreal.

It’s so tiring looking after Ferretfingers: 

wearing or wearying are perhaps better words. 

You have to be constantly alert and aware of what he’s doing. 

He’s always finding something new to damage or destroy and it’s impossible to guess what’s next.

It doesn’t help that his father is either asleep or immersed in the crossword so is unaware until it’s too late. 

Then all hell breaks out.

I’d forgotten how therapeutic it is to write in a journal.

To express all those thoughts you won’t say out loud to anyone;

Because you don’t want them to know;

Or it would be disloyal;

Or you don’t want pity.