I Love My Kid, but Hope That Someday They Will Be Released From This Horrible Affliction
How many times have you heard that in regards to kids and people with autism?
I love my kid, but . . .
There’s a thing called unconditional love. Unconditional love. Let’s think about that, okay? Love with no conditions. I love my kid, but I wish that someday (like after the development of an autism cure), I’ll be able to really talk to my kid, really know my kid. You know, after they’re better.
What you really want to say is that you’ll love them more after they’re more like something that you can understand.
What set this off?
A response to this CNN story:
My daughter has autism and is non-verbal as well. However, she is one of the sweetest kids ever. I know that she is smart, but she cannot convey her intelligence in the traditional methods. Although I can sometimes “interpret” what she’s doing or what she wants and why, sometimes, I am at a loss as well. I hope that someday the veil of autism is lifted, and my beautiful daughter can really shine!
Posted By Mary, Chelsea, MI : 1:32 PM ET
Hell, just give her an open tuned guitar and let her make music . . .
What kind of bullspit is that to say “she is one of the sweetest kids ever” paired up with the sentence: “I hope that someday the veil of autism is lifted, and my beautiful daughter can really shine!” She’s sweet, but she’s not really human, she’s not really my daughter, she’s not really real to me, because she’s not like me. Because I don’t understand her. Because she’s not really herself; there’s something more to her, but I can’t see it right now, because she suffering from a horrible affliction . . . etc.
What if I changed out the word, “autism” with “depression”?
Naw, even that doesn’t qualify.
If the kid is sweet and happy, then why can she only be beautiful without autism? Is she suffering? Give the kid music! Art! Unconditional love!
How do you think the kid feels whenever you look and speak to her with that horrible sweet voice, conveying so little and so very much. I bet she knows that she is not good enough. Kids who aren’t what their parents want them to be always understand that at a certain level, they’re just not good enough. That knowledge of not being everything that someone wants you to be is like a pesticide in nature; it seeps slowly through your life, tainting everything it touches.
It doesn’t have to be autism. Say you’re the geeky kid with the super athletic dad whose lifelong dream was to have a son follow him in the world of high school football. But you’re the kid that likes to read and has aspirations of someday being a writer or an artist of some kind. You go through your whole life with the sense that you’re never good enough for someone that you shouldn’t have to worry about being good enough for.
They’re not just two words.
You don’t just say it; even more, you don’t just do it . . . you are it, you feel it. It. Is. You. ‘Cause if it’s not, then you’re not being real. And you’ll convey that unhappiness with your kids through the littlest actions that you’re not even aware of.
If you’re not being real to them, then you’re not being real to yourself either.
Autism is about being real. We’re real. Are you?