Labelled but still mine

These are some words I wrote one evening after it was first suggested that William was Autistic. It was summer 2017. I was in complete denial but as soon as his preschool suggested he was on the spectrum my world felt like it had come crashing down. Because deep down I already knew. I was sat looking at the beautiful picture I've included here and completely awash with the memory of that moment. As my mind struggled to contemplate the new reality and sense of loss I was feeling, these were my thoughts...

Here's an idea. Let's stop labelling everything.

I miss the days before my son was judged. Before he was criticised. When he was considered 'normal'. We accepted his quirks, the little things he did. We didn't even think for a moment that he might be different. He was ours and he was perfect.
There is a point when the world takes over.
When did he stop just being ours? The world looked at him and said 'you're different, let's give you a label to make ourselves feel better. To make life simpler. Let's give you a label so we can fit you where we need to.'

I miss the memory...

Of my son playing with sticks at eighteen months old. Wild and free, not a care in the world. The three of us bathed in September sunshine. We were happy. One of those moments where the world briefly doesn't extend at all beyond where you are. You forget it all. All we saw was our beautiful son. Playing with sticks. Lost in his imagination. He was wild, he was free. He was content.

I miss that time. I miss that freedom. Not a care in the world.

Now I analyse everything. Everything he does. I'm looking for answers. Everywhere. Answers where there are none. I can no longer sit back and enjoy my son without worrying. Who is he? Who will he be?

He struggles to sit still. He has boundless energy. I thought this was normal. He gets frustrated with miss understandings. And we cannot break through an invisible glass between us and him. He is locked in a place we cannot see, we cannot feel. I don't want him to be there. I want to bring his mind to mine and comfort him. But I cannot help him, not really. I have to wait for the storm to pass. And then he comes back. Like a tantrum but more remote.

He has been labelled but he is still mine. The world has told me he isn't perfect.
But he is.
He has been perfect since the day he began. Before he was even born.
He was the answer to prayer. He was everything and he still is.
So precious. I love him more than anything I've ever felt. And I would do anything for him.

My boy. My wonderful wonderful boy.
I want to give him the world.
The world that has told him he isn't 'normal'.

He is wild. I am supposed to confine him. Make him abide by a million rules he cannot understand. Make him wait and wait and wait when he wants to run, explore, to hide.
I don't want to have to control him the way I am made to.

In a rough sea I am his anchor. I am expected to weigh him down and struggle against the tide. That's it. I am expected to fight an invisible tide no one else can see but me and him. I am his mother and I feel his pain.
His turmoil like waves. Round and round and round until he is peaceful again.
I feel battered as a sinking ship. I drown over and over again. Then he laughs and I am rescued. I breathe. All I want is him to be happy. Not even happy. Content.
Can I dare to say I want him to be normal?

I feel like he wears a label around his neck now. And it is suffocating us both.
It hurts me.
He is different but I want him to be the same.

He has been labelled but he is still mine.