Everyday crisis

Sitting in a local cafe, waiting for Ivy to finish therapy and Lily to arrive via the school bus. An overhead light flickers on and off, making crazy strobing shadows on the floor that feel like a horror film. Nearby a mother sits with her clearly autistic son, who having downed his drink now rocks and repeatedly tells her We need to go home now, while she does her best to ignore him, tapping at her phone screen. Finally, her coffee drunk, they get up and leave. I don’t judge her for trying to block him out – I know too well the struggles of having a child on the spectrum and how it wears you down. I do my best to ignore the flickering light, to take this hour and catch up with myself after a demanding week.

Lily’s work experience week did not go well. As usual, she did what she wanted, blanking out or messing around on the tasks that bored her. This time around, my Mum was present for her final day and so Lily wasn’t able to hide behind her usual excuses . Lily still insisted that she worked hard and did her best, meanwhile the office manager apologised to Mum that she wouldn’t be able to provide Lily with a reference as she really hadn’t earned it. After being called in by the manager to check on her because Lily had pinged an elastic band into her eye and was now claiming she couldn’t see and needed to wear an eye patch, it was clear that any plans I’d sketched for the week had to be abandoned; I was on call. By the afternoon of Day 2, the manager sent Lily over to the community theatre group making props in the church hall as it was clear that she was bored and unwilling to do anything else. That had already been scheduled for Day 3 – at which point Emo Lily, with heavily black-smudged eyes and face, argued with the organiser as she wasn’t allowed to play Marilyn Manson as they worked, then took 2 hours for lunch. Day 4, the day Mum was there as a witness, Lily did sod all but roll her eyes and sigh, until the manager told her there wasn’t much point in coming back after lunch. Given the amount of effort that I, Mum and the office manager had gone to in order to set this up for her at the very last minute, it was hellishly frustrating that Lily seemingly put no effort into it. I was just glad that I hadn’t succeeded in setting up anything more challenging – or even anything local – it would be embarrassing to be sitting in this cafe had Lily spent last week messing them around.

Back home and I struggle to teach her to think about others, to take responsibility for her actions and behaviour. I try to get her to understand how disappointing it was that she hadn’t put more effort into work experience when the rest of us had tried so hard for her. Try to get Lily to tell the truth, and to stop making excuses – always the thousand and one reasons why she had to do or not do whatever it was.

I don’t care any more Lily, I just want you to behave.

Perhaps it sounds harsh, knowing that Lily is autistic. Perhaps my expectations are too high. Yet Lily is evidently bright. She can be capable when she wants to be. Most of her behaviour comes down to Pathological Demand Avoidance, needing to be in control at all times and never wrong, an Aspie aversion to transitions and change, plus ADHD-driven inertia, difficulty with both starting and completing tasks. Back in the day she’d merely have been labelled as awkward, lazy, difficult, selfish and defiant. And that’s where it’s hard – she seems capable of so much more, of making better choices, of making more effort. She can do it when she wants to. It’s impossible to know what she’s actually capable of, where the line of autism and ADHD ends and the line of bad behaviour kicks in. Some would argue that it’s all down to her various diagnoses. Others would blame poor behavioural choices. And then there’s the ones who will blame bad parenting.

Yesterday brought a workshop with the local Carers’ group, followed by a meeting with the school SENCO. At the workshop the facilitator dared to say the unsayable; that in many ways, it’s easier with a child who is lower-functioning on the spectrum. This is heresy to some; above all, it’s really not helpful to get competitive over whose child is the easiest/most difficult to manage. Everyone is fighting their own private battles and it’s not possible to weigh up whether it’s worse to have a child who wakes throughout the night, or smears poop, or constantly runs off, or screams abuse at you in the supermarket. Yet she was talking from experience, a son who was more profoundly autistic yet in many ways easier to manage than his sister, whose Aspergers brought constant conflict, tension and verbal abuse on a daily basis. These are the kids no one knows how to handle, the kids on whom no behavioural strategy will work, who can seem bright as a button one minute yet next minute are in meltdown, refusing to cooperate, flying at you in a rage or head butting the wall. Kids who seem capable of getting decent qualifications, of going on to be independent and living their own lives… then have you lying awake with the realisation that they’re not going to make it, they’re just never quite going to manage, that either they will end up getting arrested, sectioned, or spending the rest of their lives still living at home, glued to their computer and arguing about cleaning their teeth or having a shower. Or worse. There is simply no provision for them.

The SENCO meanwhile assured me that Lily was being offered plenty of support in school, but was choosing not to utilise it. That countless times she’d seen Lily ignore the teacher, blank the TA and just refuse to do the work. The same verdict at home, at school, at work experience; Lily only does what she wants to do and kicks off about the rest. It has been this way since she was born. Unusually though, the SENCO took the time to tell me that I was a good mother, even though I generally never get to feel that way. There were the usual concerns of what support are you getting? and an insistence that I need to try and limit Lily’s impact on myself and Ivy. To which the answers are None and How? When I told her that we’ve found the perfect post-16 course for Lily, but it’s in a city over 30 miles away, she insists that I should drop the idea – it will be too taxing both economically and/or physically if I end up having to drive her there, unfairly impacting on both myself and Ivy. She also admitted that Lily was an extreme case, the first time I’ve heard this from a professional. The Early Help scheme was mentioned, and again I reiterated that while I was willing to try anything, I couldn’t access it if it meant that Simon would be informed. Despite the fact that Simon has now absolved himself of any and all parental responsibility (while retaining parental rights, of course), the knowledge that I was accepting help from Social Services would be like handing him a loaded gun and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against me. Meanwhile Lily has been telling people that she’s been told she’s a psychopath and is just waiting for confirmation.

I sit Lily down for a talk and explain that her behaviour has to improve. That she has to put more effort in. That while ADHD makes it harder to do certain things, like getting started on tasks, it just means that at times she has to force herself to do it, like it or not. That we all have to do things we don’t want to do; I certainly don’t want to get up at 6.30am to drive them both to the school bus stop. She promises she will try harder, and she does, for almost a whole day. When she asks, I tell her she’s been 100% better. Then I discover she’s lied about finishing her Maths homework, neither has she made any attempt to tidy her room. Next morning I have to tell her several times to get up. I tell her she needs to read through her science topic for a test next week; she disappears to her room and refuses to come out. She doesn’t clean her teeth; by rights she should have a mouth full of fillings by now, she’s evidently hit the genetic jackpot. She goes to school without brushing her hair or teeth yet again, and yet another teacher emails me about homework not handed in, meaning that Lily is still lying to me about it. In her room, along with a mouldy apple core, discarded food wrappers, piles of detritus and dirty laundry she has a piece of broken glass by her bed and I know I need to check whether she’s been self-harming again. When I try to tackle her about the homework and emails from teachers, knowing she’s been given a detention over it, the lies continue and she denies it all, meanwhile Ivy chimes in that several of her classmates were there and told her that Lily was screaming at the teacher.

Sanctions are taken; Lily’s computer is confiscated, the WiFi password changed, the PlayStation put away. Result; behaviour miraculously improves, or at least it does until Lily gets what she wants, at which point it inevitably begins to slide downhill again. This time around, her computer gone and access to the internet withdrawn, she snapped at me that no, she wasn’t doing the dishes as requested, as I’ve got nothing left to lose. Battle after battle, day in, day out. The latest? That by trying to ensure she does her homework, I’m triggering her. If excuses were pennies, I’d be very very rich. The situation doesn’t change, only my ability to cope.

There’s over a month to wait before the next CYPS appointment, I don’t know how long before actual treatment begins. School holidays are coming and I don’t know whether to be relieved or scared. The only option meanwhile is calling the CYPS Crisis team, which makes me incredibly nervous as I don’t know what it will entail, whether I will have any say it what happens to Lily at that point. Because also; this isn’t a crisis. This is just what everyday life looks like.

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