Yesterday, Simon hit a limit. It wasn’t something that would bother most people.
Yesterday, Simon had to wait to go out to dinner. He’s bad at waiting. Very, very bad at waiting.
Yesterday, Simon melted down. He melted down hard.
He hit a point of no return, and he couldn’t stop himself. None of the usual things worked; he would not be distracted, he would not calm down.
Instead, he lashed out. At Patrick.
He attacked him as hard as he could attack.
He scratched. He pinched. He dug in his nails.
Patrick tried to restrain him, but each time he released Simon’s hands, Simon went for him.
Simon seemed to relax a little, said he wanted a big hug.
Went in for a hug, changed his mind half-way and began pinching Patrick’s stomach and sides.
Patrick tried to get out of the way, multiple times.
It didn’t work.
Finally, Patrick was able to sit and lean back far enough that Simon couldn’t reach him.
I got in the way, Patrick got out of the room, and since Simon has never scratched or pinched me, I hoped it would work out okay.
I turned out all the lights, got him to calm a bit, sat down and wrote out sentences about what was going on and what was happening.
After we’d finished a full page of sentences, he had calmed down to just crying.
Patrick had gouges up and down his arms. Slices in his skin, bleeding. The worst ones were on his hands where there were flaps of skin.
When Patrick came back into the living room, Simon was calm enough to apologize.
Simon was calm enough to go to the bathroom, to put on his flip-flops, to go to the car, to go to the restaurant.
Simon was calm enough to eat. To drink his orange juice. To come back home. To go to bed.
And everything was normal again. Like it never happened.
Except, of course, it did. And it might happen again.