Life, Autism, Disability, and More

Tag Archives: violence

Image of Casket by Tony Alter - (CC BY 2.0) - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/On Monday, Simon’s high school had an active shooter drill.

On Tuesday, I got a message that Simon didn’t do well during the drill.

On Wednesday morning, I spoke at length with his school case manager who detailed the problems and changes they’d already started to implement.

On Wednesday afternoon, seventeen students were shot to death at a high school in Florida.

Simon didn’t like the active shooter lockdown drill. He does fine with the tornado drills, but the active shooter one…he couldn’t do it.

He stayed in his seat. He stayed in his seat because it was time for PE, not time to go sit quietly in the corner of a darkened room. He stayed in his seat because he wanted to run around and play basketball in the gym. He stayed in his seat.

He screamed. Loudly. So loudly that one of the vice principals came into the classroom to try to calm him down, but it was too late. He screamed.

He cried. Tears went down his face. He cried.

He stayed in his chair. He could not be quiet.

My mind skipped back to the most depressing show that I had ever seen – the M*A*S*H final episode, “Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen.”

In that finale, Hawkeye has broken down completely and is working with a psychiatrist. He recalls a time on a bus when there were soldiers outside, checking to see if there was anyone on the bus, anyone for them to kill. A woman had a chicken on her lap, and it kept clucking. But then it stopped.

 I found the dialogue for the scene:
Hawkeye: “There’s something wrong with it. It stopped making noise. It just–just stopped. Sh–She killed it! She killed it!”
Sidney: “She killed the chicken?”
Hawkeye: “Oh my God! Oh my God! I didn’t mean for her to kill it. I did not! I–I just wanted it to be quiet! It was–It was a baby! She–She smothered her own baby!”

My mind jumps back to thoughts of Simon at high school, Simon not being able to be quiet when someone wants to kill people.

Simon’s high school is working with him for the next time there is an active shooter drill. They are changing the appearance of his schedule to make it easier for him to deal with changes. They are making sure that there is some sort of computer that he can take into a corner with a set of headphones so that he can be distracted and still stay hidden. All of that is awesome.

Except.

What if it doesn’t work?

What is he stays in his seat?

What if he screams?

What if it’s not a drill?

My imagination runs wild with thoughts I don’t want to have.

Tomorrow is Monday.

Simon goes back to high school. 

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colored tearsThis is probably the hardest blog – or anything else – that I’ve written.

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.