I’ve been putting off writing this post, because, well, it brings back really sad memories. If you’ve been reading my blog posts you’ll know that my oldest son, who I will call Mark, was born with Autism. He is now 30 years old, but in the early days of his life, he was quite a handful. So much so, in fact, that my husband at that time, who I’ve named Jelly, and I decided that at age 11, Mark would need to be placed in a residential School for children and adults like himself…with a disability.

Jelly and I labored over this decision for many months, but in the end we believed it would be the best thing for him. He would be in a very structured environment, he would have his own bedroom and he would be provided a lot of activities to keep him busy. He may even be able to work in the community once he was older.

The glaring, obvious reason I didn’t want to do this is because it broke my heart. I can’t even begin to tell you how awful I thought of myself for ‘giving away’ my son. I’ve never felt so low and hurt in all my life. To take my child and leave him at an institution for disabled children/adults was by far the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.

I fixed up his bedroom with nice bed sheets and window treatments, a television and play station…he loved playing video games and he was VERY good at them. Of course he did not understand what was happening, or maybe he did…I would never know. And after a few months of being there he seemed to really like it.

But again I was plagued with guilt and shame. All of my family seemed to support me and it was somewhat of a relief to know he was being taken care of, but still, it haunts me to this day that we ever did that to him. Mark is no longer there and did not stay there hardly 12 months when one night he apparently had a really bad dream and ran out of his room in the middle of the night toward the main road. We were told that he could no longer stay there due to the potential danger.

So although it was short lived, it still happened and Mark ended up in the care of my then ex-husband, because by then we were divorced and I had moved to California. And that is a whole other post to write about.

Suffice it to say, Mark is now fine, or so I think he is. At this time, I haven’t seen or talked to him in 12 years. His father, Jelly, has refused to allow me to talk to him and has turned him against me. As mentioned before Mark is now 30 years old. I haven’t seen him since he was 18.

The days in Mark’s residential school happened a long time ago, but I remember them as though they happened yesterday. The hurt and pain of placing a child somewhere like this is so devastating, it hurts to the core of my soul. And although I believe it was a good thing for Mark, it didn’t help me very much in knowing that. I still suffered from horrible depression and it seemed to be only getting worse. Something had to happen in order for me to be okay. Something so extraordinary that it would take me from the pits of despair to some kind of ‘okay-ness.’

And something did happen, and the healing started…

Until next time, God bless you.