Sophie's Throughway

by Jules Smith

  SOPHIE’S

  THROUGHWAY

  JULES SMITH

  Copyright © 2015 Jules Smith

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador®

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  eISBN 9781 784625 849

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  This book is dedicated to the people who live outside the box: the button pushers, the distinctive thinkers, and the pioneers of new directions. To those who refuse to be labelled as ‘normal’ and show those that live beside them how to stretch their imagination.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 1

  “So you’re saying I’m a retard?” Brendon challenged, his coat zipped right up to his bottom lip, arms folded and stinking of attitude.

  “Brendon!” I scolded, “I’ve asked you repeatedly not to use that word. It’s disparaging and inappropriate.” As usual I reddened, embarrassed at his misuse of language and feeling inadequate as a parent.

  “It’s just a word,” he replied, kicking a torn piece of paper on the floor in front of his muddy trainers, “everyone says it. Like they say someone’s gay. Doesn’t mean they’re gay and gay is bad, it’s just a word.”

  “Well it’s the wrong word to use for all the reasons I’ve explained!” I shook my head at the silent doctor in front of us to reaffirm my disapproval.

  “It’s OK Brendon,” said Kathy, the in house paediatrician. Actually, I didn’t think it was OK but that wasn’t what she was referring to. “Having Aspergers and PDA doesn’t mean you have anything bad or seriously wrong with you. It doesn’t mean you are stupid at all, you just see the world a little differently and may have trouble in social situations.” She spoke calmly and maintained a relaxed demeanour unlike me; leant forward in my chair, arms crossed and pushing the balls of my feet into my shoes.

  This was Brendon’s first official diagnosis from a medical professional. For the last few years we had been through the inappropriate /unruly /rude /defiant and obnoxious personality descriptions from his teachers at school and pushed to do various tests from dyslexia to psychological profiling.

  Although Brendon had been on a behavioural plan with the school Special Educational Needs team, they had called me in to say that he showed more than the usual ADHD traits and was definitely fitting the Aspergers profile. After thorough analysis it seemed they were right and here we were with a doctors diagnosis and a whole lot of bewilderment.

  “Here’s some information and some books to take home to help you understand autism better.” Kathy handed the books over to Brendon who gave them a teenage look of disdain.

  “I’ll look it up myself, thanks.” He stood to his feet and went to the door. “Come on,” he urged, glaring out under his black fringe.

  “Thank you very much.” I smiled and took the books and leaflets from Kathy. That was it? A whole load of leaflets and a couple of books was all I was armed with?

  Brendon didn’t talk to me on the way back as I drove him to school. An uncomfortable silence filled the car. How was he feeling about this? It’s one thing to know that your kid has social issues but to have an official label attached was something different. This was my child, my perfect child.

  “Are you OK?” my words sliced through the silence like an accusation.

  “Yeah…why wouldn’t I be?” He remained looking forward, showing no physical emotion. But I was his Mum and I could feel it.

  “We can go through this later, it’s really nothing to be worrying about.” He remained silent. I didn’t push it as I knew well enough when to stop. Although I had no real understanding of Aspergers or PDA, I had learnt over time how to read Brendon and when it was wise to let him be. He got out of the car without a goodbye and I watched as he sloped through the school gates, trying to hold back my tears at his obvious pain. I went home and spent the rest of the day reading every leaflet and as many online reports on the subject that I could find.

  ASPERGERS: People with Asperger syndrome can find it harder to read the signals that most of us take for granted. This means they find it more difficult to communicate and interact with others which can lead to high levels of anxiety and confusion.

  Asperger syndrome is mostly a ‘hidden disability’. This means that you can’t tell that someone has the condition from their outward appearance. People with the condition have difficulties in three main areas. They are: social communication, social interaction and social imagination. Whilst it falls under the ‘Autism’ umbrella, people with Asperger syndrome have fewer problems with speaking and are often of above average intelligence. They do not usually have the accompanying learning disabilities associated with autism, but they may have specific learning difficulties.

  Yes that made a lot of sense and seemed to fit Brendon quite well. I then moved onto PDA, something I’d never even heard of before. Apparently, some doctors married the two together and some saw them as quite different.

  PDA: Pathological Demand Avoidance: People with PDA can be controlling and dominating, especially when they feel anxious and are not in charge. They can however be enigmatic and charming when they feel secure and in control. Many parents describe their PDA child as a ‘Jekyll and Hyde’. It is important to recognise that these children have a hidden disability and often appear ‘normal’ to others.

  Many parents of children with PDA feel that they have been wrongly accused of poor parenting through lack of understanding about the condition. These parents will need a lot of support themselves, as their children can often present severe behavioural challenges.

  And that description fit him even better. I leant back in my office chair and sighed. In one of the collection of leaflets I’d been given there was a form to be completed by the parents, giving their account or experience to help both medical staff and teachers deal with his behaviour and set out strategies that would help him at school and at home. I decided to fill it in there and then whilst I was still in an emotional state; tell it how it is from a Mother’s point of view; what it really feels like to have a son whom you love to bits and yet cannot seem to control no matter what you try to do.

  I took a pen lying on my desk and began to write.

  Layman’s terms from a Mothers experience:

  Be prepared for strat
egic games at all times. If you can’t play chess, learn it now as it will help. You have to be ten steps ahead and make them think that what you want them to do was their idea all along. This often doesn’t work. Be prepared to be out manipulated and out smarted at every turn. Always be ready for inappropriate responses and behaviour; if your child thinks someone’s got a big arse or he doesn’t like them, he’ll tell them. To others your child will seem like a cocky, obnoxious reprobate; sometimes you will think the same but you will also see the vulnerable person who can’t cope with reality. Do not buy nice things for your house for they will only get trashed when he goes on a MELTDOWN. You will be shown an honest and somewhat refreshing individual who is full of wit and charm but you will also be taken swiftly from that euphoria and kicked into the detritus of despair. Know that you will be judged by those that are ignorant on the subject of autism and think you clearly have no concept of parenting. Have tools that enable you to cope in a crisis like: good red wine, comedies and excellent friends. And chocolate. Definitely chocolate.

  Chapter 2

  At age fifteen and a half, Brendon was that wonderful mix of Aspergers and raging puberty that made you want to run away to a remote cottage in Cornwall or commit mass homicide. As only a Mother of an Aspie kid knows, the world just doesn’t give you enough credit for the amount of hell you have to endure.

  His sister Bryony was fourteen years old, going on twenty and though also teeming with hormones, was on the whole, a well behaved kid. Their Dad was Karl. Karl Rhodes. Sorry, I should say “Rhodes, Karl Rhodes,” because that’s how he said it when anyone asked his name.

  “Do you think you’re James Bond or something?” I once asked as he delivered his moniker to a salesman.

  “It helps people remember your name if you say it like that, Sophie.”

  Karl was a very enigmatic man and a social chameleon. He could hold an audience with people from all walks of life and fit right in. Everybody loved him instantly. It seemed to be more important that everyone else thought he was marvellous than actually adopting the same princely behaviour at home, and though he professed undying love and commitment, he did so like he was reading from a script.

  Karl and I had children early on in our relationship, pretty soon after getting married. He apparently ‘loved kids’ or so he professed and couldn’t wait to start a family whereas I was more than a little hesitant. Turned out I was the one who found the all giving, life committing bond with our offspring and he found it all too much of a hassle and interference. Of course, Brendon’s behaviour hadn’t helped. Aspergers had a way of altering that idealistic, perfect family of four set up. Holidays were always fraught and more comparable to an endurance test rather than a relaxing getaway and life at home, was at most times, demanding and chaotic. It was difficult to stay a strong united front but even more so when you had opposing ideas and methods on dealing with Aspergic defiance and thuggery. Karl didn’t buy into modern day labels and believed that harsh lessons and Dickensian methods always put people in check. The relationship between Karl and Brendon was always a slight groan off volcanic eruption and it didn’t help that Brendon thought his Dad was a dick.

  “What have you ever done for me?” Go on… name it… NAME IT!” Brendon shouted at his Father one Saturday afternoon. “Did you teach me to ride my bike? No, that was Mum. Did you ever stop to listen to how I felt? No…’cos you think you know everything… Did you ever spend time playing with me? No, not really. You’ve basically done fuck all as a parent!”

  “Who do you think you are, you silly little boy,” Karl mocked, the Alpha male aggressor emerging, “I put food on the table, give you a house to live in and you are an abusive and cocky little shit!”

  “Please don’t say that,” I whispered harshly at Karl, “you’re the adult remember, that won’t help.” I’d read up on all the strategies of how to deal with defiance but seemed to be the only parent trying to put them in place.

  Neither one of them listened to me as I pleaded for them to walk away from each other. Both were heightened with rage and an inbuilt desire to win no matter the consequence.

  “You’re a fucking dick, stay out of my way!” Brendon spat at his Dad. “Asshole.”

  Despite being English, Brendon tended to talk, shout and spell in American due to the amount of time he spent on his computer. He was an IT genius and the world wide web and gaming was his life. He had adopted the huge table downstairs as his own and it sat with 3 flat screen monitors and a state of the art, self built, computer on top. Computing and life behind a screen was his world and the only thing that could be used as a threat against unacceptable behaviour.

  Karl marched through the room into my study, which was located next to Brendon’s Starship Enterprise get-up, and ripped out the router instantly killing the internet. No internet equals no games. No games equals MELTDOWN.

  “There ya go, smart arse!”

  “Give me that back now or I’ll break EVERY fucking thing that you own!” Brendon’s eyes were black and his breathing was rapid and shallow. It didn’t take a genius to see he was about to flip out.

  “Don’t you threaten me! Touch anything of mine and I will take everything you own and dump it at the tip.”

  “Stop, please stop. STOP NOW!” I wailed, knowing it was futile but trying nonetheless.

  Brendon flew at his Dad and pushed him hard in the chest. At 6’2” and 14 stone in weight, he was a big lad for his age and not easily controllable. Karl grabbed him in a head lock to stop him. They wrestled together around the room and crashed into my bookcase; my antique bookcase, full of lovely books, but what did they care? It teetered precariously on it’s oak carved feet and the glass doors flung open, spewing books onto the floor. The doors slammed shut as they bounced into it again causing one to shatter. Splinters of glass lay shiny and menacing on the carpet as though mocking their fractured relationship. I ran forward and tried to prize them apart, screaming and begging them to stop. Framed pictures depicting natures calm, bounced from the walls as they danced their way round the room, their wooden frames and fronts splitting all over the floor.

  “MUM!” I heard a shout in the hall from Bryony.

  I rushed into the hallway to see my frightened little girl, crying and trembling.

  “Make them stop, it’s scaring me.”

  “Put on your shoes and go outside to my car,” I spoke calmly. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I went back to the battlefront where the shouting and cursing had increased. My room looked like it had been burgled. “WHY WON’T YOU STOP?” I pulled hard at Karl’s t-shirt. “You’re both scaring Bryony and me.” Tears pricked my eyes and my breath wedged in my throat. My efforts were fruitless. Once enraged there was nothing I could do. I didn’t have the physical strength to part them and my pleas were like whispers in a gale.

  “MUM, TELL HIM TO GET THE FUCK OFF ME!”

  “Karl let him go, let him go right now!” I pushed at his shoulder. The sound of my son begging for his Mother’s help was a powerful call.

  “I’ll let him go when he stops coming at me, when he learns to be respectful and knows his goddam place.” The words came out in a low growl as he pushed Brendon to the floor. I was at a loss and torn between helping my son, stopping a fight and rescuing my traumatised daughter outside in the car. I burst into tears of frustration and made the decision to leave. I went to my car, physically shaking and wiped my tears away with the sleeve of my jumper. I had to play this down in front of Bryony and look like I had at least some element of control.

  I slipped into the drivers seat and reached over to hug her as she cried into my shoulder, her long, curly brown hair sticking to my jumper like ribbons of velcro.

  “Why do they do this? Why won’t Dad just walk away? I don’t like it when they fight it really frightens me. It scares my friends when they come over.”

  “I know. It’s stupid,” I agreed rubbing her back, “don’t worry, it’s part of what we have to deal with in t
his family. I will always look after you. They’re just having a battle of control, it will sort itself out, it always does.” I smiled faintly, trying to believe my own words.

  “Let’s go get an ice cream!” I suggested to her blotchy, tear stained face. I saw a glimmer of safety return to her grey eyes as I started the car. All the way to the shop I was praying to God and other mystical beings that Brendon and Karl wouldn’t kill or harm each other. I was praying and wishing so hard, it hurt me to breathe.

  Chapter 3

  I spent the majority of the evening sat on the carpet amongst shards of glass and splinters of wood, holding my boy who was crying like his heart had broken. It was like handling a gigantic toddler after a major strop who was now beaten with raw emotion. He refused to let me leave his side, clinging on to me like I was his only safety net and blocking any form of exit. He didn’t want to talk, just cry.

  Every now and then, when earlier events played through his mind, he would violently thump the chair at the side of him with such force, his knuckles bled.

  “I HATE him, I want him to leave.” His words came out broken with the gruffness of strained vocal chords.

  “Shhh.” I whispered, “this has to stop. You have got to learn how to speak to people, particularly adults. You can’t just go at people when you feel like it.”

  He pushed me away abruptly and began to sob violently into his hands. “Why are you on HIS side? What the fuck Mum?”

  “I’m not on anyone’s side. I don’t agree with how either of you behaved.” I pulled him back to my arms.

  Of course, he was my main priority and the one I wanted to protect but if I voiced that he would see it as a green light to kick off whenever he felt like it. My job was to help him fit into the social norm so he could be accepted and not pushed away by others. He had to find a way because the world was not going to change for him.

  “I want the router back. Get it from him. He shouldn’t just take stuff away. He’s a bad parent and I hate him.”