Chapter 1: Anish’s morning
The morning unfolds just as it always does, filled with the familiar routines that ground me. I feel grateful that my mom still offers me the freedom to make choices, even if they are small ones. Today, like most days, she brings me a couple of options for what to wear to school, and her voice carries the gentle urgency of our morning ritual. “Do you want to wear the blue shirt or the red one?” she asks, her tone imbued with love and a hint of impatience.
As I glance at the neatly arranged clothes, my eyes flicker toward the bright yellow shirt hanging in the corner of my closet, its vibrant hue practically calling out to me. I can’t help but admire how it shines like a sunflower, begging to be chosen. But just as I’m lost in thought, captivated by its cheerful color, my mom’s voice breaks through the moment. “Anish, we don’t have much time; your school bus is just around the corner, and you need to decide quickly.” Her reminder pulls me back to reality, and I realize that time is slipping away. With a sigh, I reluctantly focus on the two shirts in front of me, understanding that practicality must take precedence over my fleeting desire for the playful yellow shirt.
I often find myself pondering why I can’t choose the things I truly want. It feels like my ABA therapist, Tas with all her good intentions, guided my mom to offer me choices about everything—big and small. Perhaps it wasn’t the therapist Tas, who missed the mark; maybe it’s my mom or even me. I can’t quite place the blame. After all, mommy can be a bit narrow-minded, often stuck on simple examples. Tas suggested asking me things like, “red or blue?” But my mom seems to have missed that she could also offer “purple or yellow,” or even “green or orange.” The possibilities are endless, yet here we are, trapped in a limited loop of over-simplified choices.
This constant cycle occupies my mind, thoughts spinning like a broken record. Just as I’m lost in visions of a sunny yellow, my mom decides it’s time for a blue shirt, yanking it over my head without a moment’s pause. It feels automatic at this point—whether I’m compliant or not doesn’t seem to matter to her. Once I’m dressed, she pulls me toward the kitchen, and I know exactly what’s coming next. “Cereal or oatmeal?” she’ll ask, while I’m silently yearning for a warm banana muffin.
I’ve learned that if I don’t choose between “cereal” or “oatmeal,” one of those will find its way into my mouth regardless of my cravings. The memory of that one time I struggled against the food still haunts me. I remember the bile rising in my throat as I threw up; it turned a typical morning into a nightmare. My mom exploded in anger, slapping me across the face, her frustration palpable as she continued forcing food into my mouth. When she clamped her hand over my lips, sealing my fate, I felt utterly powerless. This is the routine of my mornings—predictable yet suffocating.
But that’s it. No more choices until it’s my snack time at school. As the morning unfolds, I feel like a machine programmed to follow a routine. Different individuals will instruct me, often just once or twice, for everything that needs to be done. If I am focused, I can complete the tasks, but if I feel lazy or lost in my thoughts, they tend to step in and do it for me until I finally reach that much-anticipated snack time.
There it is! I hear the familiar sound of the bus honking outside my house, and my heart quickens. I know exactly what steps come next: the rush to gather my things, the scramble to put on my shoes, and the brief moments of hesitation before I step out. I understand. I completely understand the sequence of events that will take place.
Yet, there is a heavy sadness in my chest because I am not verbal. Words escape me like butterflies fluttering away just as I reach out to capture them. I’ve heard whispers about a speech-generating device, a type of iPad equipped with a talking program that could help me express my thoughts. But Mommy doesn’t have the budget for that, and it feels like just another dream slipping through my fingers.
What can I do? I can manage a few words, but forming complete sentences feels like trying to catch smoke with my bare hands. It takes time to arrange my thoughts into something coherent, and in those moments of struggle, my communication partners often grow impatient, rushing to finish my sentences for me. Their words don’t align with what I intended to convey, and it’s baffling to me.
Sometimes, it leads to amusing situations. Like that time, I wanted to express my dislike for apples, but my teacher misread my expression. She anticipated that I was excitedly waiting for a snack and kindly asked the other staff to give me an apple. The poor lady was determined to please. With a determination you’d expect from a superhero, she wrestled with a blunt plastic knife, using all her strength to cut the apple into pieces while wearing the biggest, most encouraging smile. To me, she looked like a big fish, all too eager to serve. When she finally pushed a piece of apple toward my mouth, I instinctively pushed her hand away.
Yet, she only persisted, trying to feed me just like my mom would do. This is my life with autism, and this is how it begins every morning. The routine is both a comfort and a challenge, filled with moments of frustration and unintended humor that color my world in unexpected ways.
The school bus outside our house blared its horn like a wild beast, a sharp, electrifying reminder that time was racing away. Yet there I was, nestled in the warm, inviting embrace of the kitchen, blissfully oblivious to the chaos brewing just outside. It felt as if I were a majestic tree standing strong against the wind, my branches dancing gently in a delightful breeze. But my mom? She was a whirlwind of energy, zipping around like a comet on a mission, her face a mix of fierce determination and a hint of beautiful chaos, trying desperately to coax me out of the sanctuary of the kitchen.
With impressive flair, she dove into our morning routine—a flurry of movement that matched my stubborn reluctance. Kneeling down, she worked her magic fastening my shoes, her hands flying through the familiar motions as if orchestrating a symphony of activity. Their rhythmic sounds filled the air, a comforting chorus that energized me all at once. As soon as my shoes were tight, she effortlessly hoisted my backpack onto my back, adjusting the straps with her signature finesse to ensure they wouldn’t budge during my mad dash to the bus.
But then, a flash of panic sliced across her face when she suddenly remembered my jacket. Frustration bubbled up inside her, a volcano ready to erupt, and she muttered an array of playful curses under her breath, scolding herself for derailing our finely tuned routine. The air buzzed as she ranted, her voice a mix of disbelief and humor over her “insane mistake.”
Like an athlete preparing for the big game, she sprang into action. With a fierce grace, she loosened the backpack straps, slipped my jacket over my arms, plopped a cozy hat onto my head, and tugged my mittens on before securing the backpack once again. Just as we were about to burst out the door, she remembered the all-important buckle by the kitchen entrance.
“I need to grab your buckle; stay put!” she urged, her voice bursting with urgency and just a dash of playfulness. For a fleeting moment, I froze—then the glittering remnants of a melted snow puddle nearby caught my eye, shimmering like a magical siren, promising splashes and laughter galore.
Unable to resist its allure, I leaped into the puddle with glee, sending an exhilarating spray of muddy water flying everywhere. The cool droplets soaked my shoes, igniting a thrilling rush of joy within me. When my mom returned, her eyes widened in shock, taking in the messy scene that decorated my shoes and legs.
“What have you done?” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of panic and disbelief. Yet I couldn’t contain my laughter; the exhilaration of my spontaneous leap was simply too captivating to ignore. I reached out, grinning, and beckoned her to join the muddy fun.
But the roar of the bus engine grew louder, a relentless reminder that time was slipping away like grains of sand through my fingers. My mom sprinted toward the bus, pleading with the driver to hold on for just a moment, her urgency palpable in the crisp morning air. She rushed back to me, determination etched across her face, dual flashes of frustration and love battling for attention. “Come on, we need to go!” she urged, a wave of guilt crashing over me like the splashes of water I had just created.
Reluctantly, I plopped back into the puddle, as if an invisible force had anchored me there. Gleefully, I splashed around, reveling in the sheer bliss of the moment, wishing I could remain in this bubble of joy forever. School felt like a distant, dull reality compared to the excitement of playing in puddles.
Yet, beneath all the carefree joy, I could sense my mom’s unwavering determination. She was ready to do whatever it took to get me to school—not just for me, but for herself too. Deep down, I knew that soon my playful time would come to an end, and responsibilities awaited beyond the splash-filled horizon.
