Mom Relieved After Discovering Reason For Teen's Misbehavior — 'I Didn't Realize He Was Autistic'
My son needs empathy and understanding, not punishment.
Alvin Art | Canva I was so busy with the return-your-textbooks rush at my high school library that I didn’t see my husband’s text until about twenty minutes after he’d sent it. Jack sends me a text every morning to update me on our sixteen-year-old son’s status.
Holden has been struggling to get out of bed in the morning for years now, but as each school year inches towards the end, his truancy increases. Last year, at the end of Holden’s freshman year of high school, he refused to get out of bed to take his final exams. With the arrival of Jack’s Monday morning text, I found myself freaking out. Apparently, this year’s end wasn’t shaping up to be much better.
Holden had missed so much school this past year that, upon his Autism diagnosis, the school psychologist had given him a truancy waiver.
Still, it baffled us that Holden missed his ride with Jack so often; his first hour is band, which is one of his favorite activities.
Still, I had been hopeful that he would be close to on time this past Monday. The school band was playing that very night at the school’s graduation ceremony at the nearby amphitheater, and I had reminded Holden that he would need to attend the first hour to get the details for that evening.
What do you need to wear? Where do we drop you off? What time? Do you know what parts you’re playing?
Plus, things had been going relatively well the past few weeks. Holden had been working hard to catch up on his missing assignments before the last day of school, now just days away. He’d been more responsible about his chores at home, too. And he’d even recently agreed to a haircut to freshen up his long curly locks.
But that Monday, Holden wasn’t much more than a lump under his comforter when I went in to give him his morning antidepressants. I found myself worrying yet again about what summer would bring for him, but I couldn’t dwell on it then. I had to get to work myself.
Jack is the one who drives the kids to school, and he is also just a day away from a second interview at a company he’s been coveting. Toss in a troubled teenager and you have a recipe for disaster. Jack grew furious when Holden refused to open his door. The more upset Jack became, the more Holden dug in his heels, and the vicious cycle wound its web around them both.
By the time I responded to Jack, he needed some serious calming down. I wasn’t in a great mindset to do that, however, as I was practically steaming with anxiety myself. I texted Holden to please try. I reminded him that getting up and moving would make him feel better. I texted Jack to calm down. I reminded Jack that Holden was off schedule because of yesterday. Heck, we all were.
We’d visited the home of my toxic parents the night before. The whole visit was doomed from the start.
We weren’t on the road for more than five minutes before I realized we’d forgotten to grab Holden’s evening medications before leaving. He takes not only a second dose of antidepressants at 5:30 pm each day but also a medication for ADHD called Jornay PM. It’s a stimulant similar to Adderall but in a slow-release capsule that starts taking effect early in the morning, helping him to wake up. When he takes it late, we’re all screwed the next morning.
Why on Earth didn’t I accept Jack’s offer to turn around and get it, then? I suppose I could blame my anxiety or the fact that we were already running late. I tend to disassociate when spending time with my parents — as well as the hours leading up to a visit and the hours afterward. My parents were hosting a large family get-together— several of my aunts and uncles, plus my siblings and their kids, too. The entire house was loud, chaotic, and obtrusive to not only Holden’s sensory issues but to my own as well.
My father ordered dinner an hour later than originally planned. My asshole uncle made fun of Holden’s hair during dinner before spouting off conspiracy theories. My mother interrupted conversations with comments that seemed meant to induce guilt in others. It’s no surprise that Holden retreated to play on his phone as soon as possible.
I woke up the next morning groggy and with tinges of leftover anxiety. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Holden was also experiencing a hangover of sorts from the weekend. Jack asked me to call Holden shortly after I replied to his texts. He was furious, as I expected he would be. I reminded him of our ongoing plan — just leave Holden at home and go to work. Don’t fight it; don’t get into a power struggle that you won’t win.
After all, Holden was now too big for us to pick him up and carry him into the car. Those days are long gone, and I don’t miss them. So Jack left Holden home alone, and I paced around my library at work.
I worry about Holden when he skips school.
I know I can’t “reward” him with screen time when he skips, so I disable the Internet and shut down all the apps on his phone except for Messages and Phone. I want him to be able to reach out. He answered when I called at 8:30 am, promising to walk to school soon.
An hour later, his spot on Find My iPhone hadn’t budged from his bedroom. He wasn’t opening my texts, nor was he answering my phone calls. I felt like a stalker as I dropped in on him using the Amazon Alexa feature. Silence.
I started freaking out. He’d threatened suicide last summer — what if he was hurting himself? I was getting so desperate that I almost reached out to my mother to check on him, but first, I sent a warning text. Holden, if you don’t answer me, I have to send Grandma over.
I gave him time to respond. His threat last summer had eventually proved “just” part of a meltdown. He later scoffed at me when I’d asked him if he was serious, as if I should have remembered all the times we’d talked about his fear of death. He’d started having his existential crisis at age four.
Maybe he was in the bathroom. Maybe he went back to sleep. I knew, deep down, that he was okay. I also knew that my mother’s appearance would only make things worse.
Finally, a little after 10:30 am, he texted me back with the casual aloofness that can only be attributed to a teenage boy who has no idea of the depth of his mother’s love.
Holden: what
Me: Have you left yet?
Holden: sure
That certainly wasn’t a yes. I opened up Find My iPhone again to find Holden’s location unchanged. Between that and his cavalier, smart-ass response, I was done.
I fell into an anxious rage from the relative privacy of my library office, texting Holden statements that hideously resembled my own mother’s guilt-inducing speeches.
I told Holden that he makes me sad, that he needs to get his act together, and that I was going to cancel his phone’s data plan if he wasn’t ever going to leave the house anyways. I may have been having a slight meltdown in my own way. Meanwhile, Holden seemed nonplussed by this. Maybe he suspected my mindset and blew me off.
Holden: I did leave the house
Me: When?
Holden: idk like 10 minutes ago
Me: Send me a pic of where you’re at
I looked at the image that popped up immediately on my screen. A picture of the beach across the lake from our house, with one of our red kayaks empty at the shoreline.
When he was younger, Holden had spent hours running around in the woods that surround that beach. He’d cleared paths and started forts. He’d climbed trees higher than I could emotionally handle. He’d kayaked on the lake and through the adjoining marshes for hours. He seemed so much happier back then.
Something started to shift in me. I realized that I could pontificate all I wanted, but that wasn’t what I wanted at all. It had never helped when my parents had done that to me. All I had ever wanted was to be understood.
Holden: I’m just taking a breather
My rage melted away.
Holden was just plain done. Overloaded. Socially overwhelmed, especially after visiting all those people at my parents’ house.
Why hadn’t I seen it earlier? I realized that I’d been too deep in my own head about the whole visit — and that I’d neglected to fully process how it would affect my children, especially my Autistic son, who was already overwhelmed with life in general. I couldn’t take the pressure of him completely, but I could empathize.
Me: Can you help me understand why you don’t want to go to school today?
Holden: well I’m not doing anything important there
Empathy, indeed.
I’m Autistic, too, as I’ve recently discovered.
I understand the grating frustration of being in an overly social environment for obligatory yet actually quite unnecessary reasons. You know, like staff meetings. It often makes me want to cry, but I hold it in — at least until I get home. And by then, my only release is to shut down.
A shutdown is actually an improvement. I used to meltdown instead, snapping at everyone, screaming, throwing things. I would become completely irrational, so opposite of my usual self. Jack would just stare, shaking his head, unaware of why my reaction was so enormous to something that seemed so minuscule.
Shutdowns are much less scary. When I shut down, I just go into my head. I can’t hold a conversation, but apparently, I agree to things when Jack asks. “Okay.” “Sure.” Later, I have no idea what he’s talking about. I somehow go through the motions of life, but I feel utterly exhausted and on the verge of tears.
I could practically see Holden holding it all together — as best he could — from the picture that lingered on my screen. He used to have meltdowns quite often. Maybe it’s puberty, or maybe his meds — but he doesn’t have them as often now.
Shutdowns have become his new norm, too.
Last summer, we worried that Holden had a technology addiction. Could that be what was causing his extreme depression? We couldn’t get him to do anything other than play those damn video games… After he skipped so much school those last few weeks, we severely restricted his technology privileges in an attempt to “cure” him. Most days he didn’t earn them at all, unable to fulfill the other items on his checklist. They were basic things — self-care, exercise, chores.
Instead, he slept for what felt like weeks straight. Sometimes, I’d see him sitting upright in his bed, staring into nothing, his eyes welled up with tears. The crap hit the fan when he had that meltdown — the one where he threatened suicide. By the time the police arrived at our house, his violent rage was tempered. I convinced them to leave Holden in our care rather than take him to the emergency room.
We adjusted his meds again immediately. We started going to the therapist on a more frequent basis. Holden barely made it out the door for band camp at the end of the summer, but when he returned, we could sense that something had shifted in him. He was practically glowing. I think he was starting to find himself.
By that fall, Holden told me that he believed himself to be Autistic.
Weeks later, he also revealed that he identifies as a demiboy. There was no gender reveal party, nor did Holden want any updates about that to go to the school. But we started pursuing the Autism diagnosis immediately, and by late winter, it was official — with the Individualized Education Plan shortly following.
Now, Holden gets support from a special education teacher for one of his six classes every day. He has a truancy waiver since mornings are perpetually difficult for him. And all of us started learning about the Autistic traits that hold Holden back—as well as the ones that make him practically a savant when it comes to things like computer programming.
I also see that video games and programming for fun (which is not an oxymoron in Holden’s book) are how Holden recharges from stressful situations. And last summer, I was partially responsible for sending Holden into what I now know was Autistic burnout — “a syndrome conceptualized as resulting from chronic life stress and a mismatch of expectations and abilities without adequate support. It is characterized by pervasive, long-term (typically 3+ months) exhaustion, loss of function, and reduced tolerance to stimulus.” (National Autistic Society)
I took away his stress relief and added unreachable expectations. I’m working to forgive myself; I didn’t understand the depth of my actions, nor did I even realize at that point that he was Autistic. But I hate that I disrespected Holden by discounting his individual needs.
I realize now that I need to parent him — not punish him.
I can guide him to take better care of himself, to find balance, to contribute, and to challenge himself in appropriate ways. I can’t do it all for him, but I can empathize with his struggles along the way.
As I read over my guilt-inducing, shaming texts from just minutes before, I knew that I’d blown it that morning. I could have done much better. So I backtracked. I inquired with Holden about the band, realizing how nervous I would be to play at the amphitheater for a graduation ceremony when I had missed the majority of the practices occurring in the first hour that past week.
I emailed his band director to ask for him to be excused, with a short explanation, and I got an immediate reply. “Don’t worry about tonight,” the director said. “The rest of the week is more important.” I texted Holden about what actually needed doing that day — homework.
I emailed his support teacher for a list of assignments that he needed to finish that day. She emailed back almost immediately with a list, adding, “Tell Holden I’ll pick him up in the morning if he doesn’t catch a ride with Dad. That should motivate him.” Their responses felt like warm hugs. I felt validated, understood, supported. I felt like I could breathe.
Holden worked his ass off from home that afternoon and evening. He made it to school almost on time for the next two days. At one point, when I went to check on him, he broke into a rare smile as he told me, “Oh yeah…I earned another certificate in Computer Science.” I beamed back. I know how much that means to him. I know how proud he is to have his strengths as a programmer validated. I know that it makes him feel reassured that, in the end, he will be okay.
Summer break officially started on Thursday afternoon for both me and Holden. My school district gets out a day before my kids’ district, and Holden doesn’t have any exams on Friday. Jack initially hesitated about letting him skip yet again — “Doesn’t he want to go in just to hang out with friends?” But I shook my head. Holden doesn’t really hang out. He wants to be doing something — his own something.
As I drove Holden to therapy that evening, we talked again about the last day.
Holden’s support teacher had emailed that there wasn’t a true purpose for Holden to come in, validating my assumption. I could see the expression on his face shift ever so slightly when I shared that news with him — he was officially done with his sophomore year.
“So, since you’re not going to school…do you want to come to Sylvia’s fifth-grade graduation ceremony at your old elementary school?” I inquired.
Holden didn’t respond right away. I could see him weighing his options, considering his limits. It would be crowded and probably a bit boring for him. But he does wax nostalgic about our family traditions, whether it be our annual chopping down the Christmas tree or our Sunday dinners.
“What time does it start?” he eventually replied.
“Nine in the morning. And they said it would probably go until ten-thirty-ish.”
Holden has never been an early riser, in part because of his sleep issues. Let’s also not forget that he’s a sixteen-year-old on summer break. His grimace could have said it all, but he responded as well, a simple “No.”
I might have tried to push him last summer. I might have blabbed on about the importance of supporting family or the importance of socializing at school and made him pick between two options that didn’t really work for him. This summer is going to be different. I am more aware of Holden’s unique limits now, and I’m going to respect them. I understand that his healthy balance doesn’t look the same as mine, Jack’s, or his little sisters’.
I understand that holding him to unfair expectations is a recipe for Autistic burnout — so instead, I’m going to do my best to find a recipe for Holden’s success in the months and years ahead. We have the support at school now; we have the new knowledge to guide our parenting at home. With these ingredients, I feel hopeful that I can help Holden cook up a delicious life, one season at a time.
Anna Eliza Rose is a writer, librarian, and mom of four. She frequently posts her personal essays to Medium and Substack, and is currently working on a follow-up to her memoir.