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Abstract

something horrible was about to happen. He would fall and break a leg. Even worse, he would drop to his death. I saw it and felt it all. So, to prove that I could go full-crazy, I would scream at him, telling him to come down immediately. We would then get in the car and leave.In my mind, there wasn’t a single safe place on Earth. Everything and everyone was dangerous. This, of course, couldn’t last.<h1 id="ceac">Therapy helps?</h1>When he was around 3, my child was diagnosed as autistic. At first, this brought terrible consequences for me. My monitoring got worse. Now I was sure the world was going to try to hurt my child.We did the diagnosis and therapy dance. Lots of people were eager to inform me how difficult his life was going to be. The future looked gloomy.I was told the only way to protect him was to fix him. To make sure no one would notice who he really was. To train him to do things the same way everybody else did.At the moment, I didn’t have the words to explain it, but the whole concept felt wrong. Protect him by making him hide? How was that supposed to work?Therapy seemed to be going well at first. However, soon my child started crying in the middle of it. The therapists kept on insisting he had to do certain things under a specific schedule. They never hit him or anything of the sort, but they did impose their physical presence onto my son to make him feel cornered. During the sessions, the message was clear, “unless you finish this task the way we say it should be done, you are not leaving this room.”Soon, he didn’t want to go to therapy. I could see it in his eyes: it wasn’t laziness. It was fear.All of my helicopter parenting had been useless. It turns out, I had delivered my child into the hands of people who thought the best way to help him was to break him.<h1 id="9735">Trust</h1>In the end, it all came down to a choice. Who deserved my trust?Was it the people who, on a regular basis, submitted my child to suffering through their methods, even

Options

if they allegedly had the best of intentions? Or should I trust my child?That wasn’t all. As I did more research, I found dozens of autistic adults giving their testimony. They explained how<a href="https://awnnetwork.org/my-thoughts-on-aba/"> ABA therapy</a> and other similar ones did not help them and caused a lot of damage.And, as if my child's words and the experiences of fellow autistic people weren’t enough, there was this voice inside me — maternal instinct? — that kept telling me this was wrong.As renowned autistic writer <a href="https://awnnetwork.org/my-thoughts-on-aba/">Amy Sequenzia explains</a>, “Autistic children are not allowed to be themselves, being forced instead, to learn how to pretend, never learning self-determination, never allowed to have an independent thought.”That was what this therapy, plus my helicopter parenting were achieving: a child deprived of his freedom—a child who would learn to repress his true self.Yeah, this was wrong. It had to stop.<h1 id="7fd5">The End</h1>That kind of therapy ended, and there was a school change, one with a kinder approach. My child is never again to be subjected to a kind of therapy that works based on fear. Like any other kid, my son has to learn to be a decent person without sacrificing his spirit and freedom of mind. Yes, it is necessary to make a few modifications at school, but they benefit his learning process without repressing his soul.And about me, well, I have to learn to chill. I won’t claim I don’t worry anymore, but I make an extra effort to stay out of the way as much as possible.I guess you could say I’m still on my helicopter, but I keep it flying high, ready to spring into action only when it is really necessary, and not just because I’m panicking. As a mother, I am to support him on his journey to independence. Whenever I go back to my old habits, my child is capable enough to remind me to step back. He knows it is his right. He knows it is okay to disagree with me to express himself.He knows how.</article></body>

Confessions of a Recovering Helicopter Parent

I just needed to make sure he would be okay “despite” being autistic

It started the day he was born.

First, as I was eating my first post-birth meal — devouring would be a more appropriate term — I couldn’t stop staring at him. Was he breathing? Was he okay? Was his diaper clean? Was he hot? Cold?

Was he okay?

On the following days, I would be obsessed with making sure he was safe. I knew it was my responsibility. I would stare at his chest and belly to monitor his breathing patterns. Instead of going to bed as all the books recommended, I would keep watch as he slept. What if something happened and I was unavailable?

And when he was awake?

Pff…it was worse; I had to watch his every move. I had to make sure no harm would come to him.

This is fun, right?

Why did I do this to him? To myself?

I guess I needed to be a good mother. I wanted to prove I could protect my child.

However, as I soon discovered, my idea of protection resembled a prison. I wanted to keep my child where I could see him at all times. If I lost sight of him, even for a little while, I panicked. The fear didn’t diminish as he grew up.

And he? Well, he liked to take risks, too many for my taste.

When we visited the playground, he would go to the climber, with no hesitation whatsoever. In the meantime, I would stay down, watching in horror as my child climbed.

I would keep on thinking something horrible was about to happen. He would fall and break a leg. Even worse, he would drop to his death. I saw it and felt it all. So, to prove that I could go full-crazy, I would scream at him, telling him to come down immediately. We would then get in the car and leave.

In my mind, there wasn’t a single safe place on Earth. Everything and everyone was dangerous. This, of course, couldn’t last.

Therapy helps?

When he was around 3, my child was diagnosed as autistic. At first, this brought terrible consequences for me. My monitoring got worse. Now I was sure the world was going to try to hurt my child.

We did the diagnosis and therapy dance. Lots of people were eager to inform me how difficult his life was going to be. The future looked gloomy.

I was told the only way to protect him was to fix him. To make sure no one would notice who he really was. To train him to do things the same way everybody else did.

At the moment, I didn’t have the words to explain it, but the whole concept felt wrong. Protect him by making him hide? How was that supposed to work?

Therapy seemed to be going well at first. However, soon my child started crying in the middle of it. The therapists kept on insisting he had to do certain things under a specific schedule. They never hit him or anything of the sort, but they did impose their physical presence onto my son to make him feel cornered. During the sessions, the message was clear, “unless you finish this task the way we say it should be done, you are not leaving this room.”

Soon, he didn’t want to go to therapy. I could see it in his eyes: it wasn’t laziness. It was fear.

All of my helicopter parenting had been useless. It turns out, I had delivered my child into the hands of people who thought the best way to help him was to break him.

Trust

In the end, it all came down to a choice. Who deserved my trust?

Was it the people who, on a regular basis, submitted my child to suffering through their methods, even if they allegedly had the best of intentions? Or should I trust my child?

That wasn’t all. As I did more research, I found dozens of autistic adults giving their testimony. They explained how ABA therapy and other similar ones did not help them and caused a lot of damage.

And, as if my child's words and the experiences of fellow autistic people weren’t enough, there was this voice inside me — maternal instinct? — that kept telling me this was wrong.

As renowned autistic writer Amy Sequenzia explains, “Autistic children are not allowed to be themselves, being forced instead, to learn how to pretend, never learning self-determination, never allowed to have an independent thought.”

That was what this therapy, plus my helicopter parenting were achieving: a child deprived of his freedom—a child who would learn to repress his true self.

Yeah, this was wrong. It had to stop.

The End

That kind of therapy ended, and there was a school change, one with a kinder approach. My child is never again to be subjected to a kind of therapy that works based on fear. Like any other kid, my son has to learn to be a decent person without sacrificing his spirit and freedom of mind. Yes, it is necessary to make a few modifications at school, but they benefit his learning process without repressing his soul.

And about me, well, I have to learn to chill. I won’t claim I don’t worry anymore, but I make an extra effort to stay out of the way as much as possible.

I guess you could say I’m still on my helicopter, but I keep it flying high, ready to spring into action only when it is really necessary, and not just because I’m panicking. As a mother, I am to support him on his journey to independence. Whenever I go back to my old habits, my child is capable enough to remind me to step back. He knows it is his right. He knows it is okay to disagree with me to express himself.

He knows how.