'I pleaded with him to stop.' The isolation of raising a neurodivergent child.

I pulled the car over and cried.

I held it in until I had stopped in the furthermost park, under a tree, away from sight. I let it out, whilst blubbering to my husband about how awful the morning was.

He told me it would be okay, and that he understood. He told me to rest. He told me he had to go to a client, and so the phone call ended.

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It was 9.38am, and I had been parenting for two and a half hours. That was all it took for my special needs, neuro-divergent son to reduce me to rubble. To boil anger in my blood, to lose myself and yell at him. I literally pleaded with him, as he sat in his car seat yelling at his twin sister, to stop. To stop tormenting her, their older sister, and me.

Now you might be thinking - by God, she’s a terrible woman, losing her temper and yelling at a child who struggles to cope with everyday living activities. I’ve watched and silently judged other parents who snap at their kids, wishing for a moment's silence or the ability to drink a coffee without it spilling on the café table.

In the past, I've side-eyed them and thought, that won’t be me! I will never make them feel sad, I will never let them pick up food off the floor and eat it, I will never yell in public. I will breastfeed until they are two years old, and they will definitely not eat sugar. I will only prepare healthy meals and we will enjoy them as a family, together, at the dinner table, as we discuss our day.

I was some of that, for a while, before my twins were born. 

My eldest didn’t eat refined sugar until her first birthday, and she most definitely did not share a dummy or drink bottles at day care. She had a rotation of beautiful clothes, a drawer specifically for day care outfits, and had enough gifts from family and friends to share with another family and more. 

We would go for 'coffee and babycino' dates, and I would push her on the swing as she giggled going up and down, while I focused solely on her and her joy.

When the twins entered the world, we were smack bang in the middle of COVID. I was in a hazy fog of trying to enjoy the moments I could, with two little babes in humidicribs in NICU, whilst FaceTiming my eldest and her beautiful grandparents so they could meet each other. 

When we were home, we had six months as a family of five where my husband wasn’t working because of illness, and we had the sought-after newborn and baby bubble.

Gabrielle in hospital. Image: Supplied.

The bubble burst when my husband returned to work. 

As any stay-at-home, single or maternity/paternity leave parent can attest to, when you’re alone day-in, day-out with small humans, it can be a riot. 

When one of those children doesn’t seem quite 'normal' (I use that term loosely), there’s a compounding level of stress that invades your thoughts daily. 

Am I overthinking this? Did they really just do that? Is that normal? Should I see my doctor? And as they grow, your world becomes a lot bigger with more and more specialists, therapists, and every 'Tom, Dick and Harry' offering their advice and opinions. 

But that world can often get smaller and smaller, as you become more and more isolated by a child with growing needs.

A world where school drop offs, work commitments and therapy appointments means my son cannot be attached to me as I have to get others in the house ready. 

It means he can’t have any emotional regulation, and the business of the household makes his sensitive mind overflow with anxiety. 

It makes for meltdown after meltdown. 

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It makes for a pit of anxiety, stress and overwhelm for mummy. I am that almost every morning, and it unfortunately leads to yelling. I feel the guilt for the rest of the day until I lay my eyes to rest and the cycle repeats. And I hate myself for it.

I am my own worst critic. I analyse my behaviour, my reactions, and my children’s actions at the end of the day, wondering what I did wrong and where I could improve for tomorrow. 

Hoping that tomorrow morning will bring a happier boy. The boy who would snuggle me, play with his trucks, jump on the trampoline with his sisters and enjoy doing 'cheers' with his orange juice.

The boy who I proudly call sweet, sensitive and driven towards love. A soul who sees the intricacy of everyday items and environments that we take for granted.

He sees the baby bird perched on the branch. He notices the cracks in the concrete. He looks with great anticipation for the lawnmower after hearing the two-stroke engine come to life. He feels with his hands and feet with strong intention. 

He feeds off of joy, and will smile when you smile. He is so much more than a label, than an awaited diagnosis. He is so much more than what the world, or I, can yell at him.

On those alternative days, those hard, downright blistering days, I try to remind myself of who this boy is.

Some of those days are so demanding, so all-encompassing and so exhausting that I don’t know how to get through them. It’s an hour at a time. And if I’m lucky, piece by piece, I can put the puzzle back together and find hope and joy in the chaos. Other days I sob into my tired hands and a t-shirt covered in Vegemite.

Image: Supplied.

Today was one of those days.

If you are a parent of a special needs child, a child with autism, ADHD or any other neuro-divergence or disability, just know I see you. 

I see you avoiding going out unless you have to, because going out can be much tougher than staying in. 

I see you at the weekly specialty appointments, therapy visits and assessments. 

I see you trying to navigate a busy shopping centre, dodging trolleys and impatient people with a double pram, basket and ringing phone. 

I see you watching the other kids in pretend play, learning to colour and write, talking about their day at preschool, eating the fruit, the vegetables, the meats. 

I see the sadness in your eyes when you wonder what the future holds for your special needs child.

I see you. I am you. 

You are not alone.

Feature Image: Supplied.