My brother is a monster. That's what I used to think when I was cleaning up the aftermath of another meltdown. When I was re-shelving the books that he threw, re-folding the laundry from the basket he dumped, or picking up the millions of tiny beads he knocked off of my mother's craft table. Or when strangers would stare at my family in public, judging us silently.
My brother is a monster. Yet, even as I thought those words I knew they weren't true, and immediately repented having the thought. He is not a monster; he is misunderstood.
My brother is seventeen years old today, three years my junior. He was diagnosed with severe autism when he was a toddler. He does not speak. He can only communicate with his mother and sisters using the few signs he learned from our mom, or with loud noises, like grunting or laughter, to convey his moods.. He can sign words like, "eat," "more," and "I love you."
As we grew up together, I always thought of how much better it would be if my brother had not been autistic. Looking back, however, I can see that his autism made our relationship even stronger. Instead of fighting like other siblings, we simply cherished the calm times in which we could watch a movie together or draw pictures together. My brother became the person who understood me most. He notices as soon as I am upset, angry, or sad, and will sit beside me, grab my hand, or put his arm around me to comfort me.
Without a doubt, my brother is one of my best friends, and he is an incredible blessing to my family..
Though autism may have drastically changed my family's lives, autism did not conquer us. We embraced autism.
Chilhowie, VA
