I remember my security blanket. I can’t recall when I got it as a child, but it brought me comfort. A person with Autism tends to latch on to an item that makes them feel secure. Mine was a blanket; I carried everywhere I went,except at school or a friend’s house. My parents accepted my need to carry the blanket around the house.
It comforted me in times of feeling anxiety, which happened a lot around my mom. I especially loved my blanky when it got washed. I would caress it between my fingers and rub my nose in it for hours. This behavior comes across as weird and abnormal in the neurotypical world, but for us Autie's, this is comforting and normal.
My mom had no problem with the blanket. When my parents got separated the final time, I got to take it with me. I held that blanket more often once we arrived in Chicago to live at my grandma's house. The adjustment was traumatizing, and I clutched my blanky as often as possible.
My mom tried to enroll me in the public school but withdrew me when the superintendent told her because of my high grades; I would be bussed over an hour away to a magnet school. Thankfully, she turned down the request. Instead, she enrolled me in the Catholic school. The same one I attended when my parents first separated when I was six years old. Oh, joy. My anxiety went through the roof, and my blanky and I did not separate at all at my grandma’s house.
As I knew, attending that Catholic School horrified me. My previous time when I attended at six years old left a traumatizing mark on me. This go around, a sixth grade nun loved using a yardstick on her students. I diagrammed a sentence incorrectly while at the chalkboard, so she whacked my hand with her stick. I loathe that woman to this day.
I endured all the children in my grade telling me to go back to where I came from. My adolescent face filled with wonderful acne, which added to the cruel taunting. I hated my new life, but felt secure knowing my blanket awaited me.
All my security came crashing down on me on one horrible day after school. It was a brutal day of kids mocking me, not doing something right for the nun. I ran home searching for my only friend, my blanky.
But, I couldn't find it anywhere. I frantically searched everywhere in the house, upstairs, downstairs, washing machine, dryer, blanky was nowhere. Panic setting in, I begin melting down, crying nonstop. My grandmother sees me in her attic asking why I am fussing.
In between my sobs, I tell her I can't find my blanket anywhere. She looks at me coldly, snaps, "you are too old for that nonsense, and it's about time you grow up. I threw it out." My heart sunk. I said nothing, walking away broken.
I never replaced my blanky. Over time, between my mother, brother, grandmother abusing me, and endless cruelty at school my depression grew deeper. My dad still lived in Canada, so I had no one to protect me.
The thoughts of suicidal ideation crept in more as each day passed. Living got worse because I couldn't cope and had no help. Eventually I found other coping mechanisms. Albeit, very unhealthy things such as drinking, smoking, to ease my anxiety. I hated my grandmother for what she did to me.
I wished I had that blanket to comfort me during life's cruel storms.