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Darting out of the room, I make my way to the door to the dungeon. I never lock this door. I’m going to have to start locking this door. I grab the keys from the table next to the front door, lock the dungeon, and carry all of Matthew’s things upstairs to my guest room. I guess it’s his room now.
I feel sick. My day job is a work from home position. I might be a bar manager by night but that’s essentially just for the fun of it. I don’t need my pay check from Protocol. Working there fuels my need to be around people without gettingtooclose to people. And it gives me a space to safely express my sexuality, which is a huge part of my life.
By day, I’m a scientific literature reviewer with a biomedical science degree. I’m a contractor. Generally working around three hours a day and bringing in pretty damn good money because of the field I’m in. That’s my bread and butter. But my bar job, that’s mymejob. That lets me be myself, and gives me the strength and bandwidth to work from home, alone, to keep a roof over my head and food on the table.
I can’t leave my job at the bar, not even for my kid. It would destroy us both. I’d sink into a miserable space and resent him for it. I’d—wow. Talk about getting ahead of myself. I’m already writing us off.
I suppose it’s easy to do, all things considered.
The temptation to flop onto the guest bed and scream into the pillow is overwhelming. My role as a parent is barely ten minutes old, and I already have one foot out the door. I haven’t even had a real conversation with the child yet, either. Anxiety claws at my chest like an animal in a cage.
This is such a bad idea. I can’t adult for another human being. But something inside me knows with one hundred percent certainty I’m a dad now. This is really happening.
Back in the kitchen, Matty isn’t sitting where I left him. Instead, he’s under the table making a low noise, hugging his pillow to his chest. Don’t know what was wrong with my pancakes, but I’ve never had complaints before. Matty’s plates remain untouched.
When I try to coax him out from under the table, he doesn’t move, and in fact, it just makes his shrieking noises get louder. He’s not using words, but the message is clear from his contorted features, something’s wrong, very wrong.
Maybe he really hates pancakes? I have no idea.
Going back to the note he gave me, it’s like a slap to the head. The note says he’s autistic. I’ve had very little experience with autism. One of my colleagues in the bar is autistic. She told me it’s a developmental condition that falls within the autistic spectrum. But beyond that, I’ve never taken any time to truly understand what any of that means. Because it’s never really impacted me before.
Shame coats my entire body like sand clinging to sunscreen at the beach. Not only have I never taken the time to get to know what being autistic means for my colleague at work, I’m not ready to help this child in the now, never mind parent him for the rest of his fucking life. Chewing on my thumbnail I try to process what’s going on.
What the hell am I supposed to do? How do I get him out from under the table? Do I just leave him there? Do I pick him up and move him? Starting off my parenting journey as an epic failure isn’t really what I’d expected. And I’m suddenly mad at myself for being wholly unprepared for something I couldn’t possibly have seen coming.
He now seems as though he’s completely out of control, in excruciating pain. He’s gone from being curled up in a tight ball, to star-fishing on the floor, the pillow discarded next to him. He’s wailing so loudly there’s no way the neighbors can’t hear, and his arms and legs are thrashing against the tiles. I’ve never seen a child in such extreme distress as Matthew is right now.
“Matty? Matty buddy. It’s okay.” I crouch down, trying not to crowd him. Fighting the urge to bundle him into my arms and rock him back and forth until he knows he’s safe here with the giant stranger.
He doesn’t reply, instead, he screams louder.
“Matty, I know you’re scared, but it’s all going to be okay.”
No change. Just screaming.
I can’t say I blame him. His whole world just up and left in the blink of an eye. I’m not sure there’s much I could say in this moment to help encourage him that things will get better. Mostly because kids can smell a liar from a mile away, and I’m honestly not sure things will get better.
At least here, under the table, he can’t hurt himself, right? He’s not smacking his head against the wall, or the tiles, he’s just thrashing. And I’m here, so there’s nothing he could do in the moment to hurt himself.
Do I ride it out? Do I pull him to me and force a hug? How do I deescalate this situation for this poor child whose suffering is ripping through the muscles in my body?
Fuck.
Sweat prickles along my hairline. This is so bad.
The only thing I can think of to do, is to talk to him. I’m sure this isn’t the first time he’s had a meltdown like this, so maybe I can get through to him on some level, and he can figure out a way to help me, help him.
That’s a shit-load of responsibility to put on someone so small. I need a better plan.
“Matthew, buddy. I really don’t know how to help you right now. And I’m so sorry about that. But I’m here, okay? I’m here, and you’re safe, and you can do whatever it is you need to do to get through this. I promise you, everything is going to be okay.”
Well, shit. I went and promised something I had no business promising. But I’m resolved. No matter how long it takes, no matter how hard things might get, I’m going to make sure this kid comes through okay.
It takes about twenty minutes for Matthew to find some calm and stop screaming. I didn’t leave his side. I just sat here feeling frustrated and ashamed of myself that I couldn’tdoanything to help this kid.
I didn’t want to look things up on my phone while I was right there in front of him, but as soon as he goes to bed I’m going to try to find ways to help him moving forward. This isn’t fair on him, and I hate feeling so helpless, so out of control, so unable to help soothe someone.
As a dominant, I take great pride in helping my submissive, in taking care of them, in anticipating their needs, knowing what will help them in any given situation. But this? I feel like I’m free-falling without a parachute. I’m heading toward breaking every bone in my body on impact. And there’s not a single thing I can do to stop it.
