I felt the sharpness of Brantley’s nails tearing through my skin. Pure aggression. Not calculated, not vengeful—just raw, uncontrollable.
It happened so fast.
One second, everything was fine. The next, his hand slipped up my side, leaving a trail seven inches long—not of affection, but of blood and aggression.
People think aggression looks like malice, anger, or defiance. But with Brantley, and so many others with autism, it’s none of those things.
It’s a storm—silent at first, building without warning—and when it finally breaks, we’re both caught in it.
Brantley can’t control it, no matter how much he might want to.
And when it passes, there’s no trace of it left in him. His hands are still, his breathing softens, and the world settles back into place—except for the burning scratches on my skin and the ache lodged deep in my heart.
The scratches, the physical result of his aggression. The ache, a result of knowing my normally happy boy can’t tell me what triggered him.
Was it frustration?
Sensory overload?
A desperate attempt to communicate something he didn’t have the words for?
I wish I knew.
I wish I could help him release whatever wells up inside him in a way that doesn’t hurt us both.
But I don’t hold it against him. Because beneath the storm, Brantley is still my boy—sweet, funny, full of life in ways words can’t capture.
The aggression is only a small sliver of who he is. And just as quickly as it appears, it vanishes.
So I hold him close, despite the sting in my side, because love is bigger than the scratches. Bigger than the moments of chaos.
Our journey with Autism isn’t always easy, but no matter how wild the storms get, I’ll always be here—anchoring him through them, waiting for the calm.
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