Breathe

By P.J. Jons

A true story of a mothers love and the trials and tribulations of raising an autistic son while life sends them in a whirlwind of chaos.

While growing up in a military family with a mother from England and a father from the hills of Tennessee, I would never have expected my life to take so many twists and turns. I was a young mother raising my autistic son. We both were new to every experience we went through. We learned together, we have fought for each other, and we have taught each other. There were guns, drugs, assaults, domestic abuse, and addictions involved. Older and wiser now, we have learned that love, patience, and perseverance keep you strong, and a good sense of humor keeps you somewhat sane.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524584337

P.J. Jons

The words written in this book are for my son, this is our biography of growth. At the age of thirty-three play time was over. I was pregnant. The teenage years were my best years, I was loving those early days, dating, socializing, traveling and living in the pan handle of Florida where white sands look like snow, and the water truly sparkles like emeralds all day and night. Those earlier growing up years being on my own taught me a few things but my best years of learning about life were after I had my son. You hear the words “Autistic” and your world changes, another layer is added to your life, a layer that is so different from what others may consider normal. I was always in fear that I was not teaching him enough not protecting my son enough from the bad things that kept happening to us. Years later I would find out just how much all the troubles we experienced impacted my son.

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

The words written in this book are for my son, this is our biography of growth. At the age of thirty-three play time was over. I was pregnant. The teenage years were my best years, I was loving those early days, dating, socializing, traveling and living in the pan handle of Florida where white sands look like snow, and the water truly sparkles like emeralds all day and night. Those earlier growing up years being on my own taught me a few things but my best years of learning about life were after I had my son. You hear the words Autistic and your world changes, another layer is added to your life, a layer that is so different from what others may consider normal. I was always in fear that I was not teaching him enough not protecting my son enough from the bad things that kept happening to us. Years later I would find out just how much all the troubles we experienced impacted my son.

For my son,

my teacher

Chapter 1

BREATHE, CRYSTAL, BREATHE! I kept hearing someone yelling at me over and over again. I found myself trying to respond but couldn’t, then everything went dark.

My eyes slowly opened, and as I tried to focus on my surroundings, I realized I had made it through surgery, but with a big scar. I knew I had to quit smoking. Yes, I had been smoking since the age of twelve; my sister and I would bribe the babysitters to get cigarettes. They loved to eat, so we would tell our mother we ate the food, and the babysitters would bring us cigarettes; it was a win-win situation at the time. I had to quit. I had already been diagnosed with COPD, and I have a very handsome, beautiful autistic son to take care of. I need to be around for him. I feel I should start our story when I met my son’s father, Jacob—however, biblical he was not!

It was July of 1992 when he walked into my life, young and handsome and built like a young Brad Pitt but with black hair and hazel eyes that had a tint of gold with long dark lashes that rimmed his eyes—you know, one of those head turners that would give a girl whiplash. It was the grand opening of my lounge, No Place. The instant our eyes met, it was electric; sparks flew and my knees buckled. I knew I was done for as soon as he walked into my life. Our courtship began at the bar. That’s where we had our first date, the Fourth of July, and boy, did the fireworks go off.

Then we had a real date; we went to a restaurant called the Melting Pot (yes, that’s right). It was a good name for us, considering we were both a melting pot of lust. At dinner, I found out how old he was, and I almost choked on my fondue. Twenty-two years of age. My god, I was ten years older than him. I was a cougar before the word cougar had ever referred to an older woman and a younger man being together. Oh well, just don’t get serious. Yeah, that’s it. Don’t get serious! No one saw us for three days after that dinner.

We dated other people outside our relationship, due to his age. I would even have my bar manager take him to different places to meet girls his own age. He would always call me and say this isn’t working, and I would tell him to keep trying. You see, I knew our age difference was going to be a problem. I was already seeing his immaturities showing, and after a year, it was wearing on my nerves.

Then fate stepped in and chocolate cool whip (in a can) hit the shelves, and Jacob brought home three cans—for other purposes. I strongly believe it was that night I became pregnant with my son.

A month later, I sat on the toilet staring at the pee stick. I was in shock. I cried. Jacob apparently heard me crying in the bathroom; he entered the bathroom and looked at me, then at the pee stick. The only thing you could hear were my sobs. He dropped to his knees beside me and held me while I sobbed on his shoulder, and in that moment, I heard the words will you marry me? I stopped breathing. I thought, My god, this is so romantic—me on the toilet and all! Then I cried more.

No, I did not want to get married. No! No! No! Jacob wanted to; all his family wanted us to get married. My mom and my sister loved Jacob. The only person who did not want us to get married was my father, who was dying of melanoma cancer. I remember him saying, Well, he’s just going to be another mouth to feed. He could very well have been right. As I thought about my situation, I did know my child would need a father in his life. Abortion was out of the question. Hopefully, Jacob will mature, and he will get a steady job and be a good father. I was not listening to my gut, which was saying run. I said yes and then cried more.

Well, of course the wedding was going to be at No Place. The day seemed to drag. Everyone was running around, getting things ready, and I was having an out-of-body experience. I do not remember a lot about the wedding; I do remember I cried all day and they were not tears of joy. We honeymooned at the Hilton and the only action in the room was me, throwing up. And so our married life began.

Jacob and I had quite a few issues on our plate—for instance, the pregnancy. Well, I was a horrible pregnant person for someone who loved making love; my hormones went the other way. Just looking at Jacob made my stomach churn; it was always saying Don’t look at me or touch me. Even the smell of him made me nauseous; and truly, sex was out of the picture. So … things were going well.

Issue number 2: the betrayal. That was probably my fault. Let me explain. What woman in her right mind and what man would believe that his wife was suggesting that he go out and have sex because he wasn’t going to get it from her? Yes, I said that, and he did that—with my best friend! Oh, just shoot me now. I was so mad and hurt; what had happened killed my heart. I mean this was my husband who claimed to love me. I couldn’t believe that he had actually done this. I thought he was so much in love with me that he couldn’t be with anyone else. Twenty years later, I can now say that I was ignorant of the ways of men.

Issue 3: while I was settling into married life, there was another thing that was tearing at my heart: my father was dying of melanoma cancer. Every day I saw my father’s life slowly drain from him; every day was a new health issue for him. One day, my father told me to come over, that we needed to have a discussion, and he wanted to give me something.

As I walked into his bedroom, he was lying in bed, smiling at me with that sideways grin of his. I sat down next to him on the bed and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I was remembering when he walked tall and strong—a six-foot-five, matter-of-fact, and good-looking man. He told me that he was concerned about me leaving the bar with the proceeds for the night and that I should have protection. He handed me a .38 Smith & Wesson gun and told me to put it in my purse so that he wouldn’t worry about me at night. I personally do not like guns of any kind. But to ease my father’s mind, I took it. On my way home, my thoughts turned to the uneasy task that lay ahead of me.

That night, I knew that I would have to fire my bar manager; she was on drugs, treating other employees like they were her personal servants. After speaking with her three or four times on this matter, nothing had changed, so it was a task