The boy is on edge, yet again, pacing around the kitchen as I’m cooking dinner.

He’s verbalizing a litany of guttural noises and warning phrases. “Don’t. Hurt.” “It’s not working.” “Exit. Exit.”

When he’s cycling up like this, I usually toss multiple strategies his way, hoping one or more will calm him.

My reminders to try deep breathing, or relaxing videos, or his weighted blanket, or to just go sit down are becoming more about what I need than what he might need. 

I’m playing music from a random Pandora station, in an effort to either distract him from his agitation or drown out his anxious patter. 

He is right. It’s not working.

The temperature in the kitchen is rising, and one of us is about to boil over.

I’d like to think I’ve improved as a caregiver over the past few years, finding more patience, compassion, and understanding to support this young man.

Tonight those talents are not evident. Ah, the absurdity of snapping at someone to use your coping skills.

I’m irritated that he’s irritated, which is not helpful, but there it is. It’s been a long day.

Then, the next song begins to play. 

And everything, for me at least, changes.

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