Well, I have finally done it.

Today, with the help of my solicitors, I have served a Section 20 Order on the Local Authority, which sees my son, my beautiful son, become a full-time resident at his school and the attached care home.  It’s called a Waking Day programme, which means he will receive care, support and therapy through the entirety of his “waking day” as opposed to just the relatively few hours of the standard school day.

This is a day I always knew would come…eventually.

This is a day I hoped would not come yet.

“Although the Reverend Cheshire very much loves and cherishes Adam, after much thought

and an honest appraisal of his needs, and her ability to meet them, she has been forced to

the heart-breaking conclusion that it is simply not possible to accommodate Adam in her

family home or meet his needs. Sadly, as a responsible parent, the Reverend Cheshire has

no alternative but to recognise her own limitations, and that the severity of Adam’s need

creates a serious and obvious risk to the safety of both of them. Therefore, the purpose of

this letter is to notify the Local Authority under Section 20 of the Children Act 1989, that

our Client can no longer provide Adam with suitable accommodation care…”

It is too soon.

And it is also time.

My beautiful boy who is 5’6” and 13 stone (180lbs) and not yet even 12 years old.  He’s the size of a man, but he has the brain and cognitive development of a toddler.  He will grow bigger, easily a foot bigger and another 5 stone if he follows his daddy’s example.  But he will never grow up.

He will be a permanent man-child.

And as of today, technically, legally, he’s no longer mine.  He is now a “child in care” and oh, how I love him.  How he has been my world for his entire 11 years and 11 months.  How I have cared for him, protected him, fought for him tooth and nail, been to court for him multiple times.

How many times, I have had to fight:  I have had some social workers write in formal assessments that he is the most complicated and difficult child they have ever assessed.  I have had other social workers write in formal paperwork that I am entitled to four hours of respite a month.  I have had a court tell the local authority I am entitled to three nights respite per week and turn around their decision in record time.  I’ve had social workers tell me that sitting on my back deck in the sun with them, while detailing all the challenges I face and correcting their assessment paperwork is akin to respite, ‘because it’s so lovely out here’ and besides, ‘you have a break while he’s in school’.

I’ve had behavioural support workers from CAMHS sit and watch as my son attacked me and advise that I should show absolutely no reaction, even as he kicks me in the head, because that gives him attention. I have had a child psychologist tell me to try putting him on the naughty step.  I have had Learning Disability Nurses tell me there’s nothing else they can suggest because I’m already doing everything right, and you can’t “cure” autism.  I have witnessed my child being discharged from therapy services, despite being hearing, visually and learning impaired as well as diagnosed autistic, because he has ‘no visible sensory needs’ and ‘doesn’t meet their criteria for support’.

Struggling to breathe, I’ve called social workers from a trolley in A&E begging for help because I’m about to be admitted to the hospital because doctors have told me I will die if I leave, only to hear them say there is nothing they can do, nowhere for him to go.  I have discharged myself from hospital, still barely breathing, to care for my son.  I have had SEN school headteachers go to bat for me and argue with the Local Authority, insisting I need more support.  People who have barely known my child but who have loved and respected either me or him, sometimes both, have dropped everything to help.  Others have walked away and excluded me, or him, or both from their gatherings because it’s too much – he’s too much.  Still others have dragged themselves out of their own sick beds to bring me spare clothes while I am lying in the resus unit of A&E and to tell me that I am loved.

I’ve been called Mama Bear by everyone I know: my late husband, my friends, teachers, solicitors, even a High Court Judge has said that I have campaigned tirelessly for him and that she can’t even imagine how hard it has been these last few years doing it alone.  I have sat in that medieval high court and wept, surrounded by solicitors.  I have done those things and I would do them all again.

Because no one gets in between a Mama Bear and her cub.

I love him.  I will always love him.

But he is no longer mine.  Not entirely.  He now lives at school.  He is theirs too.  And as much as it grates on me to say it, he is also the Local Authority’s Child now because that’s what Section 20 does.  It formally says that I can no longer meet my son’s needs on my own.

My beautiful, beautiful baby boy.

For nearly twelve years, I have worn his bruises, his bite marks, blood has dripped down from his scratches, my back has been thrown out by his full body blows, my lungs have seized as I have tried to run after him when he has absconded into traffic.  I have pulled him to the ground to prevent him running under the wheels of buses and cars.  I have put myself in danger to save him again and again and again.

Each and every time, I have sacrificed myself to keep him safe.  To make sure he gets the medical care that he needs.  To make sure he gets the schooling and therapy that he needs.  I have literally locked myself into my house for years on end to keep him safe and prevent him from fleeing.  I have put gates and bars on my doors and stairs to contain him to a designated room where I can watch over him and know he cannot hurt himself.  I have rehomed pets who he was hurting, for their sakes, and my heart has broken to see them go.  I have been given ‘safe space’ tent beds to zip him into that he cannot get out of, overseen and assessed by the fire service…just in case.

I have become isolated and alienated over and over again.  I have lost people who have been important to me.  I have hunkered down and protected my child.  I have given up jobs I have loved.  I have moved house.  I have sacrificed my own health and repeatedly avoided calling paramedics even when I needed them, in order to stay to protect my child.

I have loved him.

I do love him.

I always will.

But I cannot do this on my own anymore.

They say it takes a village to raise a child.  In this case, it requires a whole fucking city.  And I haven’t had those things.  Some have of course tried.  Many have loved me through it.  Hugged me when I wept.  Brought me coffee or groceries when I couldn’t go out.  Watched horrified at what I endured.  Done anything they could.  Others have walked away.  And I’ve been too damn tired to walk after them.

So now, at the age of not quite 12, my beautiful, beautiful boy is no longer solely my responsibility.  He no longer lives with me.  He is unlikely to ever do so again – not without multiple other staff and that only if he calms down enough for it to be safe.  That may never happen.

Technically, I am now free.  Free to live my life.

Funny that it doesn’t feel that way today.

I love my son.

And I have needed help.

So, I signed.

And he is now theirs.

Not mine.

My heart outside my body.

My beautiful, beautiful, damaged boy.

Today’s Playlist: