Almost eleven years, and I still struggle with professionals dissecting my son, owning pieces of him due to their particular expertise, acting as if the human soul can be categorized.
Assessed with comparison data, progress reports, and medical codes.
People are fluid, like water, changing from the thirty-foot waves on Nauset Beach to a frozen puddle on the playground at work throwing 5th grade boys on their backs as we play soccer at recess.
Change from snowflakes to ice cubes, creeks to hail, torrential rain to tear drops, water never stays still.
We change like the wind that chills your bones in January and gives you sweet relief from the heat of July.
Wind that can rip the sun-baked roof from your home and mine and swirl fall leaves in the air in an exotic dance of crimson and gold.
Elias "blows up" because he is over-stimulated, in "fight or flight", an eleven-year-old boy, visually overwhelmed, outright defiant, we can try to pigeonhole his behavior but really, he's just a kid making his way in the world.
Elias can't be categorized.
Nor can you.