The Boy Who COULDN’T Go To School

Last November, our thirteen-year-old son ran away from school.

As it stands, he will not be going back.

Not now, probably not ever.

The Head of Year looked at me in disbelief when I recently announced that we would be withdrawing our son from school permanently.  ‘But he is doing so well,’ were his words. By this, he meant that our son was achieving good grades—which on paper meant he was ‘doing well’ and ticking all of the right boxes.

The truth: he wasn’t anywhere close to doing well.

He was extremely unwell.

This blog is not normally a place where I offload tales of sadness. I am a writer of comedy, and I pride myself on the ability to find humour in most situations, no matter how dire. But sometimes, there is no humour to be found in what life throws at us.

I’ve recently been contacted by numerous parents in the same situation as my family and I felt it was time to share our story. Hopefully it will provide some comfort to those families in distress. If nothing else, it helps to know that you’re not alone.

So, brace yourselves, this blog is going to be a long one (not quite the length of Tolstoy's War and Peace, but pretty damn close)…and none of it is funny.

Here it comes:

Starting secondary school is a big deal for every child, but when you have an autistic child, there are a million more things to worry about. Our autistic son attended a tiny primary school, a warm and nurturing place where he knew everyone’s names and they knew his. He had a loyal circle of friends, his school day was well structured, and aside from a few bumps in the road, he managed to get through his time there relatively unscathed.   

Moving to the ‘big’ school was something that I’d been dreading for years. And by this, I mean that I was consumed with horrendous anxiety that kept me awake for months on end. MONTHS!

My brain never let me rest.

How would our boy cope in an environment filled with hundreds of kids? Would he handle having to move around different classrooms several times a day? Would he make new friends? Would he be a target for bullies given his obvious differences? Would the teachers understand his needs and challenges and be able to support him?

Time would tell, but our son assured us that he wanted to go to the same school as his friends.

(N.B There was no other option given that where we live, his needs aren’t considered extreme enough to qualify for a place at a specialist autism unit.)

At first, our son seemed to nail secondary school. Everything was shiny, new and exciting—the teachers were “nice,” the computer lab was “cool,” and the canteen served bacon sandwiches and giant cookies at break time which was an absolute hit with him.

Determined to be independent, he insisted on walking to and from school every day with his friends, and although I was worried about him crossing roads and generally being safe, I forced myself to let go of the reins and let him join his friends.

Everything was going to plan, and for a while, I allowed myself to relax. As far as I could tell, he seemed happy, and he was settling in better than I ever could have expected.

But the cracks soon started to show.

As the weeks went by, little things started to go wrong. His belongings would go missing—umpteen water bottles, his pencil case, his P.E kit (five times)—which wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal for most kids, but for our son it was devastating.

Everything that was lost had to be replaced for an exact replica and most nights, I was ordering up half of Amazon’s stock of Bic pens and Stabilo rubbers (rainbow coloured, NOT white) to ensure that our boy could function the next day. (And yes, I asked the school to allocate him a locker to help him keep track of his belongings, but they refused. It was a small ask that would have made a BIG difference.)

My son knew that he was different, but it was only when he started secondary school that he decided he really didn’t want to be. To fit in, he had to pull off the best acting role of his life, one that would ultimately have a devastating impact on his mental health.

From what he wore, his hairstyle, what he ate, how he spoke…everything was copied by observing those around him. He was so desperate to fit in that he even made a timetable of when he would wear his school jumper:

Lesson one and two: JUMPER ON

Break time: WRAP JUMPER AROUND WAIST

Lesson 4: Jumper OFF and stored in bag for the rest of the day.

Regardless of the weather, he would stick to this schedule as he thought that was what everyone else did. He would rather freeze to death than stand out.

After a while, his friendships began to suffer. His primary school friends were his only friends, and months down the line, he couldn’t name a single person in his form class besides them. He couldn’t connect with others—“strangers!”—he didn’t know how to, and when his friends started spreading their wings and mixing in new circles, our boy would end up in sick bay claiming that he had a “bad stomach.” I can’t tell you how many times I was called to collect him… too many to count. On one occasion, he even fainted in the toilets from stress.

Once a sweet, funny boy, he was now angry, argumentative and sometimes, he was downright nasty. At night, he would pace the landing for hours, flapping his hands in agitation. Or, he would spend hours in his room alone, refusing to shower, refusing to do his homework— ‘I don’t want to be the teacher’s pet!’ he would scream.

He stopped walking to school, but he was late every single morning because his anxiety was so high that several rituals had to be performed before he would agree to get in the car. His form teacher eventually threatened him with detention if he was late to registration one more time… a threat which rendered him pacing the landing for another long night.

On another occasion, he didn’t sleep a wink because he’d had a bad result in a maths test and he was terrified that he would be moved down a set and not be with his friends.

Most damaging of all were the frequent misunderstandings that he would have with his mates. A small tiff would be blown way out of proportion, and after leaving school, he told me that he would run out of class most days because he was so distraught.

The school never got in touch to tell me this was happening. Not once.

By the time he’d started Year 8, he was so traumatised that I was collecting him from sick bay on a weekly basis. Other days, he couldn’t go to school at all.

The situation inevitably came to a head at the end of last year.

As he was lining up to go into an art class, his friend was teasing him. It was just the usual jokey banter that kids have, but sometimes our son can take a joke, and sometimes he can’t. On this particular day, he couldn’t and he exploded. He punched the boy and ran away, recklessly darting across main roads in an absolute state for a mile until he arrived home.

At the time, I wasn’t there. I was in a meeting in my younger son’s school where I was being told that he too didn’t qualify to attend a specialist autism unit when he starts Year 7 in September. I was told that he would have to go to the local secondary school, the very same school where my eldest son was running away from at that exact moment(!)

An hour or so later, I found my boy in the garden in full meltdown. He was crying, punching his face, yelling that he was ‘never going back.’

The school didn’t even bother to let me know that he was missing.

He hasn’t been back since that awful day, and for ages, I was bombarded with the same automated text messages asking to explain his absence. ANXIETY was my continuous reply, yet it was weeks before anyone from school called to ask how he was. At one point, I was asked to bring him to a meeting with the Attendance Officer. Our son didn’t want to go—he was terrified to set foot in the school—but he braved it. And guess what? The Attendance Officer failed to show up.

An Attendance Officer who fails to attend?

Indeed, you couldn’t make it up!

From that day, we have followed our son’s lead. He swore that he was never going back, and my husband and I listened. School was failing him, that much was clear, and if he was to continue to force himself to go, I was terrified that he would suffer a breakdown that he might never recover from.

Months down the line, our boy is a totally different child. He is affectionate, thoughtful and very open about his feelings. Keen to continue with his education, he joined an online school in January called Kings Interhigh and it has been the making of him. It’s costing us money, money which we don’t have and shouldn’t have to pay, but my husband and I felt that we’d been boxed into a corner. Our son wanted to learn in a safe, supportive environment and for now, this is it.

His confidence has improved enormously and last week, he was brave enough to attend a residential course run by his new school. Afraid to leave the house just days before he went, he ended up sharing a dormitory with seven other boys who have now become his friends.

And guess what? Every single one of those boys are autistic too.

Freedom to be himself at last!

My son is not the only child being failed by the education system. There are hundreds, in fact thousands of children who are being denied their right to a free education because schools don’t have the right support in place for them. To make matters worse, parents across the country are being fined for their SEND children’s lack of attendance—they’re being punished for protecting their children from the trauma that they’ve faced every day in school.

But all being well, there is good news to come.

Yesterday, a team of wonderful parents took a petition to 10 Downing Street to demand that parents not be fined when their children CANNOT attend school. To date, there are almost 40,000 families who have children that are NOT coping in school, and when I last checked a few hours ago, the petition had close to 300,000 signatures.

To sign the petition, click the image here:

If your family is suffering, check out these brilliant books written by two truly inspirational women, BOTH of which are Sunday Times Bestsellers. Also, follow Heidi Mavir’s and Eliza Fricker’s social media accounts. There, you will find a huge community that might just save you from your torment.

Together, we can help our children get the support they need and deserve.