The beatings happen every day. I’ve had black eyes, cuts and split lips – and considered ending my life to make it stop. My attacker? My own nine-year-old son. Read my story before you judge: MARIA GOODMAN
Every morning I brace myself for the first blow to be struck. I’m well used to hiding black eyes, cuts and split lips with make-up. I dress carefully so the livid bruises that cover my body are kept under wraps.
Insults are a regular occurrence too. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been called a b***h.
I feel like a prisoner in my own home, trapped in this abusive relationship. Too afraid to admit the truth to the world.
My children have also been hurt, something that breaks my heart and has completely destroyed their sense of safety.
You may wonder why I don’t just leave, for their sake if not my own.
But this is not a classic case of domestic violence; my abuser isn’t my husband of 20 years. In fact, he’s on the receiving end too.
My attacker is our nine-year-old son, Henry, who has severe autism.
So violent is he, and so utterly have his needs taken over our home, that I can say unequivocally he has ruined my life – and that of my husband and our three other children.
Mother-of-four Maria Goodman says the violent behaviour of her youngest son Henry, who is severely autistic, has ruined life for her and her family – which is taboo to admit (picture posed by models)
The toll he has taken on our marriage, emotions, health, finances and social lives is nothing short of devastating.
Of course, admitting as much remains taboo. Unconditional motherly love seems to mean glossing over dark realities such as this.
But it’s not that I don’t love Henry. He is still my son – something I will myself to remember as he punches and kicks me. I do, however, hate and resent how miserable our family’s existence has become.
Henry lashes out almost daily and I’m terrified that as he gets older and stronger, the split lips and black eyes will become broken bones. Or that one day he might actually kill someone. Maybe me, since I’m his number one target.
I used to think it was because he hated me, but experts say he takes his aggression out on me because I’m his safe space, the one he knows he can rely on to always be there for him. No matter what.
It’s not Henry’s fault, it’s the way his brain is wired. And so, I must bear the brunt – without complaint or retaliation.
All I ever wanted to be was a mother. I did well at school, and then university, and made a successful career in IT sales. A career that has been yet another casualty of our situation.
With only one sibling, I dreamed of having six children – a brood that would bring so much love and joy. When I met Nick, now 46, through work in 2008, he wanted a large family too.
We imagined our gang of children clambering into bed for Sunday morning snuggles, taking long dog walks by the river near our Buckinghamshire home, and piling them into the car for happy day trips to parks and beaches.
Along came Amber, now 16, George, 13, Freya, 11, and that’s exactly how it was. Until Henry was born in July 2017, when I was 36.
It’s hard to marry the memory of the gorgeous, warm little bundle the midwife placed into my arms with the intimidating, unpredictable boy he’s become.
When he was three, I noticed his speech was delayed, he never played with toys and he started lashing out. But he learned to take himself to the toilet and brush his teeth before he started school. Admittedly, though, he only has a bath or shower once every ten days, as he hates the sound and sensation of water.
It wasn’t until just before he left pre-school, when he was four, that I really started to worry. That’s when there was an incident at home I’ll never forget. Henry tried to hit Amber, then 12, after she attempted to prevent him escaping out of the front door. When I intervened, he turned on me – furiously kicking and punching.
It took 45 minutes for him to calm down. Afterwards, I hugged my other children and we cried together as I nursed my cuts and bruises.
It was the clearest and most devastating signal that Henry had severe behavioural problems. He was referred for assessment for an Education, Health and Care Plan (EHCP) where a child’s special educational needs are outlined. But diagnosis proved a long, arduous process.
We were still awaiting a verdict a year later when Henry, then almost six, started escaping from school, turning up on the doorstep at home a ten-minute walk away, leaving me terrified he’d run into a road and get hit by a car. Sometimes he’d wreck the house in anger and frustration, other times he’d want to sit alone in his indoor tent.
When he then kicked a window pane in at school, the headteacher immediately called the NHS Children and Adolescent Mental Health Services (CAMHS) for advice, as Henry was now displaying behaviour that could be a threat to life – others and his own.
Within four days we had a diagnosis of autism and anxiety – his official diagnosis is autism co-morbid with generalised anxiety – symptoms of which include complete overwhelm with language and sensory overload.
He was prescribed the medication clonidine to help calm him and reduce the impulsive behaviour. But even on medication, Henry continued to break things, pulling electric sockets out of the wall and running away. He was on melatonin for years. Half an hour after taking it he’d be asleep, so the rest of us could have a family evening. Unfortunately it has recently stopped working, and we are yet to find a replacement.
No other parents have complained to my face, although someone told school that Henry had used horrible words during an argument.
He doesn’t have a one-to-one teaching assistant (TA) at school as there isn’t the funding, but the class TA sits with him as it’s not safe for him to be on his own.
Thankfully he has never lashed out at other children but, in June 2024, when he was seven, he hit a teacher, prompting the school to temporarily exclude him.
I’d been begging them to do this for months because an exclusion on record would have been the fastest way to get him into a special needs school – sadly, there aren’t any locally, so he’s still in a mainstream school, albeit not for more than four hours a week – an arrangement agreed with the school and CAMHS.
My £30,000-a-year job and any freedom I had were instant casualties, as I had to be at home with him. He won’t engage with learning so I don’t teach him. I would dearly love to read with him – or to him – but he won’t tolerate it.
Instead, he spends entire days in his pyjamas in front of a screen. If I try to make him get dressed or do an activity with me, he kicks and punches me.
Since Henry hit a teacher and was temporarily excluded, he only returns to school for four hours a week. Maria would love to teach and read to him at home, but says he doesn’t engage (picture posed by models)
Meanwhile, minus my salary, we’re under huge financial strain. My poor husband is working all hours as a one-man IT troubleshooter to pay the mortgage, bills and basic living costs.
Our car broke down months ago but we can’t afford to fix it, so Nick has to walk 40 minutes each way to and from the station for his commute, and we can’t afford essential renovations to our old Victorian house.
And God knows it needs it, because Henry constantly destroys things: to date, three TVs, various doors, ornaments and windows panes. He’s seriously injured himself punching a pane of glass, only to put his foot through another one just days later.
Some weeks he refuses to go to school at all, which means I’m trapped inside too. Having previously been so outdoorsy and well, I’ve now been diagnosed with chronic vitamin D deficiency as I’m so rarely exposed to daylight, and have been prescribed Citalopram for depression and anxiety. I’ve also gained 2st and developed fibromyalgia, which causes chronic pain all over my body – something my GP says is down to stress.
As Henry won’t tolerate visitors in the house, I can’t even have a friend pop in for coffee. My older children can’t invite friends over either. There are no family days out at weekends because either Nick or I have to be at home with Henry. I can’t even nip out if I discover a missing ingredient when I’m cooking dinner.
There is no respite. He refuses to sleep anywhere except in our bed between Nick and me. He won’t even go to the bathroom without insisting on me waiting outside the door for him.
And then there’s the violence.
Nick and I have also been told to follow a ‘zero demand approach’. For example, we can’t say, ‘No! Stop!’ because his autism has a component known as Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA). This means asking him to do anything can lead to a meltdown. Talking to him is like having a conversation with a bomb that could explode at any second.
Instead, we have to be a calm, silent presence, which is a tough ask when he’s beating me up.
I’ve been taught a process called ‘squashing’ where I sit or lay on him, as it’s the most effective way to calm him down, as such heavy pressure allows his nervous system to regulate.
My family and friends worry dreadfully. We took a big gamble and invited my dad for Christmas two years ago, only for him to witness an almighty meltdown from Henry, who was furious that Grandad was in the house.
‘Don’t do that to Mummy!’ Dad yelled, very upset, as I tried to lie on top of Henry to calm him down.
Meanwhile my eldest son has retaliated twice now, hitting Henry back when he’s launched an attack. I can’t blame him as he’s such a calm, orderly boy. He’s even said: ‘Henry’s ruined my life.’
My youngest daughter got very upset recently after she’d been desperate to have friends over, crying: ‘I hate him, everyone hates him. I wake up every day and wish I was dead!’
Hearing that destroyed me.
It’s hard not to blame Henry for all our troubles. At times I resent him so much I’ve considered foster care or boarding school. At least then my other children would have their lives back, and Nick and I might be able to mend our marriage.
We’re still friends, thank goodness, but there’s been zero intimacy between us for a couple of years. We have even discussed divorce. Sometimes I’ve thought that at least it would give us brief respite if we lived apart and shared custody. Then again neither of us could cope with him on our own.
In my darkest moments, I’ve wondered if ending my own life would help my other children get access to the therapy they need to cope.
But then every so often Henry will have a good week or tell me: ‘You’re the best mummy ever!’ And then I hate myself for even having such thoughts.
All in all though, my biggest fear is for Henry – that one day he will do something so terrible he’ll be sent to prison, where he wouldn’t cope.
Currently, we’re having a slightly better spell as the GP has increased Henry’s clonidine, so he has at least stopped attacking his siblings. I even managed to get him to the barbers for a haircut this week, but paid for it with an attack afterwards.
His psychiatrist from CAMHS phones every two weeks to check how we’re doing. He has occupational therapy at school, and we see a paediatrician every six months.
But are we doomed to live in this small, insular world for ever? Now 45, I have little motivation or hope for the future, least of all the house full of grandchildren that Nick and I always dreamed of one day having – Henry wouldn’t tolerate them.
And so we all go on, merely existing. Because we have no choice.
- Maria Goodman is a pseudonym. Names and identifying details have been changed. For confidential support, call the Samaritans on 116 123 or visit samaritans.org
- Interview by Sadie Nicholas
