This rage is horrible, one of the worst. I watch as my son turns into a raging, spitting animal. Toys become weapons, pounding against my head and back as I force him to the ground and hold him there so he won't hurt himself . . . so he won't hurt me. His teeth sink into my arm, and my world becomes white heat, noise, and pain. And then it is over. My son returns, shaken and scared by what has happened. It is strangely quiet now, but for our ragged breath and soft tears. Life with my autistic son often felt like living between one rage and the next. But oh those times in between! What magic and wonder there was to be discovered in that separate world of his. And so I began to wonder. Along with its burdens, had my son's autism brought gifts as well, and would those gifts be enough to sustain us?