It's Starts With Being Honest About What Happened To Our Kids
We've been "debunked" more than a fleet of sailors falling out of bed during a squall.
JB Handley has a series running on his Substack named after his book, How To End The Autism Epidemic. The most recent entry says, "It starts with being honest about what has been done to millions of kids." JB is excerpting his book to remind or introduce parents to regressive autism.
The differences of how our kids became autistic soften through the years. Not every child suffered autistic regression. Or vaccine injury. But at some point, everyone is is the same services boat.
JB was the godfather of Age of Autism. He launched Rescue Post mere months before we folded into and became Age of Autism with Dan Olmsted and Mark Blaxill. We've been honest for close to twenty years, and many had already been shouting from the rooftops for years before we came along.
Today? We're lucky if a whisper slips under a door, through a social media post, into the ears of a parent wondering what has happened to his or her child. Censorship started many years ago, and has only gotten worse. Much of what we say is now labeled "Misinformation," or its darker twin, "Disinformation." We've been "debunked" more than a fleet of sailors falling out of bed during a squall. None of us has benefited from speaking out. Sure, some of us wrote books, started websites, opened medical practices to new methods. It has all come with a price. Please check out JB's Substack.
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How to End the Autism Epidemic
It starts with being honest about what has been done to millions of kids
(Author’s Note: I wrote How to End the Autism Epidemic in 2018. It’s sold 75,000 copies. I’ve updated much of the content from my book and integrated it into the articles on this blog. If you read all the articles here, you’ll get my 20 years of research for free! I hope you enjoy and share. See the Appendix for a compilation.)
LAFAYETTE, California—When we were newlyweds, my wife Lisa and I knew we wanted three or four kids. We planned to have kids every two years and see how we felt after each one. Our first son, Sam, was born in 1999 in Berkeley, California, and by early 2001 a family routine was settling in. We understood what it meant to be parents. Sleepless nights were routine. Our personal hobbies took a back seat. Dates and romance became rare events. Despite the chaos, it felt like the right time to expand the family.
Jamison took longer than expected. When he finally arrived in August 2002, a little more than thirty-three months younger than his big brother and almost a year behind “schedule,” I was overjoyed. Two boys? My sons would always have each other. A lifetime of wrestling matches, shared sports, and being dudes together was imminent. I couldn’t wait to watch and share in the fun. It was a euphoric time.
But on the night following Jamison’s two-month “well baby” visit—during which he received six separate vaccines—his health deteriorated rapidly and never rebounded. He developed eczema all over his body. He didn’t sleep for more than twenty minutes at a time. After a few sleepless nights, I had to move out of the master bedroom and sleep with Sam so I could make it up for work the next day. Lisa endured the crazy nights alone, waking with Jamison every time, trying to feed him back to sleep.
As time went on, Jamison developed dark circles under his eyes. His stomach became distended, and he was really skinny, almost emaciated. He sweated like crazy at night. The eczema persisted. He was constantly leaning on furniture (we later learned he was trying to ease the pain he was feeling in his gut), and he had frequent ear infections. He was always on antibiotics.
Our life, and our family, began to collapse. By late 2003, as Jamison’s health continued to decline, I would call home from business trips to brutal reports from Lisa about Jamison’s health. After one trip I returned home to California to a Post-it note on the kitchen counter from Lisa. “Went to Portland, sorry.” She had fled home to Oregon with the kids to be with her parents.
I remember the moment when our nanny said something. She was nervous. She was only twenty-one years old, a college junior. “I’m worried about Jamison,” she told me. “He’s not playing with things the way he used to.” I disregarded this comment—from the person who spent hours a day with my son—not yet ready to face the fact that something was terribly wrong. READ MORE HERE.
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