MY Autism Looks Like...
My autism looks like loneliness, mixed with the sad comfort of solace. It is me, secretly relieved when the people I used to hang with finally stopped trying to include me in their plans...and oh- how I would dread having to say no...or risk having to say yes...masking again and again...hiding ill fated social awkwardness to become someone I never was, or would be...losing HER over time...and pretending to be normal among
...the crowds, bright lights, masses of flesh, evil fabric, and conflicting energies…
(And yet, missing these same beautiful, unique humans fiercely and completely, with every fiber of my being. Missing their light, and support, and all the fabulous and inappropriate laughter I was once a part of.)
My autism looks like fear (and hatred) of that peculiar invention by Alexander Graham Bell, the telephone. An utter, soul crushing kind of exhaustion occurs after having to make a call...forced to have a real conversation with a real person.
It is being completely drained every time I am forced to deal with customer service, and being provoked by the tiniest slight into having inappropriate responses because I’ve been on the phone for far too long already, and what little protection I have from their energy has worn thin.
It is strangers without faces, bearers of bad news, demanding to talk to me, talk AT me, stealing my peace, my time, my sanctuary.
My autism looks like the skepticism of others...the “You don’t look or sound autistic…” which translates into…”You don’t look or sound like your brains are exploding inside of your head because the faucet is dripping, and there are competing noises, and your skin is on fire from fabric…”
It is the Princess and the Pea syndrome, feeling every minuscule bump, wrinkle...every deadly sharp, pointed fiber...tossing and turning because the world is not smooth and my skin is an alien. It is lost concentration as I fight this losing battle of sensory torture...berating myself for not keeping up...not keeping track...not being “in-the-loop”...
My autism looks like a mirror with a stranger's face staring back at me. I was so hard on her...never forgiving...always critical…
“Why can’t YOU just be normal?”
“Why can’t YOU fit in?”
“Why are YOU so weird?”
“Why can’t YOU fake it like everyone else?”
I was never able to love her because I didn’t know.
They didn’t know.
Nobody knew.
And so, she was alone, and bewildered...and so utterly and profoundly sad.
My autism looks like not having the strength to leave my house SOME days, not being able to deal with artificial light on ANY days, and feeling like an all around fraudulent human being EVERY day.
My Autism looks like ME finally finding the strength to trace my way back to her, the original child...that ghost girl, lost and waiting for acceptance...love...and a little joy…
It is that child who has always-and-every-day- been drowning in an over abundance of empathy for the land, water, trees, insects, creatures...heartbreak over timber harvests...heartbreak over pipelines and the people who support them...heartbreak over humanity...heartbreak over kids in cages.
It is shielding my treasures, and creating safe spaces for me (and she) to hide away...refuel...and begin again.
My autism looks like a neurodivergent brain that sees the world differently...the truth in all of its corrupt bloodiness and carnage...the beautiful ancient wisdom of airy, translucent Tree auras...and the slow beat of a bumblebee’s wing, flashing with the blinding bright reflection of the sun.
My autism looks like a large part of who I am, my identity as a human...a fallible, searching, losing, forgetting, loving, needing, learning, seeing, hearing, growing, aging human being...simply trying to find her way back home.
This is what MY autism looks like.
This is me.
It's nice to finally meet you.
My autism looks like loneliness, mixed with the sad comfort of solace. It is me, secretly relieved when the people I used to hang with finally stopped trying to include me in their plans...and oh- how I would dread having to say no...or risk having to say yes...masking again and again...hiding ill fated social awkwardness to become someone I never was, or would be...losing HER over time...and pretending to be normal among
...the crowds, bright lights, masses of flesh, evil fabric, and conflicting energies…
(And yet, missing these same beautiful, unique humans fiercely and completely, with every fiber of my being. Missing their light, and support, and all the fabulous and inappropriate laughter I was once a part of.)
My autism looks like fear (and hatred) of that peculiar invention by Alexander Graham Bell, the telephone. An utter, soul crushing kind of exhaustion occurs after having to make a call...forced to have a real conversation with a real person.
It is being completely drained every time I am forced to deal with customer service, and being provoked by the tiniest slight into having inappropriate responses because I’ve been on the phone for far too long already, and what little protection I have from their energy has worn thin.
It is strangers without faces, bearers of bad news, demanding to talk to me, talk AT me, stealing my peace, my time, my sanctuary.
My autism looks like the skepticism of others...the “You don’t look or sound autistic…” which translates into…”You don’t look or sound like your brains are exploding inside of your head because the faucet is dripping, and there are competing noises, and your skin is on fire from fabric…”
It is the Princess and the Pea syndrome, feeling every minuscule bump, wrinkle...every deadly sharp, pointed fiber...tossing and turning because the world is not smooth and my skin is an alien. It is lost concentration as I fight this losing battle of sensory torture...berating myself for not keeping up...not keeping track...not being “in-the-loop”...
My autism looks like a mirror with a stranger's face staring back at me. I was so hard on her...never forgiving...always critical…
“Why can’t YOU just be normal?”
“Why can’t YOU fit in?”
“Why are YOU so weird?”
“Why can’t YOU fake it like everyone else?”
I was never able to love her because I didn’t know.
They didn’t know.
Nobody knew.
And so, she was alone, and bewildered...and so utterly and profoundly sad.
My autism looks like not having the strength to leave my house SOME days, not being able to deal with artificial light on ANY days, and feeling like an all around fraudulent human being EVERY day.
My Autism looks like ME finally finding the strength to trace my way back to her, the original child...that ghost girl, lost and waiting for acceptance...love...and a little joy…
It is that child who has always-and-every-day- been drowning in an over abundance of empathy for the land, water, trees, insects, creatures...heartbreak over timber harvests...heartbreak over pipelines and the people who support them...heartbreak over humanity...heartbreak over kids in cages.
It is shielding my treasures, and creating safe spaces for me (and she) to hide away...refuel...and begin again.
My autism looks like a neurodivergent brain that sees the world differently...the truth in all of its corrupt bloodiness and carnage...the beautiful ancient wisdom of airy, translucent Tree auras...and the slow beat of a bumblebee’s wing, flashing with the blinding bright reflection of the sun.
My autism looks like a large part of who I am, my identity as a human...a fallible, searching, losing, forgetting, loving, needing, learning, seeing, hearing, growing, aging human being...simply trying to find her way back home.
This is what MY autism looks like.
This is me.
It's nice to finally meet you.