It’s no surprise that I sit and think about autism
a lot. I ruminate, I plan, I think and wonder. I turn it over and over and over in my mind. I mull on it. I try to figure out how
to strategize my way around it, out of it. I’d barrel right through it, I
think… if I could. If it wasn’t always in the way of everything.
Sometimes I sit with autism and it's a warm,
comfy, soft, pillowed chair-and-a-half that surrounds me, envelopes me.
It's comfortable, familiar even, and makes me want hot chocolate with
mini-marshmallows and warm peanut butter cookies. It makes me feel peaceful,
and loved.
But some days, I sit with autism, and it's a hard,
wooden, stiff, Puritanical chair, unforgiving and mean. It makes me
squirm. I can never get
comfortable and it creaks and moans as I shift around. I fight it, and I curse
it, and rail at it. It makes me feel stupid. Like I should have a dunce cap on
and turn to face the corner.
I only lie on occasion with autism, because it’s really a bed of nails,
scratching and poking and blistering. The only relief in sight is to get up and
walk away. It makes me want to give up, to run away, to not do this anymore. It takes strength, and endurance, and
peace to lie gently with autism without getting hurt, and sometimes, I have
none of those things left within me.
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