They never imagine, as they wax lyrical about being able to ‘fix’ this ‘imperfection’ in the ‘poor children’, that there is a big opinionated grown up adult autistic woman absorbing every word with a professional grimace.
I’m scared that, on Friday morning, I will have to talk people down from killing themselves. And I’m scared that I will fail to talk people down from killing themselves.
He is my beautiful, brave, loving, silly, pathetic, cowardly, loyal, protective, fabulous boy. Sometimes, I love him so much I could cry.
People were swelling with an outpouring of almost regimented grief that I felt cast to the side of; watching with a furrowed brow, scrunching up my face as I tried desperately to march in time, going red and tearful with frustration as I failed to keep step.
I have a voice that deserves to be heard, and, even if the system we work in is determined to stifle that voice, to not vote would have been to stifle my own voice. And I was going to fight against the gag kicking and screaming and biting and gouging.
Behold as she bravely dodges crushing responsibilities, traverses deadly social interaction, and finally navigates her way back, injured and bruised yet still fighting, to bask in the adoring (furry) crowds of home!
Was I destined to be super-glued to square one for the rest of my life? Am I stuck in a destiny I desperately do not want? What more can I do?
Ah, the joys of your entire future spinning on the head of a single one hour snapshot of your life.
Being laughed at for falling for a prank is different. It tells me that, no matter how hard I have tried to calcify myself and arm myself and be vigilant, I have failed. It tells me that I am ridiculous, and gullible. It tells me that no matter how hard I have worked to get it right, I am still getting it wrong.