Everyone is a 'little bit' autistic.
No. They. Are. Not.
He enters the front door, steps aside and closes the door, shuffling off his shoes. As he slides out of his shoes and shrugs out of his too-big coat he begins speaking of his day. He sets his lunch box on the kitchen counter and re-enters the living room, his voice never pausing. My ears throb. With each syllable of each word the ear drum beats the rhythm of a song that I do not want to hear. I can't focus on those words and I grow more and more angry, wanting the pulsing in my head to simply end. I close my eyes to try to block it out. I shake my head side to side and slap my ear when he's not looking. I start screaming in my head and if I don't leave the room soon everyone else will hear the same screaming.
This is my life. Does it sound like yours?
Her arms reach out for me, unnoticed by her I shrink my chest back, turning my face away a little but moving forward and obliging. I didn't want to be rude. Nerves jump in my stomach at the expectation of what I know comes, as it comes every time. My stomach turns from the touch as it does with every touch. I can still feel the weight of the arms hours later as they pulled me closer for that brief time. I still feel sick, hours later.
This is my life. Does it sound like yours?
I never did like family holiday parties. The food table is neatly lined with platters of special holiday fare-the texture and smell of most I prefer to avoid. After dinner the men watch TV while the women clean the dishes in the kitchen. There's expectations. And I am lazy. Girls these days are so lazy. I sit with the men and don't talk the remainder of the evening if I can avoid it. The passive-aggressive comments are far more desirable to the embarrassment of my uncontrollable retching as I react to those smells and textures.
This is my life. Does it sound like yours?
But they get it, they sooooo get it now. You see, they can read all about autism. So of course they understand now.
After all, everyone is a little bit autistic.
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