Monday, November 18, 2013

This is autism flash blog - Monday, 18 November 2013

Written by and originally posted at Cosmic Autist

I Am Autistic.

Being autistic in my world means forgetting how to make friends in the seventh grade.

It means sleeping in the living room during the winter because the sound of the thermostat is so irritating.

It means falling in love with a topic.

It means being overjoyed when you FINALLY find the story of someone who THINKS LIKE YOU and becoming an expert on this new idol of yours.

It means being jealous of your neurotypical little sister because she doesn’t have to go to what you call “optional therapy”.

It means telling your mother for the next decade that sending you to said therapy was a waste of her money.

It means feeling attacked when someone you admire is attacked.

It means trying to go vegetarian at age ten or so and having your parents think you were just being a “picky eater” like usual.

It means not knowing how to explain that you didn’t eat dinner yesterday even though you were hungry, because you can’t stand the texture of baked potato skin.

It means dreading December during high school because everyone was required to participate in Secret Santa and make our gifts ourselves, and you never have a clue what to make for your person.

It means understanding your cat’s body language better than you understand your sister’s.

It means not knowing how to flirt with a guy until college despite desperately wanting a boyfriend since tenth grade.

It means forgetting to eat lunch because you were so busy reading about synesthesia.

It means having a meltdown in sixth grade because your teacher thinks she can force you to get along with the girl who picks on you.

It means appreciating your elementary school PE teacher long after elementary school for picking the teams himself during class so people like you wouldn’t get picked last.

It means never having stage fright or test anxiety but being terrified to drive or cook.

It means grieving your Pokemon Crystal game after twelve years when the battery finally dies.

It means waffling about whether you should tell the rest of your improvisational acting class that you are autistic.

It means secretly copyediting Wikipedia at the age of sixteen.

It means playing the same minigames on Microsoft Encarta every time you used it as a kid.

It means playing your sister’s copy of JumpStart Second Grade years after you finished second grade yourself.

This is me.

This is autism.

Your mileage may vary. It probably will.

But autism is not the enemy. Ableism is the enemy.

Cure ableism.

Cure epilepsy.

Don’t cure us. We won’t let it happen.

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