The Fiction Inside My Head by P.

(Note: For many people on the spectrum, writing is a release. This is a piece by an Autistic adult who is trying to find their words again.)

Do you know what I really hate? More than people who start a conversation with a question, I mean. What I wanted to say was, do you know what I could go my entire life without ever hearing again? “But you don’t look like you are____.”

Usually, the blank is filled with whatever label people need to put on me. Lets face it, I am covered in them, but it’s when they are used against me that I really do not like it. It is not my fault that I am the way I am (unless you believe in predestination and sacred contracts, in which case I guess it IS my fault).

I know that, according to many people, I am in control of how I react to people and my immediate environment, but something you must understand is that there are times when it is impossible for me to be in control. All it takes is too much of something, like too much noise or light, and the switch gets thrown and I am out of control. I go off and it can take me a long time to come back. Sometimes it is minutes, occasionally hours, and once in a while it is a day or more.

I do not choose what level something will hit before I go. I have been set off by something as simple as the hum from an electrical panel, which most people do not even hear. I hear it, and feel it, and sometimes I can even smell it if there is enough humidity in the air. Before you say, “Whack job!’, let me step in and stop you. I am not a whack job, I am autistic. I have Asperger syndrome, to be more specific. It is a part of me, like my eyes and heart and limbs. I cannot make it go away, even if I REALLY want it to. I have fought my entire life to appear normal, just like everyone else, but I have reached the point where I do not want to do it anymore.

People know I am different after spending a few minutes with me, so why expend energy on trying to blend in? I want to write, but I have such a mental block against writing that I find it nearly impossible to write any of the stories in my head. Do you know why? Because someone read my stories and held them against me. Or at least a part of my stories, anyway. I feel that my stories were what brought unwanted attention on me, and I was so harmed by the attention that I could not write anymore. So for the last 8 years, I have had these stories backing up in my system, like a bilge water. I truly believe that this is the reason for my lack of release. I don’t know, maybe release isn’t the ideal word, but it is the most descriptive.

So I struggle with the truth about me and the fiction inside of my head, and never the two shall meet, because I have had writing terrorized out of me, It sucks. What do I do?

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