Is my autism showing?
I feel like it is.
But unfortunately it doesn’t fit
In my shirt or jeans.
It just spills out uncontrollably
Like a nosebleed when you get nervous,
That happens to other people, right?
The tension builds up in your head,
And the pressure becomes too intense
And then it doesn’t know how to come out
Except as a volcanic eruption of red and mucus and-
I’m sorry you don’t want to hear about that
Sometimes I don’t know
What it’s appropriate to say or when.
And every now and then
Surrealist and existential garbage
Falls out my mouth like
Teeth in a bad dream,
A non-stop avalanche of confused and contrived
Word-like noises that have some semblance
Of an order that
Hopefully makes sense.
When you put white light through a prism,
It creates and exposes all the colours
On the visible spectrum.
Autism exists in this spectrum.
It might not be obvious
You might not see it
And maybe that’s because you’re colourblind
Or more likely
You don’t know what it looks like.
So it merges into the tail-end of
Indigo-violet, near invisible to you because
We’re not on the same wavelength.
But I see it all the time,
Like a near ultraviolet ghost
Using me as a host
And others like me.
Pretending to be a cape,
Letting me pretend to be a superhero
As if somehow I have superpowers.
Sometimes, I don’t really understand
Anything at all.
We all have a brain that’s bespoke
But I’ve got some manufacturing defects.
I’m wired like a sentient bomb
Too afraid to go off because
I don’t know what I’ll do.
I make and mix up my
Metaphors and malaphors
And I use the same lines and similes
Like a man who can
Make and mix up his
Metaphors and malaphors
Because I like patterns,
I see the patterns in daily life and
Have a carefully constructed routine,
Making my life on an assembly line,
Staying consistent and clichéd.
But it’s a losing battle,
This is an ever changing world
And things break and evolve and devolve
And I can’t prepare for that.
My mental preparation is effectively
To stay in a constant state of anxiety,
Living in a permanent panic attack,
Staying on edge with a brain that’s ready to crack,
Taking beta-blockers and antidepressants
To hide the frustration and confusion
And stop the compulsion to do something
Stupid.
But everything I do
Is stupid,
I’m clumsy and wrestle
And tumble and stumble
Over things like a
Drunk in a dark room
Hallucinating that it’s a minefield,
Falling over shadows and shapes
That aren’t actually there,
Hitting my head on walls and my hands
As they flail like a fish out of water
Clutching for something
Or someone to lean on because
I’ve needed additional support all my life.
School work assistance
Not because I didn’t know what I was doing
But because I didn’t know how to
Verbalise it.
Or even write it down.
I couldn’t hold a pencil and write until I was ten.
Because my brain wouldn’t work that
Because my hands couldn’t comprehend
How to work a piece of wood and lead
Because I’m stupid.
And everything I do
Is stupid.
I keep a firm grip on my childhood
Because it’s a coping mechanism.
Unchanging and consistent,
Using stories and Disney movies
As a hoping mechanism,
Playing Yu-Gi-Oh cards by myself
Because it’s a safe way to fight my demons
Because it just makes sense.
I don’t expect you to understand.
But I grew feeling different,
And these were the things I could relate to,
These are the things that let me feel normal.
Because there was so much that didn’t.
I am not stupid,
The occupational therapist told me
I am not stupid.
That my brain is special,
It’s like having a superpower.
But my brain is supposed to have a superpower,
Then I will play at being the superhero.
Like a pseudo-savant
Playing words and emotions
Like I’m playing piano
Hitting all the right notes,
Solving problems and curious incidents
Like a synth pop Sherlock,
I’ve spent eighteen years
Fighting my lack of confidence
And lack of coordination
With elaborate orchestrations.
Playing viola and violin,
Piano and organ,
Ukulele and accordion,
Banjo, guitar, saxophone,
Drums, harp and computers,
And words.
Going from page to stage,
Performing as another person,
Playing pretend until I became able to
Play myself.
That may have came out wrong.
But as I try to tell you my story,
I’ll be brutally honest as I wrestle
And tumble and stumble with my words
As I become more and more exposed
As I realise it’s becoming too real
And I start to panic and become manic
And words start to fall out my mouth
Like teeth in a bad dream
And my nose starts to bleed and
I don’t know anymore.
How can something invisible
Make me feel so exposed?
I hate change but it’s all I want for me
So, when I ask if my autism is showing,
It’s because it feels as obvious as
A part of glasses or a broken leg,
A debilitating disability
Dressing as a superhero
But the cape’s staplegunned to my shoulders.
I never wanted this.
Question from yesterday’s poem.
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 