As another Autism Awareness month is over, I’m feeling silent. Acceptance or not, I shall carry on being here. Diagnosis or not, I shall carry on being who I am. Noticed or not, I shall still be.
Wasn’t it Descartes who said, “I think as an autistic, therefore I am an autistic”? Or something like that, I may have paraphrased slightly.
I do wonder if I have a way, a lever big enough, and somewhere to stand to wield it, in order to wedge autism into the public consciousness.
Using a lever is a satisfying power. It takes so little effort when you know where to push.
What do I want? More time to think about it all. When do I want it? Now. Always now.
I am comfortable with my autism. It just is. It’s not a value, or a judgement, it’s a dull old fact of life. It’s mostly not relevant, except when it is. It’s just me.
I’m even comfortable with other people feeling uncomfortable about my autism, so long as they are coming from a good place. I have heard all the cliches, I have heard all the clumsy attempts to soften my autisticness; “I never would have guessed”, “you’re actually pretty good socially, very good in fact”, “well we’re all a bit autistic at times”.
I don’t need them. I don’t want them. I shrug them off with a grimace and a raised eyebrow.
I can hear a cuckoo calling through the open window. The evening birds are doing their nightly twittering. Reminding the world they are still here.
Perhaps I am a cuckoo, raised by sparrows who have no clue why I don’t behave the way they do. They do their best but cannot see past their sparrowyness to my cuckoo-call.
I was a kind cuckoo by the way, who didn’t rid the nest of her sparrow-siblings. Am I taking this too literally? I do that.
So as the evening draws in on a long run of warm, sunny Spring days, I wave my lady-like handkerchief at Autism Awareness.
Adieu, dearest silly-month. You never quite do what is needed, but that doesn’t mean you won’t next year.
Yours, ever-optimistically, Rhi.