Unwelcome Guests

I’ve welcomed in an old friend this morning, and she’s happily making herself at home. At the moment she’s lying over my chest making each breath a shallow grab.  I don’t like her, but instead of kicking her out, I’ve fed and watered her, and you know what happens when you feed someone; you make … Continue reading Unwelcome Guests

Taking or Leaving the Mask

I am a guilty masker. I’ve always masked. It’s a complex creation with different weights and different angles. Each occasion has a different variation of it, a different material, a different pattern. I have my work mask; professional, straight-backed, walking tall. She has a specific amount of makeup and specific hair. She keeps her outlandish … Continue reading Taking or Leaving the Mask

Swimming Uphill

So what’s it like spending a weekend camping at a Fringe Theatre Festival, when you’re autistic? Tiring. That’s probably the word. Tiring both physically and emotionally. I am so glad that I went, and so frustrated that I didn’t have the energy to do more, to see more, to connect more. I hadn’t been to … Continue reading Swimming Uphill

The Duck: An Autistic Play

I’m in hiding. I don’t have time to be in hiding, it’s possibly the worst thing I could be doing at the moment, and yet hiding is where I am.   I feel like I opened the floodgates because a beautiful butterfly fluttered by, and now the waters are rising and I can’t get the … Continue reading The Duck: An Autistic Play

My head hurts and it’s a good thing

I’m not a joiner. Even when I really want to do things, I find groups hard. There is always so much going on, so many variables, so many possible ambushes - small-talk, change, new social rules - that I feel overwhelmed before I begin. How I spend my cherished energy is important, it is a … Continue reading My head hurts and it’s a good thing

Beginnings

January swelled and fell with a clash of cymbals. I started the year with the flu. It was my own fault for waxing lyrical (I’ve never been able to work out a pattern for that particular saying, but I love the sound of it) about not getting ill at Christmas since my diagnosis. I invited … Continue reading Beginnings

Tomorrow the World

My hands smell of soil, they are stained and scratched, dirt embedded under my fingernails. I like to call it a gardener's manicure. I usually hate anything under my nails, sand grates and teases me terribly, but not mud. Not the evidence of a job well done. I am quiet now. After a week of … Continue reading Tomorrow the World