— Kat (@Ask_anAspergirl) August 18, 2015
I resist its presence — covering my head, resenting the blackout curtains for doing such a poor job. I hide from a day approaching — resisting its start until the alarm.
This was before. I don’t know if I’ve reached an after, but I’m trying. Coming to a place of steadying myself, as I hear the voices of those who prop me up — give me copies of their own well-worn encouragers. An okay to follow the uncertainty of not yet, a newly arranged furniture set, an office setting filled with my words, my worries — created ideas of what I wish was — where I travel to in my mind of days far too long.
But she says I’m doing better — I’m relieved and surprised — in the lighted windowbox where my truths are spoken, there is pain and memory. Of what has been for far too long. A grief of familial origins — of not feeling safe until these steadying years. To realize this has been a coordinated effort, I feel cared for, loved, mothered — feels strange to say that in this created space — outside the piece of theatre, one act at a time– where I am forced to sustain myself.
Under these lights, I am home. Cared for, caring — as I sink just a little deeper into the couch, tangle between my fingers, I plan for thriving, to explain the hurt I cannot name aloud until now — but so many sentences I have written.
Urged along by my fellow women autists, artists, writers, creators of this space that is hyperreal and just close enough. Lights travel through fiber optic cables, bounce off cell towers, and bring me home. We listen, creating space for us, for me.
She pencils me in for a week from today — I sink into the couch outside — not yet ready to leave this sacred space — to push myself into the blaring sun. A wooden box is clasped between my fingers. I slow myself, only to rock back and forth, ever so slightly in my seat as I type and plan and live here. Being for a while.
There is safety in not yet — a list made — a listening ear to tell me when you know — when you have — because I believe you . Managing is hard to describe, thriving even more, but witnesses were here. To see, to describe, to be in this place.
“Known and loved because of, not in spite of” — into echolalic time and space — into place unknown. There I am — as words I know well enough leap from my mouth, as I tell you who I’ve been, unknown audience, because this is me — stripped of context or motivation. But my passion remains.
In subtext of women like me, as I avoid these pronoun shifts, but my fingers dance and my voice races, knowing my tablet could be my voice, if my words escape me. To assist; to augment, but I will remain here in this place.
Fitting, belonging, exactly as I am — all of me being myself, cloaked in a cape of words.