The Autistic Experience

Broken, barren, fallen, time holds no space for those who are different.

Being autistic has been a string of experiences attached to threads of torture. It was never meant to be such, our wheel spun us so we can spread beauty through our divergence. But time has long opposed us, we are threads of colors disdained and unwanted. Our delicate coarse threads don’t mix with either of fabrics. Growing up the difference has built rejection sensitivity dysphoria in us, and we strive all our lives to be more accepted by others. We forget who we were meant to be and now we are impure versions of our reality incapable of fitting in theirs as well.

It takes a single reminder of our divergence, and we are set back years of recovery. I am good enough and no matter the difference life is beautiful. Masks that I hide my insecurities behind, don’t work for me anymore. I have always observed the human experiences and tried to mimic them as to be part of them, wanting to be integrated in the collective. Alas you cannot make a foundation from rocks that are unevenly shaped. We are always on the outskirts, watching walls build around us, unions of those who are alike.

The curse of meeting other neurodivergent people is that we all are so apart from our divergence that we frown on what we share and no longer recognize one another, since we have masked differently. We still try to find love and companionship and in the absence of it sit in the silence of our cries.