I would say I love you, but I don’t like to write about what doesn’t exist. Unless it’s from my favourite show, and then I could write about it all day, all week even, as long as it takes for a lover to get tired of me. You are part of my routine: waking up, cycling through the same small prayers, waiting outside the biology room. Deficits abound in my capacity for connection: I exhibit an extreme lack of attention, or an excess of it—do you remember the time I was exchanging pleasantries with a tall sweet girl and you were pacing in circles down the hall as I tried to conclude the conversation? Perhaps neither of us understand social status. I read a medical journal, then told you about it, and you assumed I was psychoanalysing you, but I couldn’t think of anything more romantic than gathering facts. Birthdays. Jersey numbers. Hobbies. I may not remember all the values, but I can see the colours. Another observation the doctor made was that my interests are restricted. It makes sense in hindsight. Three years. The same sorrows, the same fears. I have few notions of the middle ground; I either devote myself or dismiss the offering. What can I say? I prefer what’s familiar: the sting of carbonated drinks on my tongue, the first lines of a Jane Austen novel, the sight of dull yellow subtitles flashing across the screen. Someone told me I could get home faster if I took a different bus, but that’s only for emergencies or I’ll hyperventilate all the way. Small wonder I haven’t gotten over you. It keeps life consistent. Did I tell you they wanted to keep me at the office? When I went for the diagnosis? The doctor told me: you are a textbook case, stay here for further study, you repeat your behaviour, you do not understand social interaction, you fixate on oddities, you repeat your behaviour, you ritualize your speech, you flap your hands, you repeat your behaviour, you don’t read subtext unless it’s between the lines of a book. He showed me his chart, and I ran my finger down the glossy paper—once, so I could follow what I was reading, twice, because the paper felt nice, and thrice because I caught a clause. I said, lack of interest in peers, and I smiled at the doctor. Not a textbook case. He took his clipboard back with a sigh, and he said, you can be autistic and still love someone. You can be anything and love someone.
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"I couldn't think of anything more romantic than gathering facts." made me feel So Much because you managed to articulate something that resonates with me on such a profound level and I thank you for that. The thing about your writing is... yes you're talented, but you're also so magically thoughtful in your foundings. Every ounce of talent is accompanied with knowledge and I enjoy that immensely. Thank you for being you and sharing these stories in a way that only you can! 💖
i saw your poem on tumblr and it really affected me! especially when i got to the last line, that’s what really made me tear up. and also being autistic, it was extremely relatable. you’re a great writer! and you encompassed how it feels to be autistic (and also in love…) really well. this is the perfect sentiment for the season (valentine’s day). it even inspired me to write my own little poem today. so thanks! it’s rare that i get to see any poetry on tumblr so it’s a real treat whenever it happens. it’s one of my favorite creative mediums. i’m looking forward to reading more from you.