a blog by an autistic adult

Dandelions are more yellow than I remember them last year

When it’s all I can do to wake up
and face a daylight that suffocates me
and face a world I know doesn’t want me
and face a face that is my own but I don’t recognize
why I don’t feel like facing anything because I can’t
differentiate feelings like that anymore
and so I go to get help
because the world says I need it and I’ve tried
all the alternatives, tried the diets
taken the pills, drenched myself in oils
chanted under the moonlight, prayed
read every self-help book and memorized
the words but don’t understand
how they’re supposed to help me
and I know, deep down, I know
as I walk the two miles to
this next helpful place
that it will just be another building
I later won’t be able to differentiate
from the next one and I know
the helpful person there won’t know
any better than the last one
any better than I do
how to help me
but will try
by saying things like trust me
you’re probably not autistic
you’re probably just depressed
you’re probably just bipolar
here take these pills you can’t afford
even though you said you tried them
and almost died you’re probably wrong
because that can’t happen, really
or you’re probably just confused
about your gender because autism
and if you think you want help
you will need money and approval
and other things you don’t have but
don’t let that stop you
because there are people that can help
people like you but first
you’ll probably need other help
and you’ll probably want to pray about it
and we’ll probably need to talk to your family
to evaluate if you’re really who you say you are
and we’ll probably need to refer you to a place
that’s too far to walk to
that’s too expensive for you to pay for
that’s too booked up with
the right kind of people.
And so, these are the things I think about
while I’m walking
to the helpful place
and I think
I walked around this block already but
I can’t be sure because this tree
looks a lot like that one and now
I have to sit down because my legs
can’t leg anymore
and I want to go home
where my bed is
but where am I?
and the daylight is stealing my last breath
and the wind is trying to kill me
and I just don’t know anymore
if I can find my way home
or if I got there
what I would do
so I stay here a while
on the side of the road
where the grass is and think
dandelions are more yellow
than I remember them last year
and they look a little like lions actually
and I remember as a kid
being thrown into the field
of dandelions behind
the elementary school
and the kids were laughing
and the teachers were laughing
and no one knew
I wasn’t laughing
because I was happy
but because I thought laughing
was what I was supposed to do
and no one helped me
and now a man is here
with a flashing light shining it
at my face and saying
something about my hands and
I hear screaming and
he tells me the scream is mine
and I’m lucky this time
because I’m white
and small
and semi-safe looking
so I’m still alive
and the policeman
is only going to help me
and he says he’s going to drive me home
this time
and I get there
and he asks me
if I have someone to help me
and I say yes because sometimes
the truth is more harmful than a lie
and I promise to be okay because
that’s what I’ve been doing my whole life
and I tell myself I’m fine
I’m lucky
I’m safe
I’m alive
and one day
it will be like the books say
about how if you say it
to yourself enough
you will believe it
I. am. fine.
I. am. fine.
I. am. fine.

[dandelions at the side of the road stock photo from]

[dandelions at the side of the road stock photo from]

1 Comment

  1. Finally someone understands. They thought I was bipolar, depressed, even gender issues all this other “crazy”. The therapists don’t ever get it. And they think when I tell them how I was also abused which made it worse that I’m probably lying or have some disturbing fetish fantasies. When really all I want is a normal life. How nice it must be to be a normal person. A person that is able to have normalcy. Like other people. The ones that I look like, but are not like my insides. My insides feel like a computer that has a chip that is speaking a language that the reader doesn’t understand.

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