Two autistic people moving, with very different stories and lives: one with a whole family of neurodivergent folks and one moving from a shared support home to an independent house.
I’ve always felt that I am biding my time. When I say “I’ve always felt”, I mean as far back as I can remember. Like the things I was seeing and experiencing in my life were not the whole shebang. There was another place I was living and operating . . . almost.
…the holiday season where “everyone” tells you you’re fine and your kids are fine and EVERYTHING is fine – when they wouldn’t know fine if it bit them in the jingle bells. . . and because you are who and how you are, you know they are lying.
“I was wondering . . . if I have kids, will they be autistic?”
But now, the show is over and I am numb. The house music is turned up and my brain gathers the scraps of energy to focus enough to tear down my equipment, pack it up, and haul it out. Oh, wait. Where did I park?
These wonderings are a mixed bag of so many thoughts, but a person’s neurological context matters. It is certainly a thing to wonder about, or if you’re me, pick apart and analyze and evaluate and solve the puzzle that is my brain, my pain, and my relationships.