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My mum says I’m special.

November 20, 2013

Actually. No. My mum says I’m special, but not “special.”

Tonight while the folks were visiting for dinner, she asked me what I was wearing out tonight when I finally venture to leave.

“This,” I said, referring to my corduroy patchwork shorts, black leggings, purple snow boots and the ten year old sweatshirt I was busily trying to sew up. “I tried a sweater, but it didn’t really match, so I’m sewing the sweatshirt up instead. Oh, and I’ll wear my black and gold skull scarf, of course.” God forbid I wear a jacket when it gets cold.

“Honey, a sweater’s not going to match because nothing you’re wearing matches at all,” she said with a grin. I’m aware of this, of course. I am most definitely wearing snow boots where there is NO snow. Here’s the thing – I just do NOT give a fuck. My mum then regaled me with tales of her futile hope that when I got my first tax-paying “real” job at 15 that I would learn how to dress like everyone else at work. Instead, I continued to dress as I saw fit – that is, work appropriate, but still just whatever I threw together. Orange plaid pants, olive green cardigan, and Docs? Sure. Apparently, my coworkers delighted in waiting to see what I’d wear next.

I don’t remember my clothing choices being so loud, but I don’t doubt my mum’s memory. “Was I always like that?” I asked her.

“Always,” she told me. She said it with one firm nod.

“Hmmm… Mum, am I autistic?” I ask her bluntly.

She laughs. “No, why?”

“Because last week I decided that I was autistic or at least on the spectrum and that you’re not telling me because you figure since I’m coping and doing alright, my knowledge of it wasn’t need-to-know.”

She laughed and hugged me. “Honey, you’re not autistic. You are funny. You are smart. You are fiercely independent, and you are firm in your convictions. People just don’t always get that.”

Hugging her back, I replied with simply, “Hmmm…”

Because in my eyes, I have none of the traits she suggested. I just know that I don’t understand people, or that I do understand a few people rarely. Showing her the painting that I’m giving to MTIA, I asked,  “Is it good?”

“It’s beautiful,” she breathed.

I scowled. self-doubt creeping in. “But it’s some lines and color. Anyone could do it.” She assured me that such is not the case. I’m worried that I’m going to drag this painting and mix CD into the bar where MTIA works to surprise him and that he’s going to hate it. Or, equally as bad, not care at all. I have nothing I can give him more than my own art, and the songs that drive me to create and to keep pushing, keep surviving, even when it’s all gone shithouse.

This is the strongest bet I’ve got in the hand of cards I’m holding. If it doesn’t help, there is NOTHING I can do. Maybe I don’t need to do anything, but as a fixer, sitting back and resting is not exactly my modus operandi.Why can’t some of my empathy skills be to let others feel what I’m feeling? Why do I just have to take it all on, good or bad or ugly? If I could just pass along a beat of the happiness and joy I feel around MTIA, it could change everything. Ideally, he’d realize how much I love like him, and we’d spend the rest of our lives together, but at the very least, I want him to be able to feel happiness again, remember that he didn’t just dream it. Maybe if I focus my energy enough, maybe…

Jesus. Am I actually losing my mind now? I’m like, “I’m going to telepathically send you some happy.” I decided I was autistic and that my parents have been engaged in hiding their knowledge for decades. I’m starting to think that at least some part of me desperately wants to go off the deep end.

Gotta run. Finish later. Post Painting Presentation.

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From → fiction, rants

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