mind of my own

Greyhound Butt

Many thoughts come to me when I am walking Lucy, or when I am in the shower, or anywhere in contact with water in a pleasant way. When my senses are engaging in amicable connectedness, my mind is more free to ponder and conjure, to wonder and to dream. Without the former, my mind labours hard, like trying to steer one’s own manually operated wheelchair uphill along a gravel path. The crunching, scraping, and friction is painful, and one has to be extremely determined to get to the other end.

Last night, in the shower, I mused on parallel themes. One was about my father, and the other was about emotional-social entrapment of autistic persons, even those considered by the neurotypical world as possessing “high IQ” (whatever that may mean, since it means so many things and yet nothing at all). I have too often had people tell me, when I try to relate to them a portion of my life’s journey, “How could you, such an intelligent and confident person, have really been living in the kind of mental-emotional prison as you claim?” The variations abound, but it is the same thematic material, and they say it sometimes nicely, other times scornfully, but always somewhat disbelieving, critical and even on the edge of mockery.

Short of trying to deliver a lengthy lecture on the features of Autism Spectrum Condition, which these people would not listen to anyway, I try to brush it aside and say things that I think would be easier for them to understand, or merely just gibberish to fill in the blank spaces between us until the interaction comes to an end. I put it down to an innate naiveté, and even if it doesn’t satisfy them, it usually suffices, until I can disengage. Then I make a mental note not to attempt conversation of similar depth and velocity with the person again. Sometimes, through no fault of theirs, some neurotypicals will never have the elasticity of mind to enter into a realm so sharply different from their own, and I shall have to learn to desist from attempting to drive my ideas across – perhaps, like those unable to discern colours, my world is just too kaleidoscopic for these?

It is hard to explain, isn’t it? Someone mentioned Stockholm Syndrome, in another context, but in some ways, the two do have similarities that overlap and mirror each other. Perhaps it is easier to understand Stockholm Syndrome, than autism or Asperger’s?

Then, I realised the shower routine was complete, and it was time for me to step outside the steamy glass cubicle. Lucy was waiting in bed for me. I had been tardy, and she was rebelling against my having contravened our convention. She had placed her heavy Greyhound butt on my pillow, and stolidly refused to move aside for me, so I was relegated to the edge of the bed, until such a time when she decides to shift positions. I chuckled, and duly complied, taking my ‘punishment’ with a loving doting smile. I know, this is no despotism, unlike the life I lived before with humans who claimed they did what they did to me out of care and concern for me. Lucy has not concept of entrapment. She is just a being reacting on the level of sharpened senses and primal instinct. To me, it is a love that transcends that of the human variety. I crawled into bed obediently, and fell asleep in an awkward position, with a smile on my face and my arm on her warm, velvet silken butt!

Mind of my own

I obeyed for years

Your tacit instruction

Your fluid morality

Your religious frigidity

I adopted

Your perspectives

Encrusted within

Brittle plastic layers

Never comfortable

Never free

Yet, I agreed

Wore them on me.

People ask,

“Don’t you have

A mind of your own?”

I agree and then I don’t

Yes, I have

A mind

A unique one indeed

But I was told

It wasn’t good

It was black as night

Deep and cold

Servant of evil

As Hell as Hell can be

And you said

I must adorn myself


With your canopies

And so

I wore them





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