Reason for not writing,
Nothing interesting to say?
Feeling too depressed?
Wont make the space?
Starting not finishing.

Projects not finished,
The other side of the back hedge,
The side of the font hedge,
The azalea to be planted,
The clematis to be planted,

Projects that will never be finished,
Weeding the garden,
Cutting the grass,
Tidying the house,
Putting clothes away,
Walking the dog.

Things that need routine,
Everything!
But why can’t I create one?
What goes wrong?
Is this my form of autism?
Why do I get bored?

No late diagnosis group today,
That’s why it feels different,
More time, more space,
To think.

It’s my in-group,
We are all autistic,
But why do I still feel different?
Why do I have problem accessing emotions,
When they have problems containing them?
Why are they so organised,
When I constantly fail to be prepared,
Should I even try?

Dog demanding attention,
Well hardly demanding,
Sitting staring at me,
Wagging his tail,
And hitting my coat,
It’s too much when I am trying to write,
“Bobby stop it!”
And he does,
Stops wagging his tail,
And moves out of my sight under the table,
But why be annoyed with him?
When all he wants is some food,
The one creature that gives me,
Boundless attention and enthusiasm,
What I choose to call love.

The dog is eating now,
The noise will pass soon enough.

I sigh,
Why is it so hard for me to feel?
Why do I feel so much anxiety?
And why does that so often come out at anger?

I went to a Uni open day last week,
The one I went to as a graduate,
I found myself being chatty, being playful,
Not caring about the crowd’s silence mentality,
Speaking comments out loud,
Generally showing appreciation for what we saw,
Not afraid to be out front,
And it occurred to me that I was happy,
It feels like I’m a bit manic,
A bit out of control,
Speaking quickly,
Sparking with thoughts,
But half way through the history lecture,
It left me,
And I drifted off,
Into the mists of the disconnected,
Weary and needing to sleep,
To recharge the brain.

I wonder if I deliberately suppress my emotions?
Is that possible to exert such control?
I suspect I do,
It was a reaction to my environment as a child,
The safest course was to show nothing,
And it’s easiest to show nothing,
If you feel nothing,
I think the clues are in the flashes of happiness,
The empathic reaction when others are upset,
The soppy films I like to watch because I cry,
The songs I love to sing,
The sections in books that generate awe or cause me to laugh,
I feel something.

I feel something,
But I don’t know what it means,
It is distinct in some way,
But so foreign to me,
Does this mean I could learn to not filter so much?
Like Data,
Have the ability to switch on and off my emotion chip?
Or is the base fear,
That I won’t be able to turn off the emotions,
Once I left them out?
Will they destroy me?

A sparrow is taking a shallow bath,
In the pool of water,
That has formed on our garden table,
It is wary I think,
But splashes around,
Flapping her wings at high speed,
I wonder how she does that,
Without taking off?
Is it something they learn from their parents?

 

 

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