The Forgotten End of Autism

After doing a reading of a set of poems I'd written first as a journal entry and then decided I wanted to share, I received a lot of interest in this particular poem. A few people have asked if they could read it independently of myself. I'm just going to leave it here for anyone that wishes to read it; I assure you it's much better read aloud.

Thank you so much for all of your love and support xx

--

i’m falling in love with my therapist (hard)

My mind is my home, he says.

If I could control it, I’d have black marble countertops

And an island in the kitchen.

I’d wrap fairy lights gently around the white bannisters

And hang pictures on every wall

The windows would be open in any weather.

I’d scrub it clean at least once a week

I’d pay the rent on time and give the landlord Christmas gifts.

You can’t control everything, he says,

Which explains why I blame myself

when something goes wrong.

I apologise profusely when others damage my home.

“They’ve made you that way,” and he notes

the way I let every little stone smash my windows.

The only way to make it is to fill your home, he says.

Fill it with what? I ask, because I could fill rooms

With empty promises and disappointed stares

A swimming pool of tears to add a bit of luxury?

“I don’t love you like that”s could fill the pantry

But never my aching belly

Fill it with happiness, he whispers gently.

If happiness makes a home

Then this is a house raid:

Anxiety is the police and depression is the bailiffs

They ransack and accuse and leave my home a shell

Wallpaper peeling and yellowing, rug upturned

To expose the hardwood floor below.

I sit alone in this house,

But on those days I see him I sit on a plush chair

And though the rain beats staccato off the shaking windows

And I haven’t paid the rent in months,

He lets a little bit of sunshine through the streaky glass

By letting me know that he’s here for me.

Little by little, I open the windows

And let my negativity pour onto the browning lawn

It falls like liquid, waters the turf;

Lets the world know that I’m sad and I am hurt.

He banishes cobwebs from each corner

With excitement for my future

And scrubs the dampness from the walls

In an epic monologue about a girl

Who has changed the lives of so many.

None of my neighbours visit, I say dully.

I have nobody.

“Aha.” He leans forward, “That’s because

from the outside, your house is yellow

just like theirs. Your picket fence is white

and gleaming; you fall in line with them.

Show them your disarray, and they will

Help you to clean.”

He has opened my front door;

Friends and family look out for me.

Slowly we will lift the broken glass

And paint the bannisters white instead of that awful brown.

We’ll refit the doors and mow the lawn

I’ll empty that room with the “I don’t love you”’s

And fill it with words of kindness –

I’ll paint the walls with them.

Today, my house is a wreck

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow, he says, that’s the day

He’ll tell me how much he loves me and I’ll say it back.

He is helping me mend my home,

Of course I love him.

--

I wrote this poem to highlight the importance of the journey of healing. It is by no means easy, but I refuse to give up now, as should you! To those who are feeling like this at the moment but are too afraid to reach out: look after your own home. We only get one in this lifetime. Thank you to the wonderful man who inspired this poem: your infinite support at this time in my life is more than I could ever have imagined.

Resources

www.mind.org

www.sane.org

www.rethink.org

For my men: https://www.thecalmzone.net/