An Autistic Apology to a Lover

I am sorry, lover that my Autistic eyes do not look into yours. Both my brain and my heart are two different types of brokenness that I do not know how to repair. My heart was broken once in Grade 2 and then again in Grade 10. One flushed my love note down the toilet, the other joined my enemies out of shame. My brain has been broken since the beginning, since I emerged into the world crying like the world would hear me. I learned that hiding my skin was the best form of protection, I would be safe from the piercing eyes of the world. I chose to not call attention to myself otherwise the laughter would invade my head and never leave.

I am sorry, lover if my Autistic hands are trying to stop me even though I am willing them to hold you. Your chuckles, as my maxi dress flies over my head, only make me even more nervous. Will you shudder when you see my stretch marks reach up like tree branches to the sun? Will you grimace at my thighs? I am sorry that every time I have felt heat I thought I was getting burned, I made myself cold instead to stay alive. I still question intentions even after years of therapy.

I am sorry that my Autistic body is numb to your touch, I learned that anyone who touches me wants to hurt me, shove me, point at me. I learned that my body is both sensitive and numb to the world; a war of senses. No matter how many times you praise my body, my traumatized Autistic brain does not see what you see. It can only be contrarian, arguing about not fitting into any boxes. So many Goddesses you could’ve chosen but you picked a mere defective mortal.

I am sorry lover, if my Autistic tongue cannot even utter the most erotic phrases, what escapes my lips is mumbled nonsense I heard in movies that are supposed to be my teacher. There was no one who took my words as truth but silly tales of a “sensitive heart” that needed thicker skin. The mask I wear for everyone including you is suffocating me but I must wear it to survive; I must wear it or else I am a corpse in a ditch, an object of pity. Only worthy of the lingering stares from unsympathetic voyeurs, a tragedy on the news. My story snuffed out.

I am sorry that my Autistic existence has taught me to disconnect rather than let the waves of sensation wash over me. I often confuse different types of pain for the other, pleasure does not exist. How does it exist for someone like me, my presence a pain for many? Anyone I let in my life has wanted to leave just as quickly as they came in. The decorations and knick-knacks are a terrifying sight to the outsider. Ironic, because I am the true outsider. Outside of my own body every time someone greets me, I cannot remember the names or faces of kindness because kindness is a mystery to me. They all twist into disgust once the truth is revealed.

I am sorry lover if my trauma will make you leave once you have had enough because everyone else has had enough of me. I know that I cannot make you happy because I don’t know how to make myself happy.

I am sorry, lover. I am sorry.