I'm going to be blunt with you

You’re nine years old and your mother is crying in a doctor’s office

At the top of a tower that must be in the clouds

She’s not sad, she says (insists)

But why would she cry if she’s not?

It doesn’t bother you much

It bothers you that she says you only have two friends

When actually you have three

And you don’t know how to talk to them

You go back to school, tell your two friends

(because the third is only six)

That you went to see the doctor for your head

And that you’re actually, medically mad

And all in all?

You’re rather pleased about it

You’re twelve years old and you’re sitting in the school library

Feeling very grown up

And your new friend is holding a medical journal

Heavy as a brick

You don’t understand yet that this is weird

What you do know is weird, though, is you.

And you say

“I can look myself up”

Because nobody’s told you anything more than “special” and “different”

You’ve had to call yourself weird to fill in the gaps

And the book tells you about yourself

The book says, “severely emotionally disturbed”

And you can’t help but laugh

You’re twenty one and so much has happened

your mum thinks that maybe the doctor got it wrong

But you both know that’s not true

And people say to you,

“Wow I couldn’t even tell!”

As if it’s a compliment

And you’re standing in the kitchen with your friend

Talking about school (how terrible it was)

And she says

“It wasn’t exactly a well kept secret”

And you’re hurt that she thought it was a secret at all

You’re twenty one and you’re sitting in a room full of people

Spilling their hearts out

And you think to yourself

“I’ve never heard a poem about autism”