More Than My Diagnosis

I am more than my diagnosis

But I still don’t know how to act
In a crowded room
When surrounded by others
And those voices of the people around me
Gather in my ear
Like unending dynamite.

Explosions that just don’t stop.
They talk at me,
And I smile through the bombing,
But I don’t know what to say.
So I sit on a couch in the corner
And try to say nothing,
Because every word I say,
I know will be wrong.

Keep on the mask,
I tell myself,
Not knowing how to hold it in place
As the swelling of sound overwhelms me,
And I no longer hear the people around me,
Just the roaring in my ears,
Making me want to rock,
Self-soothe,
But I can’t,
Because that would mean
My mask
Comes loose.

I am more than my diagnosis.

But I hate the texture of the shirt I hold.
The feeling of the cloth is too much.
It scratches at my skin,
But I have to charge for it
And put it in the bag,
Trying not to throw it in there
And touching it as little
As possible.

“Bad texture,”
The words escape my lips,
A tick,
And they frown at me,
Questioning what I’ve said.

“Sorry, I have autism.”
The next words out of my mouth
Are an explanation I shouldn’t have to give,
But my mask has slipped.
“I’m texture sensitive.”
I overshare,
As I always do,
Saying the wrong thing,
Standing at the checkout,
Wishing I knew
What the right thing is to say.

It isn’t just the fabric of a shirt
Or the texture of the sheets on my bed.

It’s the food I eat
And the water I drink,
Which is the only drink I fill with ice.
The texture of the ice
In lemonade
Is bad.

Why is it bad?
I don’t know,
And I can’t explain it,
Because there’s no explanation
Unless you too know what it’s like,
Unless you’re on the spectrum too.

I am more than my diagnosis.

But when the news is bad,
Or something I don’t want to hear,
Or don’t understand,
I don’t hear it.
I shut down,
No longer able to speak,
But able to cry,
As I sit on the floor
Mid-tantrum
At 34 years old,
Because I just don’t understand anymore,
Wearing no mask at all.

Because the texture of the mask
Is too much for me.
Please try to understand
My neurodivergent brain
Doesn’t work like yours.
And while you may not understand
Why I do the things I do,
Say the things I say,

Please remember:

I am more than my diagnosis