Poetry Break
I'm actually a little proud of this. Thinking about taking it to an open mic, because it's meant to be performed, and looks a little forlorn sitting there on the page as text. My journey to identity after my diagnosis continues to be excruciating, but this helps me get my voice back. Peace, friends.
A is for...
...Amy.
Ahhh. That
AlphAbet book in kindergArten
Where the boys
And the girls brought things in from home
ThAt stArt with the letter
"A".
It couldn't be
Apple or
AirplAne or
Anything common.
It hAd to be
AtypicAl.
It hAd to be
ActuAlized by An
ArtifAct,
A bring-to-school prop
smAll enough to lAy on A stAndArd sheet
of eight And hAlf by eleven
mAnillA
vAnillA
school-issue
bond.
Stumped.
I rAcked by brAin with my mom
And hAd no
Answers.
There wAs my nAme,
but I wAs
too lArge
for the pAper.
And I
didn't wAnt to
pArk there
until the end of school.
My mom took a photogrAph.
BAck in the dAys before digitAl.
When you hAd to tAke A whole roll
Drop it At the super mArket
WAit A week
And then hAve A picture,
KodAk Absorbing a chunk of the fAmily budget.
My mom
Adored me.
A week is
An eternity to
A 5 year old.
A lifetime.
The photo cAme and I bArely remembered whAt it wAs About,
but wAs proud to tAke it to school.
My teacher didn't under-
stAnd.
I couldn't explAin.
My words just.
Stoppered.
Up.
CAught in my head like condemned men in solitAry confinement
WAiting for
A lAst meal.
I tried.
I tried.
I tried...
She did not understAnd.
I couldn't mAke it clear.
And I didn't know how it wAs she didn't just know
whAt it wAs About.
And the picture never mAde it to the book.
It cAme bAck to me
the lAst dAy of school,
"Tell your mother thank you for sharing such a beautiful picture of you,
I'm still not sure why she sent it, but thank her for me."
Aggrieved.
Heart
Aching.
Why didn't she understAnd?
Why couldn't I help her understAnd?
It was
Another
A-word to
blAme.
ShAme. No. Not like thAt.
Not
Asshole or
Assmunch or
AsshAt.
But
A word some wish I still wouldn't
sAy.
A word some feel is just
As
Awful
As contemptAble or
nAughty or difficult to
fAce
As the n-word of mind-filth and
disgrAce.
Autism.
Let me say AgAin.
Autism.
The reason my words
fAil,
Why I
Agree with the
BAristA who Asks to put milk in my coffee
Because I cAn't
mAke the sounds to
sAy,
"No thAnk you, no cream please..."
ExActly, precisely, As she needs me to say it,
Milk pitcher
dAngling over my
cArAffe-sized cup.
The milk will mAke me sick.
But the words
won't
come
out.
I stutter.
I stAmmer.
I
Nod my head.
It's easier that
wAy.
Less
Arduous for
All.
Never mind my stomAch,
Acid reflux be dAmned
The
Attention hurts my gut worse thAn the dAiry ever will.
All because of my different wiring.
My brAin that is overwired to the
AmygdAlA.
The bit of brAin that mAkes us feel
AfrAid.
The tArAntulA spider in my nervous system's centrAl Axis.
Flight or fight.
I'm overwired for thAt.
If the
ApocAlypse does come,
Adhere to me, my friends,
I will
Already
be hidden
AwAy.
Anger surfAces,
As I come to understAnd my hurts and bruises of the pAst,
As my fAmily does not Allow the Affliction,
As my friends sAy I seem 'just fine'. OkAy by them.
Even As I fAlter, fAil, fAll lAme.
They know And love And Accept my mAsk of normAlcy.
whAtever thAt is...
As my husbAnd hears the A-word,
Autism,
And bArks
"Bunk!"
Asshole.
Someone needs to tell them
AcceptAnce stArts with A.
The beginning of my
A-word
AlphAbet:
AcceptAnce
Assures the
Attention I
Ache for.
AcceptAnce
stArts with me,
Tips the scAle on that over
Active
AmygdAlA.
AllAys my fears
As not
A pArt of
Amy, Just
An
ArtifAct
Of my neurology.
Artifice of my means to
AwAreness.
Self-AcceptAnce, though, is
vAstly inAdequAte.
All humAn AnimAls have A bAsic need for compAnionship;
AcceptAnce from Another
vAlidAtes experience,
sAys, through Action,
your struggle is AwkwArd,
And real, but
you Are okAy--
you Are not Alone.
Alone.
The solitude of un-
AcceptAnce
Bleeds me dry of
A-words,
sobbing
sobbing
sobbing
in the bAthroom
wAter chAnneling down the shower drAin,
As I Actively restrAin myself from
bAshing my hAnd into my scAlp.
No
Ally
No one to
develop the photogrAph
Of who I
Am beyond my
bArriers.
No one to
tAke thAt picture to
pAste
A 'me' into the
A-words.
It tAkes a week.
Or A year.
Or A lifetime.
An
Aeon.
To finAlly
Apprehend my own
A-word
AlphAbet.
Alone is fine.
AbAndoned is nothing new.
But Acknowledging it realisticAlly,
strips
AwAy the
Ambiguity,
And puts the
Angle of things in proper tilt,
At lAst.
Anxious, to tAckle the world on my own?
Not
At
All.
But, I will nAvigAte with cAre.
Arrive.
Absolute.
unmAsked
At lAst
And finAlly un-
Abridged.
I
Am
thAt
AmAzing.
A is for...
...Amy.
Ahhh. That
AlphAbet book in kindergArten
Where the boys
And the girls brought things in from home
ThAt stArt with the letter
"A".
It couldn't be
Apple or
AirplAne or
Anything common.
It hAd to be
AtypicAl.
It hAd to be
ActuAlized by An
ArtifAct,
A bring-to-school prop
smAll enough to lAy on A stAndArd sheet
of eight And hAlf by eleven
mAnillA
vAnillA
school-issue
bond.
Stumped.
I rAcked by brAin with my mom
And hAd no
Answers.
There wAs my nAme,
but I wAs
too lArge
for the pAper.
And I
didn't wAnt to
pArk there
until the end of school.
My mom took a photogrAph.
BAck in the dAys before digitAl.
When you hAd to tAke A whole roll
Drop it At the super mArket
WAit A week
And then hAve A picture,
KodAk Absorbing a chunk of the fAmily budget.
My mom
Adored me.
A week is
An eternity to
A 5 year old.
A lifetime.
The photo cAme and I bArely remembered whAt it wAs About,
but wAs proud to tAke it to school.
My teacher didn't under-
stAnd.
I couldn't explAin.
My words just.
Stoppered.
Up.
CAught in my head like condemned men in solitAry confinement
WAiting for
A lAst meal.
I tried.
I tried.
I tried...
She did not understAnd.
I couldn't mAke it clear.
And I didn't know how it wAs she didn't just know
whAt it wAs About.
And the picture never mAde it to the book.
It cAme bAck to me
the lAst dAy of school,
"Tell your mother thank you for sharing such a beautiful picture of you,
I'm still not sure why she sent it, but thank her for me."
Aggrieved.
Heart
Aching.
Why didn't she understAnd?
Why couldn't I help her understAnd?
It was
Another
A-word to
blAme.
ShAme. No. Not like thAt.
Not
Asshole or
Assmunch or
AsshAt.
But
A word some wish I still wouldn't
sAy.
A word some feel is just
As
Awful
As contemptAble or
nAughty or difficult to
fAce
As the n-word of mind-filth and
disgrAce.
Autism.
Let me say AgAin.
Autism.
The reason my words
fAil,
Why I
Agree with the
BAristA who Asks to put milk in my coffee
Because I cAn't
mAke the sounds to
sAy,
"No thAnk you, no cream please..."
ExActly, precisely, As she needs me to say it,
Milk pitcher
dAngling over my
cArAffe-sized cup.
The milk will mAke me sick.
But the words
won't
come
out.
I stutter.
I stAmmer.
I
Nod my head.
It's easier that
wAy.
Less
Arduous for
All.
Never mind my stomAch,
Acid reflux be dAmned
The
Attention hurts my gut worse thAn the dAiry ever will.
All because of my different wiring.
My brAin that is overwired to the
AmygdAlA.
The bit of brAin that mAkes us feel
AfrAid.
The tArAntulA spider in my nervous system's centrAl Axis.
Flight or fight.
I'm overwired for thAt.
If the
ApocAlypse does come,
Adhere to me, my friends,
I will
Already
be hidden
AwAy.
Anger surfAces,
As I come to understAnd my hurts and bruises of the pAst,
As my fAmily does not Allow the Affliction,
As my friends sAy I seem 'just fine'. OkAy by them.
Even As I fAlter, fAil, fAll lAme.
They know And love And Accept my mAsk of normAlcy.
whAtever thAt is...
As my husbAnd hears the A-word,
Autism,
And bArks
"Bunk!"
Asshole.
Someone needs to tell them
AcceptAnce stArts with A.
The beginning of my
A-word
AlphAbet:
AcceptAnce
Assures the
Attention I
Ache for.
AcceptAnce
stArts with me,
Tips the scAle on that over
Active
AmygdAlA.
AllAys my fears
As not
A pArt of
Amy, Just
An
ArtifAct
Of my neurology.
Artifice of my means to
AwAreness.
Self-AcceptAnce, though, is
vAstly inAdequAte.
All humAn AnimAls have A bAsic need for compAnionship;
AcceptAnce from Another
vAlidAtes experience,
sAys, through Action,
your struggle is AwkwArd,
And real, but
you Are okAy--
you Are not Alone.
Alone.
The solitude of un-
AcceptAnce
Bleeds me dry of
A-words,
sobbing
sobbing
sobbing
in the bAthroom
wAter chAnneling down the shower drAin,
As I Actively restrAin myself from
bAshing my hAnd into my scAlp.
No
Ally
No one to
develop the photogrAph
Of who I
Am beyond my
bArriers.
No one to
tAke thAt picture to
pAste
A 'me' into the
A-words.
It tAkes a week.
Or A year.
Or A lifetime.
An
Aeon.
To finAlly
Apprehend my own
A-word
AlphAbet.
Alone is fine.
AbAndoned is nothing new.
But Acknowledging it realisticAlly,
strips
AwAy the
Ambiguity,
And puts the
Angle of things in proper tilt,
At lAst.
Anxious, to tAckle the world on my own?
Not
At
All.
But, I will nAvigAte with cAre.
Arrive.
Absolute.
unmAsked
At lAst
And finAlly un-
Abridged.
I
Am
thAt
AmAzing.