It's hot, the contact with the clothes starts to bother me, I feel tight, the seams seem to oppress me.
I expand them, I try to stretch them. I would like to tear them up. I take away what I can take away.
Anything. I'm starting to feel suffocated. Even my own skin starts to annoy me. Snowdrifts. The rubbing of one part of the body with the other looks like sandpaper. I start to cry, to swing, my heart seems to come out of my chest. I need peace, I don't know how to find it.
In stressful times, regardless of the climate, my hypersensoriality reaches extreme levels, I happen to be unable to tolerate my own body and this is terrible.
I would like to silence my senses, stun them. I would not be autistic.
From these thoughts comes the glimmer of light, the opportunity to focus on something else.
What was before autism?
So many times in the past years I had displayed another me. In my dreams I had been a thousand other people, a thousand other lives. None of these were awkward, dyspatrical, hypersensory, insecure or unable to interact. There was no moment in which I did not seek refuge in these fantasies so fulfilling (apparently) and safer and more controllable than that incomprehensible world.
Obviously they were of no use, if not to give a momentary joy, but that in the long run became harmful. A bit like when you eat fast food too often, with the isolated pleasure of the meal you have to take into account possible future health problems.
I didn't recognize myself in any life, I didn't belong to anything and therefore I was constantly looking for a world in which to be. Right after the diagnostic path I found my corner of belonging and that same skin that sometimes holds me tight has also become my real refuge.
If I could wipe my autism with a sponge, what would happen?
That same sensoriality that in some days devastates me, at other times it helps me to enjoy the little things. My astonishment at the details, whether it was a contact with a fabric that I liked or a perfume that I loved, left people around me speechless. For me they were big, full, joyful sensations. Exaggerated and enigmatic for others.
After awareness, I used them as an aid to communicate, making people participate in my way of perceiving my surroundings, I tried to give them new eyes to spread the culture of small joys, so mistreated in a world accustomed to thinking big.
Those fantasies of child and girl had taught me to immerse myself in the stories of others and, as for the senses, I began to involve those around me telling them. Well yes, immerse myself, who said that autistics have no empathy?
Without autism I wouldn't have done everything I've done so far. I wouldn't be able to see patterns in things, to mount videos in my mind even before doing it on the computer.
I would have a lot less problems, certainly, but also everything else would not be possible.
Without autism, perhaps I would need less to isolate myself from listening and observing nature, but I would have lost much of the wonder of creation and I could not even tell it.
Finding myself autistic, I learned even more to perceive the differences of each of us, to accept them, to celebrate them.
I learned not to be afraid of my weaknesses, to share them, not to hide the differences, but to make them a strength.
What was my prison became the anchor for my freedom.