autistic-disabled-poet

[autistic-disabled-poet]

Gone In an Instant (tw - death)

“I’m so sorry.” That’s what you hear after a death. Why are you sorry? Does Death loom over, forcing you to apologize?

“Oh no.” That’s what my grandma said. I knew it was Rusty, the old man with Parkinsons and dementia. He was dead.

Death stared at me with a smirk. Right after losing a competition, Death swooped in, taking one of my best friends with him.

“Ivan, come up here!”  My grandma called frantically. Pascal, the uromastyx, laid flat in his tank. Dead. I held back my tears. 

Death wasn't in the house. After all, he was just a lizard. Death peered through the trees, watching me bury my lizard and loath him.

“Help me! Help me!” My papa cried out from his chair one night. I ran down the stairs, grabbed his morphine. He sat there, oxygen of 78, hands on his knees gasping.

He didn’t die,  although he doesn’t deserve to sit in this pain. When he’s gone, our lives won’t really be the same.

Death pops in every now and again, just to say “hello.” Somehow, every single time, he is gone in an instant.

We sit in terror, wondering if he is serious this time. When Death truly comes, his victim will follow, gone forever.

[autistic-disabled-poet]

The Crow

I sit in silence staring out the window hoping for guidance my head remains in limbo

the clouds hang low dark as ash the fog creeps in so slow in the sky there is a flash

I hear a crow far away, with a grating cry  that chills my bones without delay. The sight makes me shiver as I wonder why. Why do you circle my house that way?

The fog creeps closer, closer, closer My thoughts race. Will I be caught by it? No sir. I run quickly, quickly, quickly away from the place

The clouds darken the sky the fog hurries towards me I’m surrounded so I start to say goodbye. My mind is full, thoughts swarming within me.

The lightning strikes, the thunder claps The crow cries This is it, perhaps The little songbird appears, bringing the clear skies.

I relish the sun,  the blue skies,  the warmth. I hope the songbird is here to stay.

[autistic-disabled-poet]

Running the Numbers

Kindergarten At a fifth-grade math level, The human calculator. I was running the numbers.

Second grade. Able to skip first. "Two plus seven plus nine plus one million seven hundred eighty-five thousand three hundred and two" While playing popcorn math I was running the numbers.

Third grade. You start getting more homework. "Can you solve this for me?" they say, and I did it every time. I was running the numbers.

Fourth grade. Seen as more of a spectacle by now. "Her brain just works differently," the teacher announced to my classmates. They'd give me a problem and I was running the numbers.

Fifth grade. It started to change. They said I was good, but not enough according to my standards. I couldn't take it- I wanted to be more so I was running the numbers.

Sixth grade. Homeschool will do you in. Seventh, eighth, maybe ninth-grade math. I was freaking out but still, I was running the numbers.

Seventh grade. Suicide, shitty teachers, Covid. Virtual Pre-Algebra was such a wonderful sight. I was still running the numbers.

Eighth Grade, Public school, Algebra 1. Honors classes, GPA. I was doing others' Aleks, so I was running the numbers,

Ninth grade. "It’s so hard!" Friends would say, but I’d disagree and push myself to tears. Trying to get further ahead, I constantly was running the numbers.

Summer before tenth grade. Doing 5 lessons a day, Learning Algebra 2 to get ahead, to move on to PreCalculus. I was running the numbers.

Planning to go to the Governor’s School, maybe arts, maybe science. Planning to be Valedictorian. Planning for college, planning to be a doctor.

Constantly planning, wanting to be more, needing more. I burn out, want to never move from the couch, to quit. I get on a roll, running the numbers. Oh, I long for one minute to be a normal person, not need more, to not be running the numbers.

[autistic-disabled-poet]

Invisible Pain

My cane clicks against the floor, families turn to stare. Head down, eyes ahead, I make my way through the room with Invisible Pain.

I gain a laugh from my sister, an "ew!" from my therapist, a "me too" from my brother. I show off my party tricks, contorting my joints and pulling my skin. I avoid grimacing and laugh through the Invisible Pain.

Physical therapists say "You have no structural issues!" Parents show concern that eventually fades. Doctors say it's all in my head. I should lose weight, change my habits. How can I exercise enough for them? When I’m overtaken by Invisible Pain?

Don't you think it's a bit insensitive to not believe my aches and pains? To say it's normal to have your hips shift, to have your arms swell,to lose feeling in your legs? I guess I will try to ignore the Invisible Pain.

[autistic-disabled-poet]

The Doctor Shopper

Doctor after doctor, Day after day, I still beg for help, yet each time they say:

Here are some probiotics! I really think you should try them. You have migraines, so here's some magnesium oxide! I couldn't be caught "refusing treatment" so my hands are tied.

Take a multivitamin, The cure to all that ails you. More fiber, maybe Benefiber, But you may have fructose intolerance so not fruit smoothie fiber.

Your ankles aren't weak. Your ankles don't roll. You're autistic, You're dyspraxic. I wonder if that's really all.

I would like a new doctor, but randos on the internet claim, Stop switching around! You should stop "doctor shopping."

"I don't think that they're hallucinations!" Nope, just auras to migraines. Also, I'm autistic. Everything is interpreted as scary when you're autistic.

He's a nutjob, I'd like a new doc! I want to switch but I don't out of fear of claims of doctor shopping.

The yellow dots are chasing me! No, visual auras which autism made scary. Clawing and cutting out the spiders in my blood my skin my brain. No, tingling auras made scary by the autism.

Should a doctor really be this stupid? The psychologist in the room, she didn't say anything! Would getting a new doctor really be doctor shopping?

I couldn't possibly have EDS. Nope, my doctor has a connective tissue disorder. I'm not more hypermobile than thee, so an Ehlers Danlos diagnosis must not be for me.

"You have AMPS!" "You have IBS!" "You are fat!" "Drink water and get more exercise!"

I won't be a doctor shopper. I can't help but wonder, is wanting to be believed really shopping for a doctor?

A fat female teen, symptoms of nausea, pain, dizziness, and more. The most obvious option is mental illness. The best prescription is weight loss.

My attempts at exercise are extinguished by my pain. I can't keep on, but there's no help until I'm the one to fix it all.

I fantasize every day of growing up, losing some weight. Building a ton of muscle, drinking gallons of water a day. Taking my vitamins and supplements like some kind of health freak.

Walking into their office, "I'm not cured!" I'm falling, I'm swelling, I'm hurting, I'm crying. Help me, please.

Are these thoughts normal? They don't feel normal. I should be fixed. I could be fixed. Drugs, therapy again, more drugs (What mood stabilizer is it now?)

Maybe one day my pain will be taken seriously. Maybe one day my quality of life will be taken seriously. Maybe one day I will be taken seriously. That day's not today, I wish I was okay, but I can't handle it.

If I question it... Question their years of medical knowledge... Question their schooling... Question their authority... I'm the bad guy who's looking to shop for a doctor.