When Facebook reminded me I’ve been getting my work published for over a decade, it prompted a moment of quiet acknowledgement…
For some of us with autism, pursuing a friendship beyond the surface superficialities imposed by polite society is fraught with difficulty and self-doubt.
Getting a diagnosis is like finding out you’re adopted – it’s not that you’re odd and don’t fit in, you’re just part of a different family.
If people realised how hard autistics have to work to connect, they’d understand… empathy is a two-way street.
Recently, the mere anticipation of writing has resulted in instant mental paralysis, until this morning when I spilt an entire cup of coffee – the second in a fortnight. To put it succinctly, I lost my shit.
With a lump in my throat I described my beautiful, clever, mischievous daughter and discussed all the ways we could help make her future the antithesis of my past.
I don’t need to take on the responsibility for changing other people’s misconceptions. Learning to be honest and authentic – standing in my own truth – is more important right now.
Getting my diagnosis was like being handed a key to my prison, not a life sentence.
I’ve mentally written and re-written the start of this post a thousand times over but when it came to putting it on the page I always lost my nerve. It never sounded right…
We go months in our family without seeing a doctor, then suddenly here we are, test-driving not one but two distinct areas of the Canadian healthcare system…