Why Am I Doing This?
I’ve spent decades trying to fit in. Trying to blend in. To be there—but as a quiet observer, not as a participant. Mirroring and mimicking those whose social skills seemed to come worh ease.
Fear.
An imposter—a chameleon.
Able to keep up the facade only for so long before surrendering and flight. Bouncing from friends to friends. A cycle forms. On and off again—balance. But even the greatest of the rope walkers can only maintain perfect balance for so long.
Thoughts—prisons.
Threats—imagined.
Beating down—relentless. A victim of my own mind. Of those who I was told to trust. To love.
Unable to verbalize my thoughts and feelings—to myself, my therapist, my partner—ive opted to write. To open the lid and let it all floe out. The goal: cathartic release and to practice my writing. Writing a passion—a struggle—autism makes reading feel like a hardcore workout for an already overworked brain.
Some of you might share similarities in your journeys. Some if you may wish to share or to reach out—both are welcome without judgment.
Namaste.
