As near as I can recall, I’ve never had a dream about being autistic. Until early this morning.

I was shooting a scene for an episode of Supernatural, but with the sudden onset of a deep brain foam I couldn’t remember the blocking, or my lines.

I decided to leave the set and go home, but while gathering my things into my backpack, I found that my ear defenders were gone, and my mirrorshades broken and unwearable.

In order to leave, I had to pass through a bright and noisy office, where my (late) father was standing behind a desk discussing possible jobs for me, none of which were jobs I could do.

A woman nearby had to help me clock out, because I couldn’t find my swipe card.

Outside the front door to the office, I was four or five stories up on a narrow balcony.

Loud trucks were driving below, and across the way atop another building a worker was taking an angle grinder to metal scaffolding.

The noise unbearable, I crouched down on the balcony to scream several times.

There was no simple way down from the balcony, only overlapping vertical zig-zags of thin stairs several feet apart that would take both concentration and agility to traverse.

Several men were in the way, making jokes about how I was asking for help in getting down.

I reached out to the one closest to me, grabbed him by the throat, and squeezed as hard as I could.

I woke up.