Sorry, But Yes: I Hate Being Autistic

What follows is excerpted from a week and a half’s worth of notes taken for use during therapy this Friday. This past Friday was bladder and prostate surgery; I spent the weekend feeling purely mechanistic and empty of self.

Tuesday, part one

Near-miss mental health crisis at catheter removal when without any advance prep before the appointment the nurse raised the possibility that if the void test (which they also didn’t tell me about) wasn’t satisfactory they might re-catheter me right then and there; I’ve never been catheterized except when under anesthesia; while nurse out waiting to talk to urologist, I’m sitting there half naked under a sheet, rocking, smacking the table with the flat of my palm, kicking the floor with my bare foot, stuck in an out-loud loop of “I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t”.

Tuesday, part two

Forty minute errand in the 85 degree heat, me moving at a snail’s pace so as not to pull or jostle anything, absolutely miserable the entire time; more empty and mechanical I can’t live like this.

Wednesday, part one

Early to store before real heat but it’s already too bright right in my eyes and on my face and I’m still moving gingerly and between me and store is people sawing concrete and pavement and then on way back right when I get to the last intersection before my house of course there’s an asshole in a hotrod gunning his engine and roaring down Lombard thinking he’s in a fast and furious movie instead of living in a world of other real people he’s pissing off and hurting and yes I did literally scream “I hope you fucking crash” and then slightly less loud “it could even be into me for all I fucking care”.

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Bix F.

The unsupported use case of a disordered*, mediocre midlife in St. Johns, Oregon—now with added global pandemic and climate crisis. Read more.