I’m in my second year living in St. Johns and twenty-third year living in Portland. I’m in my fifty-first year of being alive and my fourth year as a diagnosed autistic. I’m in my third year of trying to figure out my health—my lymph nodes remain a question—and my second year of trying to find a psychoconsultant both knowledgeable about adult autism and covered by my insurance. I’m in my first real year of a return to blogging. I’m in the second successful month of my first-ever experience taking medication for anxiety. I’m in my nth year of not feeling like much more than a failure and a fuckup. Like everyone else, I’m in whatever week this is of a global pandemic.