I Am Autism
I am autism.
I am funny loud big.
Yet I am quiet.
I am a slippery riddle—a puzzle piece upon the bumper of a car, a black sentence upon white paper, a curious phenomenon.
I am the month of April, and the color blue.
I am a number.
A statistic.
A stereotype.
I am a social story before July fireworks.
A schedule fixed to the refrigerator.
I am speech, and ABA, and occupational therapy.
I am autism.
I am a boy.
I can be silly.
I can be serious.
I can be curious, and interesting, and fun.
I am autism.
I am stares in the parking lot, and whispers into cupped palms.
I am isolation, and loneliness.
I walk across continents. I bob upon distant shores. I speak every language.
I live in mansions, and apartment buildings, and rural communities.
Words like socioeconomic status are meaningless to my ears.
I am timeless.
I am here to stay.
I watch from the outside, because people make me nervous.
Like a turtle in a shell, I hide. I keep others out with my shell-ness. I reject them.
I am autism.
I ride piggy-back upon a child. I perch atop his shoulders, and I weigh him down with anxiety.
I tie my leg to his and together, attempt to walk.
I am a real-life field day, underneath May’s orange sun.
I am a son.
A brother, and a sister.
A cousin, nephew, grandson.
I am sometimes non-verbal.
And sometimes too-verbal.
Either way, I remove the words.
I don’t like them, you see. They make things too complicated.
In a boy’s mind, words are the most beautiful calligraphy, written like long scrolls on curly paper. But by the time they get to his tongue, I turn them into many sharp buzzing bees.
This is autism. Some say it is delayed communication, and limited social skills.
Really, it is just a turtle and some bees, trying to find their footing on the late spring grass.
Because of me, people argue.
Husbands and wives argue about independent living.
Mothers and fathers argue about food at the dinner table.
Brothers and sisters argue about the idea of fair.
People in politics argue about regulations and legislation and benefits.
There is no such thing as fair.
I cause grief.
Fathers grieve the ball-throwing boy in a baseball cap, and a new driver behind the wheel.
Mothers grieve deep hugs, and gentle kisses, and the idea of a grandchild.
At the same time, I bring a lot of joy.
I am an expected joke during breakfast, and the most delicious chocolate cake a boy can bake.
I am a family forever changed.
I am hope.
I am autism.
I am wily.
I am complicated.
I am misunderstood.
I can be me.
If you let me.
Let me be me.
I am important, you see.
I’ll probably never run for office.
It’s unlikely I’ll write public policy.
I may never drive a car.
I will not change the world through fundraising or charity or politics.
This is okay.
I don’t have autism to change the world.
I have autism so I can I change your mind.
I want to change your mind.
This is why I have it.
I am autism.
I am perfect yellow wonder against a cerulean sky.
I am good, the way rain is good.
Mostly, I am an echo in the deep, dark night.
Jack-a-boo, I love you.
Written by, Carrie Cariello
Carrie Cariello is the author of What Color Is Monday, How Autism Changed One Family for the Better, and Someone I’m With Has Autism. She lives in Southern New Hampshire with her husband, Joe, and their five children.
Carrie is a contributor to the Huffington Post, TODAY Parents, the TODAY Show, Parents.com. She has been interviewed by NBC Nightly News, and also has a TEDx talk.
She speaks regularly about autism, marriage, and motherhood, and writes a weekly blog at www.carriecariello.com. One of her essays, “I Know What Causes Autism,” was featured as one of the Huffington Post’s best of 2015, and her piece, “I Know Why He Has Autism,” was named one of the top blog posts of 2017 by the TODAY Show.
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