The Accidental Autistic

My first memory was holding the hand of my Grandmother Catherine at a train station in Chicago. The warmth of her hand stood in contrast with the chilly, rainy day. I remember the crunch of the rocks under my shoes as we stood together beside the tracks looking up at the massive locomotive engine.

My Grandmother knew I’d wanted to see the great engine on the iron tracks up close, and had simply climbed down with me to see it. I must have been three or four years old then, and my small hand reached out to touch the metal of the locomotive, lost in wonderment, imagining operating the great machine, riding the rails into the future, into an unknown place.

In the woods behind our house, I put my book The Hobbit down on the dry moss covering the bark on an old fallen tree and set out in search of Middle Earth. Once I found it, I knew I’d find my people- the Elves, and forever leave behind the cruel world of humans with their confusion, violence and death. The boy I was didn’t find the pathway to Middle Earth, but I don’t think he ever stopped looking.

“ You have to look people in the eyes. If you don’t they’re going to think you have something to hide.”

“You’re a fairy.”

“You’re too sensitive to everything. Look, if you get hurt, the best thing you can do is just laugh about it. That will make it go away.”