I’m out, I’m dressed, I’m bright, I’m smiley. Eyes twinkling with mascara and positivity.
I’m not fake. This is me. I am real. It is not a mask or an act – but it is an effort and it is only part of me.
The other parts of me are quiet and thoughtful and closed off:
The watchful me, the imaginative me, the creative me; the me that likes to plan and plot and design and reorder and construct and renew and appreciate. The me that needs space away from others to think straight and to survive.
The recovering me, the aching, sore-bellied, groggy me; the me that pushed to make life easier for others and drove herself on adrenaline and internal pep talks and constant alertness to get things right. The me that gets ill because society doesn’t run itself for me. The me that pops beta-blockers in the night to try to cope with all the replay and self-deprecation and the panic about what’s to come and what went before.
The live-wire me, the musical, singing dancing, gardening me; the me who forgets the time, gets lost in thrills and who has a unique surge of productivity that sits so badly with the conventional work day. The me who loves what her imagination and inspiration comes up with.
I am so much that is not bad but that grates painfully up against the social order and that has its own clock.
I will fit. I do fit. I make myself fit.
And then I hide, I curl up, I crawl, I don’t speak. I think and I think and I think.
And then I lengthen and strengthen and stretch towards a life I know I can only take in bites. And boy do I bite it.
And that’s how the public persona survives. Like a symphony of contrasting movements and dynamics and all the rests in between.
Love the autistic woman’s public persona for she has worked hard to perform it for you. But love the whole of her, love the composition and the composer, the way the magic works and the how the best movements are the ones you don’t notice on the first performance.