One day, I got pregnant. Everyone said things were fine. I had the kid. All my friends said things were going to be fine.
He wasn't normal. Not like other kids, normal. He was super familiar though. The tantrums were familiar. And I could kind of understand his frusturations.
So could everyone else.
He's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine.
Except he wasn't fine.
He had food allergies and intolerances and insensitivities. That's fine.
He had some behaviors that were odd. And familiar. And he's super smart. And that's familiar.
That's fine.
It's all fine.
I didn't think to ask questions. but I did vaguely remember the commercials where the person has a severe injury, and people ask them if they need help.
And the person always says, "Oh no, it's fine. I've got it."
I can't make the idea any simpler than that one.
Aspergers. food sensitivities. And dark skin.
In this white-washed and clouded world, the greatest odds are for drowning.
Like being on a slave ship, and being thrown overboard. That's our United States.
Except it's 2015. And there's always an impossible chance for survival.
The heaviest weights had to be cut loose.
The skilled artisan can correct errors in growth or establisment. Or decide to start anew.
My hands are [indeterminate] and my reputation as an artisan is [unfounded]. But I have the same options. The one where I find myself with the greatest opportunity for unskilled success and training is in beginning fresh.
So clean slate. No friends. Extra selfish. Fewer apologies. Less bowing. I don't know how long I can keep it up.
But I know how long I can try. The actuarial tables, as I like to call statistical charts of self-divined credibility, tell me that I will live for 50 years more. Unless I'm female. Or transgendered. Or nonwhite. Or non-conforming in many better known ways.
Time to cut myself free of comfort, and pursue existence.
