… long, long ago, there was a young woman with lots to say and time to say it in. She wrote a lot and published a little. Then she got older and busier and those things slowed down. Then her grandmother died and she stopped writing for public consumption.

She got older still and even busier.

She forgot to take time to think about important things. Or anything at all.

And then one day she realized she was sick. And tired. And sick and tired.

And then there was a pandemic, and she forgot, for a little bit, how to people…

I am at least this awkward about 90% of the time.

Learning how to speak again

During the pandemic I spent a lot of time by myself. Almost all of my social interactions were mediated through the internet. Somewhere along the line, while we were all masking up any time we went outside, I got out of the habit of doing another kind of masking I’d been learning since I was very, very young.

When I was in my 20’s, I didn’t think much about what I was saying, how I was saying it, or whether or not anyone listened. I just felt compelled to speak (or write), and so I did it. Something happened along the way, though, and I got to worrying about those things. I got in my own head. When my grandmother died, I think something in me kind of broke. I just didn’t see the point of a lot of things any more. Plus I was working crazy hours as a new teacher, and couldn’t imagine carving out enough mental space to do something as frivolous as *think* let along write.

During the pandemic I thought a lot about writing. I certainly had the time for it. But I didn’t know what to say. Some days I was so wrapped up in worry that I didn’t even know what I thought, although I had all day to figure it out. Then a couple of years ago I was having dinner with a friend and she said, out of the blue, “Are you sure you’re not autistic?” (It probably wasn’t out of the blue, I was probably exhibiting all kinds of behaviors that led her to wonder, but I’m seldom aware I’m doing that kind of thing.)

The only answer I could think of: well, no. I’m not sure.

Because I’ve spent the last ten years thinking I might be.

Over and over I’d decide that I probably wasn’t, just because 1) I seemed like I was coping with life just fine, thank you, and so I must not have any kind of mental weirdness and 2) because all the things I read about what autistic boys looked like didn’t seem to fit me because I’m short a penis and because I’m old enough to have grandchildren. This time was different, though, because almost right away I stumbled upon a bunch of literature talking about how autism looks different in women because they are socialized differently than men, especially if they were born when I was, back when no one was even talking about autism for boys. I read first person accounts of women diagnosed with Autism where they shared what it was like to be them. Some of them were so eerily familiar that I’d literally said to myself the same things they’d say to themselves, word for word. This was… earth-shattering. In the best way.

For the first time in my life, a lot of things that I’d never been able to figure out made sense.

It turns out that I hadn’t seen myself as autistic because I didn’t even understand all the ways I wasn’t actually coping and because virtually all the descriptions I’d encountered in the past were based on neurotypical people observing young, male, autistic children. This is why representation matters.

More and more, I want to talk about this. And some other things, too. Like the fact that being fat doesn’t mean I’m about to keel over dead. Or that I can’t do stuff like other people do. Or that being a woman means I’ve got to want certain things or be certain ways. I’m pretty mad about a bunch of this stuff, and I’m tired of carrying it all around inside. It is ready to come out.

But that’s not all this blog will be about for me (I do not speak for Tristan, he will be doing his own thing and I don’t have any idea right now what that might be). I also like to work on projects and share fun stuff I learn or think about. I also like taking pictures when I’m out wandering in the woods, but I’ve done very little of that since giving up my platform for sharing.

Oh, and I will probably talk about books I’m reading. I think 50% of my conversations begin with some form of, “I was reading _____ this morning and they were saying ______ which got me thinking about _________.”