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Portrait of AutismMy head doesn't work like yours
What for you is black and white
Can be for me very grey
Sometimes I may not grasp right and wrong
I may not listen to yes or no
But it's not that I am horrible, evil
I just don't understand.
My body doesn't work like yours
Sometimes I just can't sit still
I have to move and run and jump
And sometimes I can stay unmoving
For hours, staring into space
Or rocking back and forth
It's a coping mechanism, a comfort
My emotions don't work like yours
I can be happy one minute
Then miserable the next
I analyse things too much
And replay words of pain
If I lean on you, don't push me away
I need the comfort the contact brings
My childhood doesn't work like yours
I am a child, yet not one
I don't know what to do with myself
And that upsets me terribly
I have to have my boundaries
Having the responsibility of setting them myself
Is too much I need you to help me grow every day
My adulthood won't be like yours
I'll always be different to the rest
It's not hopel
Angel of autismMy name is Andrew.
Im 12 years old.
I have autism.
This is my story.
For as long as I can remember, Ive been different. My mom has told me so many times. Kids would make fun of me because I couldnt say words the way they could. Sentences that would seem right in my mind would get jumbled and come out all messed up. Id try over and over to say something simple, but I would end up getting frustrated and crying. Mom would make sure to hug me every time because she knew how hard it was for me.
They also made fun of me because I would always carry a crayon case. Anywhere I went, I had to have this thing around me. Mom said that sometimes I would get so in to it that I wouldnt pay attention to anything else. I loved that case. I took it everywhere until one day I lost it. I was so upset I cried for days. Dad tried buying me another one, but it wasnt the same.
My mom tried putting me in school for kindergarten, but it didnt work that well. She thought
it's not a desease, it's not an outcast, it's not even dangerous. It's just a thing that most children have like my brother Ricardo. Some of us like my mom and dad can handle it while others need to know, but we need a cure. For a child to have autism, it's hard for them to live a happy life. I once thought I have autism but, I don't. However, I do know what it felt like to be autistic, thinking we're still (not to make people mad)toddlers, even though we're teenagers or older children. The most common sex of children having autism is the boys, because in my school, I've check the children from pre-school and Kindergarten, there's lots of boys, and only 0 to 4 girls in each class. We need to know more of the secrets of autism later on, but for now, we'll have what we have.
Let us hope and pray for the autistic children's future.
AutismWe are chaos, though we are order.
We are order, though we are in chaos.
The cat was seen as a demon,
though it was peacefull.
What you don't understand,
you can hate.
What you can learn,
you can love.
We are, though we are not.
We have a foot in each camp.
We are mad,
though we are smart.
We are chaos in order,
and order in chaos.
My definitions for this word are:
Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)
Attention Defesit Disorder (ADD)
I am cursed with autism.
I am confused whether my thinking is normal or not.
I am the only one.
I see teens with incredible thinking power.
I see science everywhere.
I see sin.
My mind carries no common sense.
My mind can never come up with the right words for me to say.
My mind is imperfect.
I repeat real life events I see over and over in my head.
I concentrate on hatred passed to me from other people.
I have incredible issues.
There are people whom I see have flaws in their learning.
There is a brain tumor collaborating with my brain.
There is no cure for Autism.
This disorder scars my personality.
This disorder keeps me away from being a white sheep.
This disorder is my host.
Associated with selective hearing.
Associated with an incontrollable temper.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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