a gentle friend
a poem that explores experiences as a young Autistic girl who often dissociates but no one knows
I hide most often because there's no guarantee of the me you will meet. And if the me you find lets you down or talks too much about the weather when you find the cloudy sky a boring topic, then what choice do you have but to disappear and write off this one small part of me who decided to show up on a rainy day? I'm always watching from under water with all my mouths closed and eyes open, trying to decide if today is a good day to be all or some or none of me. And can you imagine how this feels when you are 7 and just want to take a walk after dinner at the perfect time— before dark but when the sidewalk has stopped sizzling? I would swing from a tree if I thought there'd be someone who could catch me when my arms tired. I would stand on my head and try a cartwheel over and over for hours if I knew the thud of your gaze wouldn't pull me flat on my face. I would come and play in a wide open field next to the cliff, dropping into an ocean of water. For now, one toe, one arm, one kneecap or all of me may find a way to sing quietly under water where you can hear me faintly. And just turn the volume down in case you find the noise unbearable. I can always sink further if you and I don't get along. Who will show up today is anyone's guess. The who, the how of the many who's, The grammarian, the singer, the cruise director, the restless faux careerist. I don't know. I can make no guarantees who she'll be or how she might bore you with unimpressive facts and figures. But the one thing I do know is she always shows up with her arms overflowing with gifts and eagerness to be friends, to be helpful, to belong to just you and her for that one conversation, that one trip, that one job, that one lifetime. She will always be turning around to hear what you have to say and tell you you're not crazy, that you have talent, or to laugh at something funny on TV. She will always show up ready to be a gentle friend.