Sometimes I think that, being a “high-functioning” autistic (seriously though, functioning labels are garbage), I’m actually shooting myself in the foot. Because I’ve learned to be better at coping with the day-to-day crap that overwhelms many of my brethren — or at least appearing to be better at it — people expect me to be capable of more than I am. They get irritable and defensive when reminded that no, I do not in fact share your outlook and way of thinking, because my brain doesn’t work the same way yours does. No, this thing that is easy for “normal” people is not easy for me, because I’m not your normal.
There is nothing that makes me want to write quite as much as not having the time or the energy to write. I’m really not sure how that works, and I know it makes no sense.
If this ever actually led to any word-generation, I’d be more okay with it. All it leads to in reality is frustration. And a lot of talking to myself in the car. I don’t even care when the people next to me at lights see me doing it. I don’t even hope they think I’m on a headset. I’m cool with my insanity.