*Note that this is meant as a spoken word poem/ slam poem, and that it's a sequal to What It's Like To Be Autistic For Those Of You Who Are Not*

What It’s Like To Be Autistic For Those Of You Who read that poem and decided you knew everything you needed to know,

So let me get this as straight as my polysexual ass can. I’m not a victim. And you don’t need to shed me a blue tear. Unlike what the autism moms and dads huddled up in a facebook group seem to think. My autistic brain isn’t a cage where I’m stabbed with misery and my disease keeps my human heart from beating as full as yours so all I can do is wait for a neurotypical savior with a PhD to free me.

What’s it really like to be autistic? I don’t fucking know. It’s all I do know, how am I to seperate it from whatever the fuck y’all allistics got going on. What I do know is that it’s every part of me, every second I spend is my autistic second, every brain cell, every vocal chord, every blink I’ve made since I stepped into this room is autistic. What it's like to be autistic means I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my ASD. And that’s not just because this writing piece is about it, it’s also because I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be I. So for those of you who think a metal stamp came down to engrave the word autism on my forehead, you're wrong, and the only stamp I’m letting touch me are the ones I discovered myself, and I am proud to have discovered how perfectly this label fits me after years of trying to figure out what would.

So what is it like to be autistic?

First of all, it’s every brain chemical measured through a different unit. It’s every bit of energy bottled up then smashed out after receiving a power rangers sticker. It’s vigorously clawing through your backpack until you find the fidget you’d die without. It’s being the only one who notices how the lights flicker. It’s being the only one who hears chewing from across the hall. It’s being the only one that feels every fiber of your jeans and every hair on your leg and every vibration of someone’s yawn. It’s being the only one who can’t stand it. The clanking of the silverware, the stacking of the plates, how the table moves when your mother pushes in her chair. And when she walks seven steps to tap your bare shoulder, the shoulder exposed to the air conditioning and now exposed to her rigid fingerprints, that’s a feeling you can’t forget. Now she’s talking as if you don’t have enough to listen to already. What’s she saying? Take your elbows off the table and don’t cover your ears during supper. But supper’s already over, mom. And if it isn’t, it’s certainly over for you because it only takes five and three quarters of a second of that weird texture in your mouth before you start shaking your head uncontrollably and would rather bathe in a tub of chlorine dioxide than let that weirdness travel down your throat. At least that bath would cure your autism, or at least that’s what the mommies and daddies in the facebook club say. She’s saying something else. Listen up. But how can you listen up when your chair’s so unlevel, and the carpet feels odd, and the rain stopped without warning nearly 9 minutes ago, and you miss the feeling of your hands up to your cheeks? Oh god, what’s she saying? Is it important, is it a joke? A joke? She’s pointing her toes like it’s a joke, she’s showing off her hands like it’s a joke, it’s a joke, it’s a joke? You better laugh before someone realizes you don’t get the joke. But now she’s yelling. Why would anyone start yelling after telling a joke? Did you laugh too loud? Now everything’s too loud. And it’s like your mother’s shout is growing closer to your ear and you could just SCREAM.

I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, mamá! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t- I swear! It was an accident, it’s just with all the- and I didn’t understand your- and I’m so sorry!

Agent of the brainbow mafia, what’s it like being you? Well my ice cream tastes better than yours, my coat is softer than yours, the bass I hear is bassier. I know I’m human, though the definition fits me less and less every year.

It’s knowing every third grader on the playground. It’s asking a question no one else thought to ask. It’s how hard it is to concentrate, but when you finally do you're the most efficient and cleverest person on the planet. It might take you twenty extra minutes to understand the written instructions, but once they’re read so many ideas are flowing through your mind, each one capable of putting your professor into a coma. You don’t know how to phrase your question, but you’ve been asking them since you were two. You don’t know the difference between acting in front of your cousin, and the vice principal, but you can learn. Just like you learn to elongate your words and slow your pace and lift your voice and pause at just the right times. You're organized, you’re a quick learner, you walk faster, and if someone gives you a spot the difference puzzle, you’ll find 8 differences in less than 2 seconds. It’s being incredible in as many ways a neurotypical can be,

I’m not a victim. I don’t have autism, I am autistic. And no matter how many more sentences I write trying to answer this question, what’s it like to be autistic for those of you who are not? I’ll never be done until my lungs forget to fill themselves up.

What’s it like to be autistic? I don’t fucking know, but it’s all I do know, it’s every part of me, every brain cell, every vocal chord screaming how proud I am to be autistic.