The baby monitor spews a whistle, here and there. Autism is a beautiful and frightening thing. I hear a whistle louder than the last followed by a groan. Innate, maternal instincts kick in. I run up two flights of stairs to the dark hallway. The floor creaks, I am trying to be quiet. My shoes are wet from the rain, I had to smoke that cigarette. The door squeaks. The little blue LED light is just enough to see him hunched over. Panic ensues. Creeping closer, I reach down and put one hand on his back. He breathes, heavy and louder than I have ever heard. I blame it on the silence. Relief. He is sleeping. My anxiety is at an unhealthy level.
"Please stay. Please stay by me and see me through this."
"It's not right. It's right though, for me. I've never known such a bitch."
Last night, on yet another psychotic drive down the 690, I screamed. Then I cried. Then I cried for my mom and I screamed again. Child-like. My "behaviors" are child-like. I regress because it is all I know of normalcy. I am learning the causes for that.
My earliest memory: unknown. Somewhere between age 4 and 5. I remember sexual abuse. I remember learning about rape. I remember being an introvert and my family ostracizing and teasing me for that. She was a cute, little thing. Staring out windows with big, brown eyes. So inquisitive but so quiet. Where did you go?
I imagine myself crazy.