Do not misunderestimate autism

...sometimes when writing, there's this invisible drive in me that wants me to have my pen as a giant brush and my sheet of paper as a giant canvass and just splash the misunderestimations about autism showered at me daily - all over it to the tunes of one of the Brandenburg concerts (and not the calm ones, and by "calm" I mean "calmness" in terms of theory of relativity)...

"Thank you for not being there" or Of Friends and Autism

When I'd call his name and he wouldn't turn,

Looked in his eyes and he wouldn't look,

Tried to teach him speak, say "I love you mom",

And all he could do was shout

From depths of his throat, no words,

A scream of pain and not of sorrow or vain...

Thank you for not being there...

When he'd run ahead without looking back,

Without holding hands with either of us,

When we'd sit in silence for hours, alone,

A couple of people with a son of their own

Who happened to be a son of autism as well...

Thank you for not being there...

When you'd call and I wouldn't pick up,

For I couldn't talk life, life as you know it, with coffee and fun

(after all, I'm known to be cheering and great fun),

For I couldn't walk life with you to a place just to sit and chat nonsense...

For when I didn't pick, I knew you'd not ask what I've been up to,

Mean really, how I've been...

Awake for three months, days and nights in a row

dead worried if ever he'd talk, he'd hug,

he'd grow up to be "normal", or give me a kiss,

that spontaneous child's kiss by instinct,

not the one taught through by behavioral or speech therapist...

Thank you for not being there...

That friendliness of yours I now seriously question,

I don't doubt it, just question...

Its indirectness, its unengaged-ness, its distance, its cool,

Its necessity for me to long for but not for too long, for too much to ask for...

Be a friend, hug my kid, be a friend get to know him,

take him for a walk, just you two, you and him...

Thank you for not being there...

It's not by a chance they call it special needs,

would you be there were it cancer or

sorrow some other with VISIBLE proof

enough to make a live testimony for you,

to make you feel heroic, over heels involved,

all caring, arriving with teddy bears and toys...

Thank you for not being there...

For no longer I seek what you call that "NORMALCY",

I no longer need to be called,

given dates to meet up some place nice with all friends,

your social chitchat no longer allures me,

moreover, your silence in knowing appalls me...

He now talks and walks great, just a "normal" kid,

Yet he doesn't quite get it when someone hurts him,

I've got to go now, teach him about that...

That people are one way when talking and another in thoughts,

They're not just like him, they're with special needs,

They need to be cheered and greeted as kings,

They need someone to tell them everything's great, they're great, their life's great...

It's called a theatre, a play we're all in,

And that he's quite unique to be off stage just observing...

Thank you for not being there... 

(And now I request, in your catharcis for a come back,

don't look for excuses, do not claim payback...

Sit down in a corner of comforts you have,

that café or restau, that great guy, this great place...

Your social preferences aren't sought, no more

They're a perception, so, hurt me no more...

You can seek some advise from friends who

can spend hours and hours claiming you're great,

but hurt me no more, let your guilt come between us no more,

let it go, but I urge you, go away with it,

You can't cross this line for my surrealism is more real

and out of reach...

Thank you for not being here anymore...)