Not That Autistic?

I needed to go out this morning to do a few jobs. Go to the bank, bit of shopping for the next couple of days and for the weekend when I’m doing stuff (“stuff” needs a bit of preparation), petrol in the car, and so on.

So I left the flat feeling pretty much as normal as I ever feel. I got in the car, drove to the first car park, found a spot, parked, got out, and walked, briskly as always, through town to the bank.

And as I went, I thought “I’m out now, and, really, actually, seem pretty much like a normal person. Maybe I’m not that autistic after all?”

Then I got to the bank. There was a queue. And the lights were bright even through my darkest glasses. I stood in the queue moving from foot to foot, chewing my fingers, scratching my head, and occasionally twirling my hands.

Then I went to look at coffee shop number one. It was full. There was a queue. I decided to give it a miss.

Then I went to supermarket number one. Where I bought the same food that I’ve been buying for several weeks now, even though I’m really rather bored of it. But somehow buying and eating anything else during the normal daily routine seems so desperately desperately WRONG. So I bought the same stuff as I usually do.

Then I went to look at coffee shop number two. It was also deemed too full with a queue. I decided that it wasn’t for me.

Then I went to supermarket number two. Where I bought yet more of the same things I buy every time. Where I once again went to the auto checkouts. Where I flapped my hands at the nuts because I couldn’t see some the same as I’d had last time and had to get the closest but they were different (of course they were, it was a different supermarket, but I had to convince my brain, actively, that these nuts would be OK, even though they weren’t those nuts).

Then I went to get petrol. There was a woman in the petrol station proclaiming she’d lost her pen in a very loud screechy voice. I wanted to put my ear plugs in because the screeching was so painful.

Then I got home. And a workman had parked in our private, numbered, parking spot. The notion of not being able to put the car back in the right place sent my anxiety spiralling. I asked him politely to move and instead of simply doing so, he argued back with me and I was forced to debate with him to get my own parking spot. I finally did manage to park my car in my own spot, but by that time the spoons had run out.

Then I had a complete meltdown in the car – screaming, bashing, tears, and so on.

Eventually I calmed down sufficiently to get the shopping from the car to the flat and to rant somewhat on facebook where I got support from an ever-patient bunch of friends.

Then I realised I’d lost my ability to speak. It’ll probably be back later – it usually is.

I set off this morning thinking I was “not that autistic”!

Hmmm!

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