Born pre-Google (PG) and it is a mystery how I, not knowing I was (ASD) Autism 
Spectrum Disorder, survived fairly happy, optimistic, and somewhat whole. All 
those years, the feeling of being an alien enshrouded me, yet I wouldn't give up
trying to fit in. Didn't know anything about it but in the 1980s, when my son was 
diagnosed and then I was, well, I just did what I always did: slipped into denial 
mode. My mother handled my meltdowns by pulling my hair and shoving me, but I 
used denial. He's creative, I'd think. I'm creative, I'd think. And it worked for both 
of us.

Well, let's step back because most of this story takes place in the PG Days. The 
Titanic sunk on my birthday, April 15, and although I have this theory (after 
consulting an ephemeris for 1912) that the misaligned communication was due to 
Mercury Retrograde, I always had a taste for disaster movies. They were always 
loaded with archetypes: the Shelly Winters older woman who remained cheery in 
countless sinking ships or plummeting planes. She always died first. Then the lone 
African-American man who always died second. There was always a Barbie and Ken couple: 
she with a very pregnant belly or he holding an adorable girl child on his lap. There 
were mean people, nice people, but all recognizable types.

So in real life, people I met were also archetypes. To this day I don't know whether that is true or if it is 
an autistic thing. And here is a good place to state a disclaimer: No two are exactly alike on the Autism
Spectrum. We are all different!  

Not knowing I was disabled meant I lived a normal, neurotypical, life (as opposed to a neurodiverse 
one). I had few but wonderful friends and was even a hippie, reading the most exquisite poems. I still 
like TS Eliot's Wasteland although I don't like him, still love Allen Ginsberg's Howl. The best books 
included: Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf (yeah, I like the rock group of the same name too). The best 
music? I had a voice like Joan Baez, that high soprano one, but also loved Janis Joplin and 
Aretha Franklin and oh, Jimi Hendrix...

So after marriage and motherhood I joined the League of Women Voters trying to 
get the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) passed but dang, a lot of the women I spoke to didn't want it to 
pass because they didn't want to share bathrooms with men. I felt like it was my fault. Like I was missing 
the right words or personality to change the world,  so decided to educate myself and crack the mystery  
of life.

Off to community college, the best way to get an education equal to Harvard and 
Yale, and don't argue with me. I spent years also working in the community college 
system and it was the best answer to elitism in the United States. It wasn't always 
easy.  In my last semester, on my way to take my final exams, driving my sons to 
the college day care, it began storming and my windshield wipers stopped working.  Had to abandon the car and drag them, physically, a half mile to the bus stop for a bus that 
only came every two hours. Backpack bouncing against buttocks filled with books, 
kid emergency stuff, change of clothes for me, autistic kid screaming, younger kid 
begging me to stop. But my force of will was so great, I was so determined not to 
miss my finals after working all those years for an AA degree, that when the bus 
stopped a half block from me I found the energy to propel us all, while I chanted, 
"Please, please, please, please..." and the light turned red and soaked from rain and 
tears, we made it.

So, I think I'll stop now. Here I am in the Post-Google (PG) era, and I now came out 
of the closet of denial and write lots of poetry about autism. I read all this stuff 
about it, how scared the parents are, how (it seems to me) autistic children are still 
alienated, and I wonder, not facetiously, I swear, whether we are the next stage in 
evolutionary humanity. I call us Homo Autisticus (is the Latin ending correct? I'm 
too lazy to look it up on Google). Because most of us are clever people. Most of us 
have amazing gifts. Most of us don't lie or cheat or steal. Something to think about.
MyStory MyStery mainly solved...

-Clarissa Simmens

Clarissa Simmens is an Independent poet; Romani drabarni (herbalist/advisor); ukulele and guitar player; wannabe song writer; and music addict. Find her on WordPress, Amazon's Author Page and Facebook.