Writing is agony. It’s also the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.

No, but really. Part of my experience with autism is that I’m not very social. Part of that is because I’m not very verbal. I’m not a conversationalist. When I was a kid, and even in my early 20s, I almost didn’t talk at all. It was easier to write, and I often did write notes to people or text them when that became a thing instead of talking to them out loud. When I discovered reading, I was obsessed.

Reading a whole novel a day wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for me. Stories were and still very much are my life. But it’s hard. It’s hard to find language when it doesn’t come naturally to you. I think that’s one of the reasons I love it so much. Language isn’t mine; it’s an art that exists outside of myself, and I often think that if I try hard enough, I can capture its elusive beauty.

Sometimes I think I’m fooling myself, that this isn’t for me. That I was not made for this. I feel those moments like a weight dragging me down. I feel it when my mind is blank, and I can think of nothing to say, nothing to contribute. When the world turns to look at me, asking me to speak, and I lose all ability. As though words do not exist. As though language is so foreign a concept that I could not possibly conceive of it.

And then there are moments like this… fleeting, ephemeral, evanescent.