This is the first part of something. There might be one more part or a million.
Without these, autism would be not worth having.
A few months ago, those words were shocking, stirring indignant, condescending half-formed justifications that were swiftly crushed with the knowledge of my own privilege and ignorance. Then they became one of those sentences I understand more deeply than others and always gravitate to when appropriate. Now, I mentally stand in some hallowed stone hall with pillars and white drapes on the walls and proclaim, in the voice of a university teacher speaking of sacrificed soldiers: without these, (my) autism would not be worth having.
Sometimes, there is a quiet, distant, small pleasure in moving.
I take the long, stretched-out side-step of a cartoon character sneaking from cover to cover, move along the floor with a (natural) odd movement like a sideways gallop on two legs. (when no one is home) When I reach for something, the arm I’m not using slides up behind my back like I’m a (theatrical. Ridiculous. Hilarious, laugh others.) interconnected, graceful mechanism.
When I pause after forward movement, one leg goes up behind my back (or tries to) as I crane forward, and when I talk I sometimes tilt my head back and close my eyes and seem to lengthen my neck, and it’s like I have the face of an elegant giraffe drawn by Quentin Blake that plays like some wonderfully intuitive instrument that produces an airy, delicate voice in a manner so unlike how clumsy and uncomfortable my mouth can be sometimes.
Sometimes, there is a less quiet and less distant pleasure in moving. But I’m too shy about the pleasure of speed and flight and agility to really talk about it much.
And as often as there is pleasure, there is glee in movement, in how glee feels just too much to be held inside me and flapping hands, excited squeaks and self-squeezing arms lift it up, fan it outward, make it swell and bloom and flood.