Autism

“Is autism my super power?” she asked me, giggling.

There are neurotypical men who have just as much trouble finding relationships with women, men who want real love, and though I don't know for sure, I can pretty much count on the fact that their mothers aren't hiring prostitutes to satisfy their son's needs.

I know what autism looks like, and I understand why people are afraid of it because, at its worst moments, it is desperately, terribly ugly — it is children who can’t communicate, who become adults who are unable to live independently, and who simply cannot cope with the onslaught of sensory input that we barely notice. It is meltdowns that are triggered by nothing and everything, learning difficulties, and services that cost our healthcare system billions of dollars every year.

My six-year-old son fired his therapist. “Michael just told Carla she’s not coming back next week,” my iPhone displayed. I’d just arrived to an appointment with my own counselor, ready to talk about how I’d just survived one of the most difficult weeks in the entire history of my being, and was overtaken with thoughts of my autistic child breaking this news to someone 30 years his senior.

For all of the touchy-feely awesomeness of the idea of "focusing on compassion," there are moments in life when it's simply not practical. One of those moments is when it takes every last bit of internal fortitude simply to survive.

A flight home from Disney World became a nightmare for an Oregon family after the flight crew

I simply can't accept autism as just another variation of normal.