“I am the sum of my experiences, but I am not defined by them.”
Yet, what happens when, in the way of life, when a diagnosis (confirmation) of being autistic comes in at the age of 51?
After a cathartic evening of going through photos from the 1970s, looking at the child I was, and going through half a box of tissues, this poem came. It’s still in draft, still needs some polish, but it’s got good bones.
And in that vein, today is better, today is copacetic. In my beloved French, bien dans sa peau. Yes. I feel good in my skin.
Unshed tears and eccentric cams
A poem by Lee-Anne Ford
My throat aches from unshed tears,
From revising memories of bygone years.
Was it there, or there, or, wait, was it here?
Why must our memories be so unclear?
I’m autistic, in 2023, at the age of 51.
Better now than in another trip around the sun.
But I have been autistic since day one.
In everything I’ve seen, written, heard, done.
I mask, I assimilate, I play the part,
Plastering over a tender heart.
So, what now? Where do I start?
Do I fall to pieces, fall apart?
Or do as I have always done;
Use the pen for dream and pun.
I am still me, I am still one.
Say to my reflection, don’t walk, run.
Embrace the girl who didn’t know
And acted to fit in with the flow
Pleasing people became the show
For people who couldn’t, didn’t know.
Regrets, he said, I’ve known a few.
Don’t we all, more than one or two.
How to ask for help from friends one and few.
Before one over the cuckoo nest flew.
SO much, so MUCH, has fit into my life.
Now autistic widow, once loving wife.
Student Access Plans to reduce tertiary strife;
Doubts, uncertainties, fears run rife.
I joke about saddles and rodeos
For situations I’ve lived, and “I knows”.
Just breathe, breathe until heart rate slows.
A new metaphor; “Steady as she goes.”
Hello, nice to meet you, my name is Lee-Anne.
I’m complicated, passionate, and I give a damn.
Engines, like me, run an eccentric cam.
I’ve always been exactly who I am.
Hello. My name is Lee-Anne.
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 