I wrote this piece for a method writing class I have been attending since January 2024 with Jules Swales. My task was to tap into the Medusa muse within myself and write from inside her skin. As I channelled her I realised I was writing the experience of what it’s like to be an autistic woman.
But as I read it aloud to the class, feeling exactly as I did in the piece below, I realised that I cannot be the only one.
It’s not a cheerful Sunday morning pick-me-up piece, I will say.
But it has been part of my experience and I share it for all those who have felt like this.
You are not the only one.
On The Edge
I stand at the edge of the french classroom, pretending to remove lint from my black shirt. My toes squirm inside my shoes, they press into the floor. I don’t know where to put my eyes. I open my bag and take out my please-like-me face, notepad and pen but the aura of ice that seeps out of my pores shrouds me invisible. I twist my fingers together.
My jaw aches from the rigid smile I am holding, I turn to the woman next to me who is also watching the banter going on amongst the women in the popular side of the room, the right side of the room.
Ten years I’ve been doing this class and I still don’t know their names. I can’t sit on that side, I picked my chair on the first day on the left of the room, now I can’t sit anywhere else. I fucked up right at the start by picking the wrong side.
I always pick the wrong side, I can’t read the room. I don’t fit in. I am wrong.
My hate of me twists my gut.
I stutter some inane stupid comment about the weather and the woman turns and replies with slight smile and a word or two then falls silent, turning her gaze back to the others. I bite the inside of my cheek so hard tears spring to my eyes and threaten not to stop there. There is a fist inside my chest curled so tight around my heart I can’t breathe.
I am outcast, I am awkward, I am a geek. I don’t fit into my own skin.
I want so much to be accepted, greeted with kisses and hugs like the others but I don’t.
I am made of wood so not soft enough. I cannot bend.
When the universe decides to play a joke and drop my cloak,, friendship sometimes turns towards me by accident and I mask up. I do it so well I forget and they forget, who is really behind this laughing mouth and sparkling eyes.
And then they remember and I remember and conversation tails off leaving awkward silence.
God laughs with spite.
I am stiff, I am mortified, I am horrified. I am rageful.
I hate them all.