It’s me. I’ve been bullied again. They threw sandwiches at me. At least it was ham this time and not eggsalad. Principal had to come get me again. I nearly melted down. I kept my hands quiet thanks to the ABA training you got me when I was younger but it didn’t help my bowels. I had to go to the toilet but didn’t dare move.
The principal gave me a clean pair of underpants and escorted me to the nearest bathroom. This is when they called you mom.
Apparantly students at my school discovered your books, mom. Why did you want us dead in your first book? Why did your friends need to buy our crib and nappies? Why did you spent all that money to get pregnant and then left us with a nanny? Multiples of them. One even taught me to put my jacket on. She was so proud, but you dismissed it. You praised my brother more than me.
You even dedicated a book to me, mom. A book about me growing up as a teenager. I am now at university, learning engineering. i’m become one of the people you describe as being more pron to my condition, mom. Being more prone to have kids like me. They know at university, mom. They know that you forced me to not have kids. They know. They know my brother has kids and that you are proud of him.
They don’t know that I avoid contact with you. At all occassion. That I will probably never see you again, or hold your hand at your deathbed. They don’t know that you silenced so many like me, mother. That people like me fought your book. That people like me didn’t like your generalisations of people like me.
Did you really have to write about me not being able to think, mother? Did you really have to do that? I can think. I could’ve thought about the consequences of that book you have written, the future it would give me, before even writing one letter of it.
I would’ve never sold you out like this, mother. And this is why I will never talk to you anymore. This is why I and all other autistics avoid you like the plague. This is why, mother. You robbed me of my future. You condemned me to a life that isn’t for me, because you couldn’t see me do it the way you thought I could.
I’m going to graduate, mother. I am. Magna Cum Laude, even. Not because of my autism, but because of my effort. Because I was there, every class again. Not because of my early fascinations with trains, but because I worked harder than any student in my year.
I won’t see you with New years, mother. I won’t even see you when you die. I won’t hold your hand.