Type, type, type.
Delete, delete, delete.
I type emails and posts and whatnot, and get extremely agitated and delete them.
Oh no, regression; you won’t win this one. This is the war. You will not take my typing, too.
You’ve taken my control of my body and mouth. Sometimes I can’t stop screaming, and other times I can’t speak a word to save my life. I say, “Something’s wrong here!” and “Mom?” and “POOP!” (don’t ask me on that one, because I haven’t a clue either). As for topics of verbal conversation, I fear that I’m a bore, in that I am only able to discuss things I’ve previously written… in other words, the vast majority of what I say is about autism (the majority of the remainder is cat-related echolalia and Food Network facts).
I go from chair to floor to standing to sitting to laying to chair to floor… lights on, lights off, candle on, candle off, TV on, TV off, movie on, movie off, roll on floor again… what is it that you want from me? Why can’t I satisfy you that make my sensory needs so evasive?
As frustrated as I am, as uncertain as the future my be, I have to remember that no one, nothing, not even the regression can take my very self from me. Whether I can spout of verbally or whether it takes me two hours and some tears to write a post, my words are mine.
I’m off to roll on the floor once again before I start screaming and crying.
But I’ve done it. I’ve typed.
You will not win the war.