by Christine Lorraine

Created on: June 28, 2008   Last Updated: December 20, 2010

Screaming From Within

Life has deteriorated to the point where my mom is frustrated with my every action. We've come to a standstill, and all she says to me after 28 years is "Yep. Uh-huh." She reached the end of her rope with me two decades ago, and now it's just a simple matter of getting through each long, lingering day as I cower from deep within my own distorted psyche.

She cries sometimes, then smiles at me and says, "I love you, Angie." Part of me wants to believe her, but if actions speak louder than words, then it is impossible to buy into what she says about her love for me.

I writhe in mental agony, trying to reach out and send my logical thoughts to her, but she has no idea how to read them. I smile half-heartedly, and tell her "hi" over and over, trying to illuminate that my mind is fully active and brimming with knowledge, but she still doesn't get it. I've tried to surrender, and retreat into my shell of inner existence, but that's not good enough. I need to let her know that there's an intelligent person living deep inside the recesses of my mind.

Today I extended my arms to embrace her, and she walked away in a hurry because she didn't know that I only wanted to give her a hug. I need to touch her, both on the surface and inside of her heart, but she doesn't understand that I am able to grasp concept. She brushes past me briskly, as if I didn't exist in her talkative, bustling world of superficially intelligent people.

Just because I cannot speak does not mean that I cannot think.

My thoughts are vividly colorful and lively. I have been cheated by the proverbial system because early intervention for autistic people passed me by. I was born in 1980, before the puzzle pieces of profound autism were analyzed, and when mental heath professionals finally did learn how to reach inside of autistic children and help bring them to the surface, they claimed I was too old to benefit from this freshly relevant process.

But I wasn't too old. I was screaming at them to take me, to help me, to pull me out of the melancholy trap of mind.

They didn't hear me.

Nobody ever does.

There is one bright light in the dismal existence of my daily life, though. My little big sister cares about me, and isn't afraid to show it. Her smiles are sincere, and they penetrate my heart and strike a harmonic chord inside of me. She picks up the slack in a way that nobody else can, and she is always truly happy to see me smile and say my best word, "hi."

She realizes and accepts that when I say "hi," I am describing a multitude of feelings, that I am sending positive brainwaves, and that I am defining my ambitions, my mood, and sensations that nobody believes I am capable of feeling.

Beyond that, my little big sister is even proud of me sometimes. This is an unusual phenomenon in my life because nobody ever wants to put me on display or brag about my accomplishments.

Except her.

I love her so much for the way she showcases my life. I am happy when she is with me, and sad when she is not here. It's very simple.

Sometimes I wait for her to come home so I can greet her with my special word, and I tell her "hi" in an excited tone of voice, hoping she will read the thoughts behind that one syllable, praying that she will feel the depth of my love, believing that she will understand how much I treasure her involvement in my confusing life.

And she does.

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