Just Being Me...Who Needs "Normalcy" Anyway?

  I attempt, with trembling hands and elevated heart rate, to capture my thoughts about the latest in a targeted series of propaganda orchestrated by the leadership of a highly privileged, well-connected grievance fringe group notorious for mischaracterizations and exaggerations so egregious that they rival best-selling fiction novels. As triggered as I am by these incessant attacks and lies, I don’t think I will be successful at accurately conveying what is inside my head and my heart, but I will still try. Maybe I’ll start with some echolalic reasoning to self-regulate. My mother used to roll pantyhose onto my legs (which, being autistic, was a far-from-pleasant sensory experience) when I was a child. She placed bandages on my skin when I had cuts or bruises (which, due to my poor motor coordination and my self-injurious behaviors, was often). And she purchased crayons for me to draw and color with. All of these things had at least one thing in common: their name. The pantyhose, band