I remembered for the first time today, what it felt like to be little, nothing more than a pre-toddler, and endure having my mother wash my face after a meal. It felt like she was maliciously rubbing my face with sandpaper.
Everything, every small, ordinary and necessary thing from hair washing, teeth brushing, washing up after meals, clothes on and clothes off...those things hurt me. I cried and screamed a lot because the people, when they touched me, hurt me. They didn't know I was Autistic. They just thought I was obstinate, defiant, too sensitive or simply disagreeable. Autism wasn't in my family's vocabulary even though many had it.
My mother would put me in my room and shut the door. I was her most difficult child she will swear by it to this day.
I wasn't difficult.
I was Autistic.
People were hurting me. Each day, every day I hurt from ordinary things.
No one understood why Amy was so broke and unhappy.
I remembered the feel of my mother simply, lightly, washing my face after breakfast. I cried. I cried then. I cry now. I was getting hurt all the time. I remember now.
