The Launchpad

I feel compelled to share this—for myself, and for anyone else who might need it. (I see you, my people.)

Imagine, if you will, that you live in a world where the baseline of experience is similar enough that you can easily talk about it. When you look outside and see the sky, everyone you know describes it in pretty much the same way. That’s your baseline. That’s your launchpad—a common ground everyone understands.

Now, imagine that your launchpad is a different shape. A different color. It hovers in the air instead of resting on the ground. It moves differently. Exists differently. Until, eventually, it no longer even looks like a launchpad to anyone else.

But it’s yours.

Imagine trying to have casual conversations when the launchpads you stand on—your foundations of experience—aren’t remotely the same. Imagine trying to translate your world. From a very young age. Imagine speaking joyfully in your language, only to find it confuses or scares people. That it makes them think something is “wrong.”

You know nothing is wrong. Or at least, you feel whole. But slowly, you begin to understand: they can’t see your launchpad. And it’s not safe to talk about it. So, you become quiet.

How do you describe what no one else can even see?

You start to water it down. To describe your experiences in ways someone—anyone—might be able to grasp. You tell yourself: “Say what they’ll understand. Don’t say what they won’t.” Even though you’re still learning where that line is. And your filter gets overused. Strained.

But still, you try. Because maybe—just maybe—you’ll be able to get it right.

Sometimes you get by. Most of the time, you miss the mark… horribly. And most people miss the mark with you. But when the crowd “gets” each other and you’re the only one who doesn’t get it… it’s a no-brainer. It’s easier without you.

You had a moment of release, of honesty, and you broke out into your language… but they didn’t even recognize it as a language. You got it “wrong” again.

You feel exhausted from the translating. Exhausted by the ever-expanding gap between you and the rest of the world. You feel invisible. No one seems able to understand your experience. And there’s nowhere to share it.

Because it’s so different.

You’re experiencing what others do—plus a lot of extra. And when you try to describe that “extra,” people look at you like you just sprouted alien antennae. And in that moment, you remember: this ends with you on the outside. Again.

So you look up at the sky… waiting for a spaceship.

The loneliness can choke you. But eventually, it becomes a heavy blanket. You begin to wear it for comfort. There’s THE world. And then there’s your world. And you’re alone there. But oh… if only people could see it. Feel it. It’s really something else.

And you wrap the blanket tighter. Because no one wants to hear your language. It’s too different.

And then—one day—you come across a word. A word from their language. But it touches upon your language. The word doesn't get it entirely right. In fact, barely enough of it is right. But, it's an opening... a door between your world and theirs.

Autism.

For the first time, you realize: there are others like you. People who don’t make you work so hard to connect. People who see your launchpad. And suddenly, the blanket around your shoulders loosens. You’re not alone.

It’s joyous.

And you find yourself wishing—just for one day—that everyone else could disappear. That you all could fly around on your launchpads… looking at the sky… talking about it, without having to translate. That you can speak your language freely. And hear it spoken back. Laughing. Sharing. Together.

And then, as always, you all have to land again. Back on “planet Earth.” (Calling Planet Earth… are you there?)

But this time, the blanket doesn’t wrap around you so tightly. Because now, you understand that you're not the only one living on a launchpad that isn't recognizable to most of the world.

You look back up at the sky. The spaceship hasn’t arrived yet.

But for once in your life… you realize, you're not the only one looking for it.

Welcome to autism.

Image by Daniela Realpeg.