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Being the naive, love-struck woman I was at the time, I thought that giving up my choices was the same as compromising.
The idea of being able to have the most stressful day imaginable and coming home to that one person who can make the noise just stop.
People use my neurodivergence as a way to make themselves feel superior, because, to them, what would an autistic know about simple matters such as sharing?
“Not true,” he argues. “Oh, really? Tell me one thing so far that has worked in your favor. You’re still behind on the harvest and the paperwork and you have an incomplete barn. What the hell could you have gained?” “I gained you, idiot.”
Who the fuck looks down on someone else’s success?
It’s not safe. Dating isn’t safe, being vulnerable isn’t safe … loving isn’t safe.
Hopeless. That’s the word I’d use. The feeling of being so overwhelmed that your brain cannot even begin to comprehend half of the things your senses are experiencing in that moment.
“It’s okay to want that, you know,” she says, eyes boring into mine. “To want something with someone. Something real.”
All you needed to do was actually believe that you were deserving of love, even if there were people around you who refused to give it.
I should appreciate that I’m different, not be so hard on myself for needing to live my life a certain way. The world is … a lot. Too much sometimes. I’m finally learning that that’s okay.
People will leave and people will stay and both are fine because the people who are worth keeping in your life will always come back.
