I used to write, and read, a lot. This has been true pretty much since the time I learned to read and write, and was by far the thing that I was the best at in secular settings. Being good at these things from an early age created a positive loop for me, wanting to do so because I was good at it, but also getting better at it because I was doing it.
Obviously, I mean it when I say that I’m not a writer. I’m a reader more than anything – but there were moments in my life when I wanted to be a writer. Instead, I incorporated small acts of writing into my person, these coming out in various ways throughout the years.
At the time that I wrote this story, I was experiencing what I would later learn is autistic burnout. This is a unique phenomenon to autistic individuals, but presents itself a lot like an emotional burnout – probably because it is also an emotional burnout. I was working a job that I loved in a hotel restaurant, and made use of my free time there for all sorts of things – there would be days working in Room Service that I primarily read books all day, reading them in the elevators in between floors even. When hosting at the front of the restaurant, I would write stories about the patrons in the POS (point of sale) system, giving nods to the names that celebrities would make reservations under. I would leave haikus and poems for my coworkers to find. It was a lot of fun.
Autistic burnout, on the otherhand, is not. Fun. I had been experiencing these since I was a kid, but didn’t have the knowledge of what it was or what it meant. It almost always sounds a bit like depression inside of me, a general frustration with the world taking my emotional energy but not quite returning it – or at least returning it damaged and broken. For all the love I had for the world, I couldn’t just stop because of being frustrated. On this particular day, I took to writing a sort story in an attempt to communicate how I felt. Later me would know.
I did delete and erase everything that I had created in True Life, including my photos, artwork, and writings. This is my best attempt at revisiting something that already existed.
there once was an extraordinarily ordinary girl who was completely ordinary in every way, except one. she had ordinary hair, was the average height, did ordinary average things. she went to school like an ordinary person, then had a job like an ordinary person. she ate average and ordinary food. really, by all accounts, there was nothing about her that made her stand out in any way. though there was that one thing – an invisible superpower. she had an extraordinary capacity for love.
it seemed that no matter how much love she had given, there was always more that she could give. she liked to use this in quiet and meaningful ways, sending love to those that she saw whose own stocks ran low. she sent love to those who needed little pick-me-ups, to those who were to tired to replenish themselves properly. in her average way, she never seemed to run out of her own supply of love, and gave it freely.
there was one day a year when she would wake up and she would be completely empty, as if something stole it all away in the dead of the night. those days were the worst days for her – tired and less-than-average, she could not keep her own spirits up, let alone try to give out the extra that she was used to. but she tried anyways.
love isn’t a one-way street. (it is also not confined to a two-way street) most of the time, people shared love and received love, and through this everyone’s meters do not run dry. on the days where she would wake up empty, she didn’t stay empty, because she was still recieving love, but she would still constantly hit empty due to trying to give it all away.
a boy caught her eye one day. she thought he was extraordinary. she decided that for her, he was worth extra attention. whenever she could, she would send him love, making sure his bucket was always as full as it could be. it became a game of sorts that she played with herself, using every method that she could (and was appropriate) to keep him full.
the day she woke up empty was the hardest one she had experienced yet. she could no longer rely on her endless supply to maintain herself, to give to those who needed it most, and to keep her affection streaming to the boy. whenever she saw his levels dip, she took it personally, habitually attempting to send him love but scraping the dry bottom of the barrel, antagonizing herself.
“why?” she cried inside. “i just want to give more!” the day could not end quickly enough. she knew that when she woke up the next day, her meter would once again be full and endless, and she could soothe the wounds of the empty day. but, as it seems to do, time slowed to a crawl.
but what if it doesn’t? the emptiness seemed to ask. what if you wake up, and i’m still here?
then i will love despite you, she resolved. then i will find a way.
and she did.
Fuck You, We Matter 
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