Living with Autism Afraid of Raising My Voice

I found this performed poem on Facebook and haven’t been able to find a more stable digital location. For now, I will link the video here with a transcript I typed up. The video may eventually cease to exist where it currently resides, so I wanted some way to remember the piece.


Performed by the writer, alias Triscuit the Biscuit:

Definition: a serious developmental disorder
that impairs the ability to socialize or communicate.
Asperger’s: a type of autism
impairing the ability to socialize or interact.
When you’re a kid,
nobody knows about strains and symptoms.
All we know are names and faces
of the bodies inhabiting the spaces beside us.
Programmed by birth to seek similarities.
These social systems stop the spread of diversity,
building barriers of ignorance against understanding
blocking the path to truth.
Bullied every day for my failed speech,
I turned my volume to zero,
and chose to be mute.
Afraid that raising my voice
would make me a target of unwanted attention.
I can see past traumas like a stored image on an SD card.
Loading, age five.
Kids from class say they can’t hang with a weirdo.
Loading, age 15.
Friends fizzle out.
Allies don’t want to become casualties to bullying.
Loading, age 20.
Teacher explains, haha, that’s why you act so funny.
Loading, age 22.
Police officer says I have a few screws loose.
Like my mind is written in hieroglyphics
sometimes I can’t even read myself.
Like a book of torn pages pieces of me have gone…
I can’t compute reasons for why I am
or what I am or how I think.
It makes me feel inadequate.
Masking my idiosyncrasies behind a façade of normality.
A survival skill developed over years
of having to camouflage myself to avoid being prey.
Men, women, students, teacher,
they all blur into predator.
Mentally trialed by a past that threatens my future.
I’m trying to be like the latest update,
but I keep re, re, re, rerunning old lines of code.
Stop being weird.
Don’t fully express yourself.
Compact your presence.
I never questioned these changes
until the upgrades made new problems
putting stress on my servers.
I’m overheating, trying to make myself fit
into a place that I don’t belong.
It is my self-destruct sequence.
Three, two,
I’m sorry.
This unit has been disingenuous.
Meet the true me.
This unit’s name is TTA1 and I am the human robot.
Cyborg by mind, organic by heart,
I’m the tinman that turned into titanium
bent and beaten but still fully functioning.
I am, error.
I, error.
I, error, error, error, error.”

Video Credit: Write About Now Poetry on Facebook