When I was young and became excited I would jump and flap my hands like little wings. People called me a little bird. My mother and my occupational therapist told me it wasn’t appropriate, so I modified it as well as I could.

But sometimes I couldn’t help it. I was mid flight in front of a McDonald’s playground when a woman stared at me. I smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back. I tried again. On the third try, she smiled back. Phew. I was safe. She liked me, and that made up for being weird.

I used to talk in a monotone voice, but with some help I learner to add in the ups and downs of regular conversation.

I wouldn’t look people in the face when they spoke to me.“It’s rude not to make eye contact,” my mother told me. Later she said, “You need to look away from their eyes sometimes. Look at the bridge of their nose or something.” Soon I was so focused on maintaining appropriate eye contact that I forgot to listen to what people were saying.

When I reached middle school, the best days were the ones when I forgot something was wrong with me. I would retreat into the world inside my head, a world where I belonged without having to monitor myself. They used to call me a little bird, but this thing was clipping my wings. I would take it out of me if I could.

These days, I think I hide it well enough. I’ve had so much practice that the modified behavior comes naturally. I still flap my wings though, in secret, when no one is around.

© katiewrites