A Blessing and a Curse: Autism and Me by Caiseal Mór

By Caiseal Mór

Becoming up in Australia within the Seventies, Caiseal Mor was once labelled 'retarded' and 'an idiot', and his mom and dad have been resulted in think that actual punishment may possibly medication his autism. during this brave and pleasing autobiography, Mor vividly captures his early reports of dissociation from his actual life - a standard response by way of young ones being affected by repeated abuse - and many of the personas in which he lived via in his teenagers and early maturity - the Mahjee, Charles P. Puddlejumper, Marco Polo and Chameleon Feeble. The rocky direction in the direction of learning his real id and eventually accepting himself takes him on a non secular pilgrimage through numerous assorted international locations, as soon as approximately getting stuck unwittingly wearing medications over the Moroccan border; forming relationships with humans he meets yet quite often misjudges; to the revelation - the awakening - of affection and recognition.

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Sample text

The trouble was, once I’d started I couldn’t bring myself to stop the flood of sound. Next thing there was a loud noise behind me. My bedroom door was flung open. I turned around, still bellowing. Father punched me hard in the nose. My koala call was cut short. Then I was lying on my back on the floor. He stood over me for a long while with his hands on his hips staring at me. After a while he tried to pick me up but I fought him off. He called me a fucking idiot then he went back to bed. I heard my parents whispering in their room for a long while after.

Two tiny black hands pressed against the glass. If I saw that face today, I’d instantly recognise it as a ring-tail possum. I should’ve recognised it back then but I was very jumpy. I was so startled I fell backwards on to the mosquito net, bringing the whole lot down and making an awful noise. The possum didn’t hang about. I heard Father cursing as he got up to see what was the trouble. He struggled with the lock on my door, getting more and more angry as he fumbled about trying to reach me. By the time he got into my room he was so enraged he just looked at the great tear in the net and exploded.

By then I was generally getting more and more agitated. When I sat on my chair by the window I’d be tapping my heel on the floor and drumming my fingers. I’d fly into terrible rages if my concentration was interrupted. The rages were truly awful. I’d have the strength of ten men and I could do as much damage as twenty. I threw chairs about. I ripped books in half. I hated books because Mother used to hit me with them. I’d grab them off her and toss them at the windows. She told me that in my early years I used to punch and kick her but she soon put a stop to that.

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