A Day in the Mind of Courtney

  People think of autistic people as lacking empathy. It’s a stereotype I’ve heard my whole life, and every time, it stings. For some of us, it’s the exact opposite. Some of us don’t lack empathy; we have too much of it. It’s called hyper-empathy, and it means feeling everything; sometimes to the point of exhaustion. As a child, I slept with all of my stuffed animals, not because I needed them, or even wanted to, to be honest, they took up WAY too much of my space, but because I couldn’t stand the thought of any of them feeling left out. I imagined their tiny stuffed hearts breaking if I chose one over the others, so I made room for all of them. That kind of empathy never went away, it only grew. Now, I don’t just understand emotions, I ABSORB them. I feel other people’s sadness like it’s mine, even if they don’t say a word. It’s not just emotions. I can’t bear the thought of physical pain either. If someone starts talking about broken bones, car accidents, or injuries, I have to c...

  I’ve been writing for 20 years—filling notebooks with poems I never knew would see the light of day. For 20 years, I have poured myself completely, relentlessly, into my writing. I write through what I go through. I bleed, heal, and grow through poetry. Only once was writing not enough—even words couldn’t pick up the pieces of me. But beyond that dark time, I have always written through it all. Through the storms in my mind, through the moments that chip away at me slowly but surely, through the tears of joy and the moments that bring me to my knees, unsure if I can stand again, through the moments I’m not even sure if I’m sane. Poetry grounds me.  Poetry flows through my veins. It is my lifeline, my peace, my war. It is everything. All I have ever wanted is for my words to touch hearts. For my poetry to be someone else’s survival guide. If I can reach just one person—if my words can let them know, I feel your pain—maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would make a differen...

  No one talks about how painful it is to wake up. Not in the morning, but in your bones. To finally breathe through the stories you were told to bury, the stories that “weren’t that bad.” To name the things that shut your heart off. The things that killed pieces of your soul, or to sit with grief praying that it will eventually loosen its grip. They say healing should be soft, but my healing is jagged, with sharp edges. It stings where I stitched myself shut, where I told myself I would never speak of my pain. It burns when I think of how I swallowed my own voice, to protect others, to keep their name clean while destroying me. It ached when I felt so alone, like I was carrying a secret, a burden, that was dragging me down, sucking the life out of me, and stealing my peace. The hardest part is not from the wounds, but the whispers in my mind, telling me I’m weak for still hurting. For still carrying what was never mine to carry. I sometimes forget that healing is not a straight li...

  She lit your world with wonder, As she set fire to mine, Held your hand so gently, While poisoning your mind. She traced her words like satin, Tied tight around your heart, Told stories soft as velvet, Then left them all to fall apart. You saw her glow like sunrise, While I watched embers die, She built you up in laughter, And buried me in lies. Now smoke is all that lingers, And hope slips through my fingers. She lit your world with wonder, And left mine in flames.  But flames can bend the strongest steel, And fire can burn through chains. I’ve walked through all her wreckage, Yet still, I carry the pain. She wears a face of beauty, Yet hides a heart, ice cold. The sweet words she whispered, Are the same ones I was told. So when the embers settle, And you’re choking on the truth, You’ll find that all her wonder, Was just an illusion, too.