Illustration © Riki Blanco

The Asperger Syndrome one has it for the entire life. At least, I have been told that  by the professionals who treat me, and I believe it. Moreover, it probably has been different from the moment I discovered the world and the world discovered me.

I would like to be able to build a small puppet theater, a place in front of which you could sit and, amazed, you were spectators of the incessant dance that is established among you in comparison with the solitude, rigid and icy, that suffers a person with Autism.

I would like to be able to teach you the Asperger’s Universe, but for that I should transcend myself. I would have to translate my microcosm, explain the Asperger Syndrome with your words.

And that is impossible, of course. Impossible because, if I were able to express myself in your language, I would be able to free myself of the invisible armor that separates me from your reality and during my exercise of translation, I could breathe your atmosphere, see your colors and feel your emotions.

And then, upon returning to the Asperger’s Universe, I would have memories. Experiences stored in my mind that would turn me into a frontier being, a person destined to live between two Cosmos.

I would not have Asperger. And it is not like that. I reiterate: the Asperger is for entire life.

So, I am forced to write in my language. I think, feel and do it in a single language, and this is different from what you use to talk, fight, discuss … In short, to live.

It is difficult to accept this reality.

However, in some way I am able to communicate with you. Maybe that is like some recovery for someone with Asperger’s or Autism: comprehensive communication with non-Autistic people. Sounds good, right?

Perhaps, but it is only an artifice, an illusion of an amateur magician and something awkward. You read with non-Autistic eyes, and so turn my words into a wonderful trick of magic. The work you do, I just hide behind a cloud of smoke.

But I write. I dress in my magician outfit and practice incessantly the manual stunts, tricks with saws, revolving doors and sharp daggers.

That is recovery. The attempt (never forced) not only to be among you, but also to be with you.

At least, that’s recovery for me. That is what has made me stop taking refuge in an increasingly claustrophobic Universe.

I am a magician and you are public, yes, but at least we are all together this spectacle.

And as a final note (perhaps long and serious, reassuring and profound), I would like you to imagine while being young, happy and carefree, with a globe in hand and walking through a fair on an afternoon when the sun dyes golden reality.

That globe is a treasure. It is yours, only yours. You watch closely. You see its brightness, its shape, its vivid colors, how it dances alongside the breeze …

Suddenly, the balloon escapes from your hands.

Your heart is racing: what to do? You cry, shout, beg … But the globe has already been lost in the immensity of the atmosphere.

Years later, that spring scene is already just an anecdote. One among others. Many others, maybe. Maybe too many.

Anecdotally after anecdote, an imprint begins to form, an emotional pinch that perhaps creates sighs, orphan tears of motives or howls never released. A footprint that makes you see reality like a jersey that does not suit you. Maybe it stings, or maybe it’s too loose.

So is the recovery in my Asperger: picky, annoying, but also rewarding. Mature. It is a state in which, autistic anecdote after autistic anecdote, I have learned to live, not without traces, in a reality that always, luckily or unfortunately, will be foreign to me.

Rosa del Hoyo