This submission is a prose piece about the mind of a child with autism spectrum disorder. The title reflects how sensations are perceived and modulated in a way that is unique to this pediatric population. Interpreting sensations may seem difficult and challenging; however, I hope this piece shows the complexity of thoughts in a mind that is always working.
A Sensational Mind
The cars are neatly arranged in a row. Blue, purple, red, yellow, orange. Set down with concentration and purpose. A wry smile and purposeful hand flapping exhibit a sense of completion and victory. The sequence is logical. It brings a sense of peace and normalcy to a life of noise and distraction. The day starts out like every other. After the cars are placed, the picture schedule on the back of the door shows today’s events. It is a school day, so unfortunately, the favorite SpongeBob Pajamas will have to stay in the closet. Oh, the dreaded texture of cotton. Left foot in, right foot in, left arm in, right arm in. Clothes are on, time to head upstairs. The Lucky Charms box is already on the counter with the Cars bowl neatly placed on the mat in front of the chair farthest from the door. Luckily, mom bought the 2% milk yesterday. Last week the fat-free milk bought at the store was immediately rejected and thrown on the floor.
“Does it really make that big of a difference!?” Yes, of course it does.
Sitting happily slurping Lucky Charms (the blue ones removed from the bowl), numbers emanate in the mind. 8, 64, 4096. Over and over again. The light from the window sends translucent images that mix into a chasm of color spinning and landing in the empty space of the 0s, 6s, and 8s. Pop.
“Time to brush your teeth and get ready for the bus.” Yes. Mom.
Standing on tip-toes hopping up the stairs one by one, the weight radiating from the toes up to the knees feels tremendously satisfying. Bounding into the bathroom with a little too much force, a perfume bottle crashes to the floor.
“DONOVAN!” Agh, sorry mom.
The bottle is so pungent it causes a gag reflex. Pugh. The whiz and hum of the toothbrush is so mesmerizing that it takes several moments to remember that toothpaste has to actually be applied to the brush.
“Come on Donovan, you are going to be late.” Yes. Mom.
After making sure to watch the toothy timer hit 0:00 it is time to put on the packpack and head to the bus stop.
The bus labors down the road, the breaks creaking, creating an awfully high pitch. When it comes to a complete stop, an incessant beeping tells the whole world of its presence. With instinct, the hands cradle tightly over both earlobes. Entering the bus is the most daunting part of the whole experience. Everyone is chattering and moving about. Remember. Count to 5 and take deep breaths. 1, 2, 3…
“Hi Donovan, how are you today, honey?” The words do not come. Still taking deep breaths. …4,5.
Row 7 next to the window. 7, 49, 2401. Thankfully that boy with the frizzy hair and dirt between his fingernails is not sitting there. That last meltdown was not pretty. Dora’s voice brings some comfort, “Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping.” The lyrics come and go freely. Rumbling along Cross Street we pass by the steeple with the big black cross. Cross, triangle, rhombus, trapezoid. Swiper, no swiping. The bus swings into the parking lot, abruptly stopping in front of the doors with a bold, black 6 above them. 6, 36, 1296.
“Have a good day at school!” Still taking deep breaths. …6,7.
The same other boys that usually walk through door 6 shuffle through the corridor, chirping about who knows what, making their way to Mrs. Haley’s classroom.
“Good morning Donovan.” Silence.
“No, try again. Good morning Donovan.” “Gooo Mournin.”
“No, try again. Remember who you are looking at!”
Ugh. Mrs. Haley insists in making eye contact. What’s the big deal? Eyes meet, but dart away the next instant. “Goo Mournin.”
“Very good, now go put your backpack away. You have five minutes to play with Buzz.”
Skipping over to the cubbies finding the third peg from the door, putting away the packpack and coat, Buzz Lightyear awaits patiently for his next mission. To infinity and beyond! Calling all space rangers…there seems to be no signs of intelligent life anywhere.
“Alright Donovan, time to start your calendar.”
There seems to be no signs of intelligent life anywhere.
“Donovan, put Buzz away. Today is Tuesday, write it down.”
It cannot have been 5 minutes already. 5, 25, 625…when will it be math time?
“Today is Tuesday.” 2’sday. 2, 4, 16, 64.
“No, Donovan, it is not time for math right now.” Ugh, well when will it be? There seems to be no signs of intelligent life anywhere.
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