Prisoner.

I feel like a prisoner.
Being held hostage by Autism; by anxiety.
Enclosed in a house with no way out, locked windows and doors.
Curtains drawn to avoid the bright sunlight and the shadows of the unknown.
Dressed in a uniform dictated by my captor; by sensory processing problems.
Clothes that are soft and loose. Not itchy and scratchy.
Eating meals at a set time; the exact same time everyday.
The same foods, the same, over and over.
Drinking squash from lidded cups to avoid accidents or purposeful spillages.
Cups of tea only being aloud at quiet times when it will not get knocked over.
Captive. Being watched. Being told what to do.
No music allowed as it all is too ‘painful’; being dictated to by the senses.
Forced into silence. No talking. No singing.
Told where to sit, we all have our spaces.
Never to swap, or to move, or to change.
Instructed, ordered, pushed around.
Dictated to by the clock.
Strict routine to adhere to.
Days out by permission only.
Always accompanied, never alone.
Scared of consequences, bolting, meltdowns.
Fear of crowds, an attack on the senses…
….wanting to go back to the sanctuary, the safe place…
…the prison.

Not imprisoned by my child or the diagnosis.
Imprisoned by anxiety.
Anxiety; that all consuming need for routine, for things to always stay the same.
Control. Driven by anxiety.
My captor.

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