Woke up. Maybe.

A week-and-a-half ago I heard an interview with David Finch. He's a man with Asperger's syndrome who's written a book about his experiences recognizing and coping with it. I very much enjoyed the interview but as it progressed, as Mr. Finch described his experiences, I began to feel a bit of horror. His descriptions of himself could, in many ways, be descriptions of myself. So I found an online Asperger's test—one of the short ones that I suspect are dangled as bait to lure in hypochondriacs and the bored—and I took it. And it came up positive.

Oy.

I don't want to be autistic.

But it would explain a lot. And if it is the case, I'd better deal with it. So, the last week-and-a-half have been a bit nightmareish. Every move, every thought, every sentence out of my mouth has been intensely scrutinized against the understanding I have of autism. I've been doing the scrutinizing. That itself almost sounds like a symptom. It's fatiguing. I've decided to attempt a journal of sorts to keep track of my thoughts, musings, findings as I figure out whether or not I'm on the autism spectrum disorders (ASD).