The Autistic Person Speaks Out by Richard Plowden

I really find it such a stigma
That men to me are an enigma,
(That, greatly to my consternation,
I just cannot make conversation.)
Yes, though I call them sisters, brothers,
A mystery to me are others.
Even on the outside they’re a riddle,
So what on earth is in the middle?
Perhaps it could turn out to be
The very same as is in ME.
And so I’ll try as Buddha tried,
Then others I should understand,
And, thwarting what the ego planned,
Silent, behold the work of God’s own hand.


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Mad in America hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. These posts are designed to serve as a public forum for a discussion—broadly speaking—of psychiatry and its treatments. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.