False Positives
Trauma turned ordinary life into one of those smoke alarms that screams because someone made toast.
Burnt bread.
Emergency!
Steam from the shower.
Emergency!
A loose shoelace.
Probably the beginning of the end.
The calibration never recovered.
The sensor never forgot the fire.
After that, smoke lost its monopoly.
Dust qualified.
Butter made the cut.
False positives multiplied.
Body kept pulling people out of buildings that had perfectly good kitchens.
Embarrassment snuck into the ritual.
Sorry.
Everything’s fine.
Nothing was burning.
Again.
Relief develops distrust.
Ease earns a reputation for being temporary.
Good news feels unfinished, as if another paragraph got lost in the post.
Joy is never quite unpacked; the suitcase hangs out by the door.
One day, toast burns.
The alarm sleeps through it.
Panic waits for its cue.
Silence.
Breakfast continues.
Life keeps its appointment with itself.
Forgotten birthdays end with cake.
Sharp replies die where they were spoken.
Slamming doors return to being architecture.
The volume knob finds the middle again.
Toast burns.
Breakfast wins.
— Autistic Ang
* Upgrade to Paid! My accountant is just a calculator and lots of optimism.
Teaches your alarm system the difference between toast and fire. Not a replacement for therapy, just a really good companion. ⬇️
Adult Autism 101
If you’ve got a post you’re tired of wrestling with, I also offer done-for-you rewrites here
I don't think I can put into words why exactly this hit me so deeply, but it really did. I haven't gotten to the point where the volume turns down or the false alarms have stopped going off, but I'm still working on it. Maybe what hit was how much I related. Thank you for writing and sharing.