A Story About Autism

-Taste the Music-

People are afraid of the dark because when the lights are out there are so many things that can’t be seen. Rod Sterling once said, “There is nothing in the dark that we cannot see when the lights are on”. I was never afraid of the dark but I am afraid of things I can’t see. All of these things that I can’t understand or interpreter. Those are the scary things and in a world with so many different people and so many different ideas there is so much that I can’t see. I’m blind. I’m so blind.

            I have a brother named Dustin who has these terribly big blue eyes that are always fixed on something that I cannot see. He reaches his hands up and touches things that are nonexistent to my world. Perhaps it’s some sort of light that warms him, or a kite that is flying just above his head. I could only imagine all sorts of floating things that could distract him from the ground.

            The thing I love about Dustin is that he doesn't see people for their physical form. I've seen little white babies shriek at their first encounter with a black person and vice versa. I don’t know where it comes from or why it’s there but we fear the different. Dustin doesn't. He’s not a part of the “we”. He’s not a part of the “us”.  He is Dustin and he lives for Dustin where as I am the big brother who lives for everyone else. I am the business man of society, everyone else is a consumer, and Dustin… he’s Dustin.

            I wish I could find more words to describe him but he’s not really a child of literacy. When I watch him sometimes I think I could write for a hundred lifetimes about who is and what he does but when I actually sit down with a piece of paper in front of me it becomes much more difficult. No word can capture the colors he sees and the worlds he touches. For now I’ll stick to my thoughts. Maybe one day I’ll collect enough of them and organize them on a sheet of paper but until then it will be internal.

            After our parents death I took Dustin in. At the time I was eighteen and he was only ten. Now I’m climbing towards my midtweeties and he’s in his teen years. He has so much rage that he doesn’t understand. These feelings are too human for him and he expresses it with this terrible rage. That’s why I think he does what he does. He does it because we are all built like little robots with different and unique systems. Dustin’s a bit short circuited, or perhaps we are the ones with the short circuits. The system isn't operating correctly. It can feel the commands. It can feel the need to complete something but the controls are different. The buttons are lost.

            He doesn't talk much and when he does most people can’t understand him. It’s easy to pick up his language but it’s hard to find someone who actually takes the time to.

            I’m sitting, at this very moment, at one end of our long dining room table and eating something that has taken me way too long to prepare based on the fact that we very well do have a personal chief.

            Dustin will only eat with music playing and every so often he will request a certain band to be played. Tonight’s request is the entire BeeGee’s best hits album.

            “Dustin.” I say. He doesn't respond.

            “Dustin, why is your mouth open?” He opens his mouth even wider and closes his eyes.

            “Taste the music. Louder. Louder.”  He responds. I stand up from my seat and turn the volume up as loud as it can go. The entire house is erupting in eighties music. The silverware is bouncing on the table, the floorboards feel as though they are being vibrated out of place, and Dustin is sitting in the midst of it all just tasting the music. I wonder what it tastes like. The music.

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This is an exert from a fictional story written by Amber Allegrucci. 2015 

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If you or anyone you know is affected by Autism send this their way.
""Autism isn't a processing error. It's a different operating system."

Dear Diary,

"At school we had to take a test that would tell us our most probable future career. Everyone take a look at Amber Allegrucci the 'professional birthday party clown'. My mom is going to be so proud."

"If there was a way to teleport from my bedroom to the bathroom I would be a happy costumer."

"My writings are my prized possessions. I've written since I could hold a pen and each and every one of my characters are my friends.... until dad throws out the giant box of stories I've written since I was nine. Then the characters die a little, right? Damn."

Can I technically say I've written seven books? No? Okay.

I think a lot of people think keeping a journal is like in the movies where the beautiful protagonist writes all about her boy troubles and then somehow those pages she's written all about how amazing his butt looks in football pants gets plastered all over the high school halls.
No. No. No! Just no!

While I'm sure we would all love that sort of story and have the gorgeous football player sweep the young dorky damsel off her feet you also have to think about all of the other pages written in this book.

I know very well that if someone opened up my journal they wouldn't have the slightest idea how to react. Why is this?
Well, I don't always stick to writing in my journals. Sometimes I just slap down whatever jumps out of my mind. If I'm feeling angry maybe I'll just pull out an old crayon, press it down nice and hard on the paper, and color the entire page black.
 If I'm hungry I might right the word CHEESEBURGER multiple times until I actually come across a cheeseburger. Perhaps in a few minutes following my cheeseburger discovery I'll be writing BLLECKKK BLEEARRGGG UGGHHHH.

This one's more recent.

Keeping a journal has always always always been a great way to figure out how the wheels turn. Think of your mind like a giant machine with intricate pieces of mechanics that fit perfectly into each other. As we all know, machines don't always work the way we want them to (cough...Windows ....cough). Maybe something gets stuck in the spokes somewhere.

Well.... now what!?

Open up your journal. Look back at what has been building up over the past few weeks. Fights with the parents? Stress in school? Can't pay the bills? You'd be surprised how we can over look our own emotions until the very last minute. By then anxiety strikes.
If you can't exactly figure something out, write. Just write whatever comes to mind.

After losing my grandma during my Sophomore year in High School I fought with myself over what death was and overcame a lot of anxiety I faced towards what would happen and where I would go after I was finished with this life. I also had a difficult time thinking of all of the things I wanted to share with my Gram and how I wouldn't get to show her everything I've achieved after her passing.

Growing up it's easy to forget who we once were and how we once thought. I never knew I felt this way about so and so and I forgot how much I looked up to my big sister or brother. You might look back one day and appreciate how far you've come. All of the little challenges that surrounded the bigger ones and all of the accomplishes that have been forgotten somewhere in a sea of time and faces. All of these moments we've forgotten. Opening up an old journal is like opening up a door to the past.

Apparently I practically lived at the theater when I was younger.

Are you feeling a certain color today? Yellow... maybe pink? Good, grab a crayon and start scribbling. Make it sloppy, nobody is judging you here. It's your own sanctuary. A little piece of your mind on a sheet of paper. Yours.


It's crazy how different we all are. How so many different thoughts and ideas just come through at different times and how so many different emotions shine through. So many thoughts and reactions. It's scary. It's sad. It's beautiful. It's wonderful.

Find yourself! Have fun! Keep a journal!