Stick a fork in me, Jerry. I’m done.

Some days I worry that I’ve been trained so well to pass as neurotypical, that I’ve forgotten how to be myself.  I don’t blame my parents for doing their best to ensure I’d have a future after they were no longer around.  My mom was 40, and my dad in his 50’s when they adopted me.  They were pragmatic.  They were deliberate in how they raised me, and had far more insight into my future struggles due to my race than I realized in real time.  But on days like today, when I’m struggling, I notice my inner desire to stop straining so hard, so often.  I’m afraid to stop.  I don’t know what will happen if I do.  I know how to find out, though.

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