Personal Narrative: Asperger Syndrome

With heavily lidded eyes, I pushed the start button on the coffee maker. Glancing at the digital clock on the oven 4:03 A.M. flashed at me in green LED letters. Closing at work seemed to take exceptionally long the night before, probably due to the upcoming holiday season. At least reorganizing the shelves was therapeutic to my detail-oriented nature. With a sigh, I began to make space to do homework on the cluttered kitchen table. Sluggishly pulling out my calculus book from my bag, I paused for a moment. When was the last time we had a family dinner together? When I was twelve? Fourteen, maybe? As the warm aroma of coffee filled the small kitchen, I shook my head and stood up to make my daily cup of Joe.
“Have you ever hear of Asperger Syndrome?”, my doctor directed the question at my father who nodded in confirmation as if he expected that question. My heart dropped. Syndrome? I had a disability? No, there is no way. The kids at school already saw me as a social pariah due to my exceptional math skills and weird accent I had due to not correctly pronounce r’s. The last thing I needed was another thing to alienate myself from my peers, therefore I made a pact with my sixth-grade self to never let anyone find out.
was not how I imagined having a life changing revelation. It was sophomore year and my mother was lying in a hospital bed after suffering from a stroke. Her doctor explained to us how her mental battle with bipolar worsening could have been one of several causes of having a stroke this early in her life, and after she recovers her mental state will only decline. I drowned out the discussion of my father and doctor on possible treatment paths as I slipped into my mind. Not once has my family discussed my mother’s disability openly, nonetheless mine. It seemed to be the Helms family way of thinking when it came to dealing with anything, whether it’s monetary or health issues. And maybe that was our