I’ve never met anyone who is normal

I waited six months for the appointment, and when it came, I had to take a half day from work. Like always, I broke down in tears within the first five minutes and I left, having being offered CBT. Despite agreeing with me that I exhibit many spectrummy characteristics, the nice bald man with the exasperated face, shabby trousers and mountains of paperwork, the same with whom I felt a rapport – known as transference – that many feel when asked probing questions in an intimate setting by a professional brain interrogator, which dissipated the instant I walked out of the airless, prison issue room, where I had been illicitly, with his permission, chuffing on my e-fag to alleviate the excrutiation of telling this stranger things I barely acknowledge to myself, into the the bleaching mid October sun, had basically said I was normal. In that he’s never met anyone who was. So, for all my awkward, weak-wristed, hyper lexic, obsessional, guileless, intolerant, genetically disposed characteristics, I’m basically fine. Just as I was before. No piece of paper will ever waive my standard issue rights and responsibilities, and I will continue to sit in the box that I and society have carved for myself. And yet, and yet, there is always a yet, you can be helped, he said. But only if you help yourself. And there is the rub, for if I could, I would – but how on earth will I find the time for that?