By Caiseal Mór
Becoming up in Australia within the Nineteen Seventies, Caiseal Mor was once labelled 'retarded' and 'an idiot', and his mom and dad have been resulted in think that actual punishment might medication his autism. during this brave and eye-catching autobiography, Mor vividly captures his early stories of dissociation from his precise life - a standard response by means of kids struggling with repeated abuse - and a few of the personas in which he lived via in his kids and early maturity - the Mahjee, Charles P. Puddlejumper, Marco Polo and Chameleon Feeble. The rocky course in the direction of getting to know his precise identification and at last accepting himself takes him on a non secular pilgrimage through numerous assorted nations, as soon as approximately getting stuck unwittingly sporting medications over the Moroccan border; forming relationships with humans he meets yet quite often misjudges; to the revelation - the awakening - of affection and reputation.
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Additional info for A Blessing and a Curse: Autism and Me
She picked me up by the scruff and shrieked at me – calling me a filthy bastard. ’ she yelled. ’ As she held me up by the collar she asked God why He’d dumped me in her lap. What had she done to deserve it? Why couldn’t she have 40 had a normal little boy instead of a retarded idiot who couldn’t even be potty trained? She threw me against the wall and punched me hard in the face over and over. Apparently I didn’t cry. I just put up my hands over my face and curled up tight, as usual, to wait until she was done.
His old man would watch me getting beaten up. Sometimes he’d shake his head when I fell to the ground. He’d always walk away, unwilling to intervene. I took a few weeks of this punishment before Auntie told me not to come and visit. My cousin also got a talking to from his mother. I don’t think he ever forgave me for whatever trouble I got him into. Forced to observe from a distance I watched Uncle working. I’d take note of every detail. I was there when he fed the chickens, turned eggs in the incubator, cut chaff for the goat or ploughed the soil behind an antique rotary hoe that spewed black diesel-smoke as the engine cranked up.
Anything was better than the toilet. In the mid-sixties the sewer system hadn’t reached the outer suburbs of Brisbane where the farms and the bush began. The outside toilet, nicknamed the dunny can, was a little shed in the back garden. It was just big enough to house a large tin set inside a wooden box that had a hole cut in the top. In daylight the whole world could see me going out there. I hated being watched so I rarely went by day. I’ve always been an extremely private person. After sunset there were bad feelings hanging around the dunny.