And still I want to go back in time. It is a very real battle, and I am not sure I can express it well.
I know what I would have done, if only I knew – but it is not like that chance will come around again. It never does. Not really. How can I learn from the things I did wrong, when society won’t give me that chance?
It permeates my days, and captures my mind, and I cannot move forward. It isn’t that I won’t. I am stuck. Obsessed. Fixated. Perseverating.
I can’t move on, or dream other dreams… what else fills me with such passion? What else fills my heart with longing.
There is no such thing as time travel. I hear it again and again, often in the voice of my highly logical, autistic son. You can’t go back. It doesn’t matter.
Only it does, and I want to, and explaining to me that it is impossible does nothing to lessen the severity of my desire. I want this. More than anything else, I want this.
Like a toddler who is told they cannot have a toy, I do not understand. This is my weakness. This is my strength. I cannot let go.
A lifeline – does it cause me to miss out on my future, or is it the tool I need to carry on, this desire, this demand, this scream of frustration… I must go back. I have to – don’t you see?
There is no future without the past. I cannot move on forgetting who I am, and who I am was torn from me somewhere back there. Back in those days that seemed to never end. Back in that life that brings me such pain to remember, but I must.
It wasn’t a part of me I left behind – they were all of me. The accumulation of my dreams, my passions, my purpose to live.
I exist in the present, but no more than I would exist in a nightmare. I don’t belong here, alone, having lost that which I came for.
There should be logic in my mind, should there not? Isn’t that a qualifying factor in Asperger’s? Only I am not logical. No one could accuse me of that fault. I can see the connections. I know the part I play in this life I have been given. I have no delusions of how great and faultless I am.
I know of my failures – more than anyone else, I know where I went wrong. But should that mean I cannot start again?
It does not matter that the laws of time and space, history, knowledge keep me from these desires of my own.
Impossible is living the life others have required of me. Impossible is understanding that they are demanding one thing, while telling me another. Impossible is living forward when I only understand what is behind.
So they will find me, seeking with all of me, to return and change the patterns of the past, so I can live in the future.
Impossible is their world, not mine, and I am not delusional.