Why I can’t be Fucked even trying to conform to Neurotypical expectations of what I should be.

I’m about to turn 54 in a couple of months. This lifetime is, as lifetimes do, slipping away on me.

So it can’t come as a great surprise that I’m turning pensive, as opposed to petulant when dealing with this slowly evaporating life I have.

Death scares me. It doesn’t scare me as much as it once did, but I still feel a chill when I stop to talk to it. The reason why Death doesn’t scare me as much as it once did is because Death has been deposed in my life. A revolution has happened, and one particular peasant has led Death to the guillotine, so to speak.

So what is it that could depose Death? Which charismatic peasant has roused the masses, fired up the proletariat and stormed the dictators fortress?

The peasant leader that has managed this unusual coup is the fear that I will get to the end of this lifetime and as I lay dying, I will know that I could have lived this lifetime better. The fear that I could have done more is what scares me.

I will NEVER be Neurotypical. My karma is that I am Neurodiverse. My brain stem is wired in a subtle yet different way to yours.

So going back to the fact that I’m about to turn 54, and I have this fear, I am also left with a question: Why should I even attempt to conform to what Neurotypical expectations of what I should be and how I should be living?

So when I’m in the climbing gyms or telling people that I’m training for a 10 km run and a 230 km walk and in two weeks will do my first 100 + km bike ride, do I care that some people (all of which are Neurotypical) think I shouldn’t be doing these things?

Yes, I do.

However my friend the fear comes to my rescue. My friend tells me that the alternative to the morning walk and now run before 6.30, the alternative to the determination to trash 10 000 steps a day, the alternative to taking care in what I eat and drink, the alternative to the decision to go FULL BEAST and climb until I fall off walls or my hands quit (whichever comes first) and the full throated scream as I throw myself into a transformation that has me as a toned, silver haired god as its sole goal, is to be like my brother.

Mark was dead at 60 years, 6 months and two weeks.

I’ll let that just stand there.

I do the math and that age isn’t getting any further away on me.

I say to people: Want to fuck eagles?
Learn to fly.

Because I am an Aspie, because I have never managed to completely hide my Neurodiversity and because this lifetime is evaporating on me. Because I have absolutely no fucking intention of being dead at 60 from suicide by diet as my beloved brother was. Because laying on my death bed and knowing it’s a tad fucking late to screw that 40 year old witless or to walk that 1000 km trail scares me shitless, I can’t be fucked even trying to conform to Neurotypical expectations of what I should be.