Judith Kingston
Diagnosis
in which we look ourselves up on the Internet and find nothing
One evening, over dinner,
my uncle casually told my Mum
she was autistic.
His psychologist, who had
spoken to her
once
on the phone,
had said so, which made it
gospel truth.
That night my Mum went
to bed full of emotions
that she was now
no longer supposed to
recognise
or feel.
The rest of us retreated
to the Internet to
Google our symptoms.
I had Generalised Anxiety
Disorder, my Dad
dementia (early onset).
My husband was a
depressive genius with
delusions of grandeur,
but that was no
surprise to him,
of course.
In the days that followed
we turned inward.
My dad would ask the same
questions and tell you
the same stories each
time he saw you.
I jumped at shadows,
avoided Black Spots
on familiar roads
and dissolved into
tears if anyone so much as
raised their voice.
My husband slept
less than normal,
avoided sunlight,
wrote a masterpiece,
would not speak.
When it turned out
that the psychologist
had been misquoted
we awoke to a new,
brighter light.
Getting up awkwardly,
lending each other a silent
hand, as if we were strangers
meeting for the first time.
We could not say what
each of us was thinking:
What, then,
is wrong with me?
my uncle casually told my Mum
she was autistic.
His psychologist, who had
spoken to her
once
on the phone,
had said so, which made it
gospel truth.
That night my Mum went
to bed full of emotions
that she was now
no longer supposed to
recognise
or feel.
The rest of us retreated
to the Internet to
Google our symptoms.
I had Generalised Anxiety
Disorder, my Dad
dementia (early onset).
My husband was a
depressive genius with
delusions of grandeur,
but that was no
surprise to him,
of course.
In the days that followed
we turned inward.
My dad would ask the same
questions and tell you
the same stories each
time he saw you.
I jumped at shadows,
avoided Black Spots
on familiar roads
and dissolved into
tears if anyone so much as
raised their voice.
My husband slept
less than normal,
avoided sunlight,
wrote a masterpiece,
would not speak.
When it turned out
that the psychologist
had been misquoted
we awoke to a new,
brighter light.
Getting up awkwardly,
lending each other a silent
hand, as if we were strangers
meeting for the first time.
We could not say what
each of us was thinking:
What, then,
is wrong with me?
Biography
|
Judith Kingston is a Dutch writer living in the UK. Her poems have been published in various online magazines such as Barren Magazine, Riggwelter, Poets Reading the News and Piccaroon, as well as the Fly on the Wall Press print anthology Persona Non Grata. Besides writing, she translates, teaches and occasionally narrates audiobooks.
Social media: Twitter @judithkingston Instagram @judith_kingston |
