I was a child for the era in which measles could kill a kid. Hell, I had schoolmates who thought I had died, the year I caught all the spots. They were greatly disappointed that I was still alive, but that’s not the point of this particular diatribe.
Back in the 70’s, Asperger’s didn’t exist. Even if it did, I didn’t fit all the checkboxes.
There’s a reason why I stopped watching RomComs, apart from the Different Movie, Same Plot syndrome that wore on my patience before very long.
The sorrowful, dramatic, and heartbreaking music swells. The man in the white coat looks at his results once again and steels himself to deliver the bad news. “The results are in,” he says. “There can be no doubt. Your child is… a burden.” She screams and cries, the dramatic sting sounds as she collapses against her supportive other.
To begin with, I am not a scriptwriter, nor am I someone who writes romance for a living.
I have a part of my own brain that hates me. There have been times where I’ve joked that there’s a gremlin living in there and causing havoc.
This is the last message my friend shared with the world. On Sunday, the 24th of March, she posted this picture.