Page 127 of Unapologetic Love Story

You made it out. It’s over.

She moved towards the short steps that were attached to the stage, in her own time. She didn’t force herself to process the moment. She gave her brain a chance to breathe for once.

As she staggered towards the podium, the presenter kissed her cheek and handed her the award.

‘Wow, they love you,’ the previous winner said graciously.

‘Thanks,’ was all Raina could force out, as she stood before the audience.

‘Okay,’ she added, when the room finally hushed. A countdown clock on the foot of the stage stared up at her. ‘Didn’t prepare a speech so here we go.’

Sometimes you were so used to loss as a default setting that you never imagined winning.

Her eyes returned to the steps she’d just walked up. They caused the air in her lungs to settle and the ringing in her ears to stop.

‘You know,’ she said in a conversational tone, not looking away from the steps. The microphone cast her voice out over the audience’s heads, and her words soared around the auditorium like a bird breaking out of its cage. ‘There should really be a ramp there.’

The presenters on stage coughed and Raina could feel them glance at one another, while the clock ticked on. She could feel them wanting her to be normal. To be predictable and brief and easy. It was a feeling she was used to. For a long time, she’d mentally beaten herself black and blue, trying to get better at appeasing people. At being more of what they wanted.

You didn’t think anyone would care, she reminded herself. You didn’t think anyone would see your true nature and be totally at peace with it. That they would love it. But look at this. Look at all of this.

‘Thank you to the judges,’ she said, staring down at the glass award in her sweating hands. ‘Thank you to the fans and the sponsors and the patrons. I didn’t expect anyone to listen.’

She glanced back at the steps, unable to stop herself.

‘Thank you to the Mondays for letting me come tonight.’

Letting you?

She frowned at the words as soon as they were said. She could almost hear his voice, telling her that no one let her do anything. That she shouldn’t be beholden to anyone.

The silence of the room was piercing but she stood before the microphone, aghast at how tender she felt.

‘Letting me come tonight,’ she repeated, mostly to herself, but the words naturally echoed around the hall. ‘Thank you for nominating me? No, that’s weird, too. No one else tonight has said that.’

More coughs and a few people in the first rows shifting.

‘I notice things like that,’ she breathed. ‘What other people do. Social patterns. What I have to do to bridge the gaps. I so often feel like there’s this big crater between me and other people. I’ve never been able to jump across it.’

You haven’t thought about that chasm in for ever. You know exactly who made you forget it even existed.

She took a shuddering breath, feeling as though she were running uphill despite standing completely still, in the most beautiful shoes.

‘Someone I know kept asking me why I started this podcast. Why I started talking about being an autistic woman. Which then became a show interviewing other disabled women. And I could say something about the terrible demographics of representation. Or about diversity. Or about finding a voice. But I’ve always had a voice. Everyone does. I don’t believe in all of that “voice for the voiceless” crap. No one is voiceless – some people just don’t know how to vary their listening skills.’

Someone on the upper level laughed loudly at that.

‘Maybe . . .’ She ran her thumb across her name on the award. ‘Maybe I don’t know what being an autistic woman is. I’ve always felt like a mermaid, stumbling about on land trying to pretend that she’s human. I’m still unlearning so much. So much of what the world said I would be. What all of us should be. Maybe the show was always for me. Just me. Telling myself it was okay to exist. Exactly as I am. Happy hands. Routine. Small circle of loved ones.’

God, I wish you were with me. I wish you were in this crowd. You understood better than anyone. In the end.

‘I sort of wanted to prove that we’re just like everyone else. We’re not inspirational. We’re not special. We love takeaways and bowling. Karaoke. Sex. Sorry if that offends some of you, but it’s true.’

She pulled the award closer and glanced fleetingly at the clock.

‘But the more I set out to prove that we were like everyone else, the more I saw beautiful, defiant, unapologetic difference. That’s a word I think about a lot. Unapologetic. I think I’ve been called “unapologetic” by the press more than any other word. What does that even mean? What are autistic women supposed to be apologizing for? Why should our default state be apologetic? Should I apologize for wanting a better world? Where there are ramps. No bans on service animals. No lack of subtitles. And nobody, but nobody, droning on and on about the only disability in life being a bad attitude, or any shit like that. I got so scared of people’s hate. So scared of the always predictable criticism. So, I did what so many disabled girls do. I buckled down and made sure I worked ten times harder. But that’s not enough any more. I want us to be loud. And so yeah. Fuck yeah. I’m unapologetic. I’ll never apologize for any of that. You can send hordes of angry trolls or bad faith government ministers or slimy hacks after me, I don’t care. You can program bots to call me a slur. You can say I’m dangerous. But I know the truth. It’s fine to be the way I am. It’s more than fine. I’ll say it over and over and over again and I’ll never be fucking apologetic for it. I like us the way we are. And if you don’t, nobody fucking asked you.’

She touched her beautiful dress for a moment and held the fabric between two of her fingers. She searched the stalls until her gaze landed on someone specific.