Managing Whilst Autistic

This popped into my head, almost fully formed, after a recent therapy session. I hope it speaks to you.

You walk into the smithy, shifting awkwardly, not sure where to look or what to say. The armourer seems intent on her work, so you wait, lulled by the heat, the roaring of the flames, the complex rhythms of the hammer, until she quenches the piece she's working on and acknowledges your presence.

“I need...” you start “a new suit... of armour, I mean.”

As though she might think you'd mistake her for a tailor.

“Sure,” she responds after a moment's thought, “I can probably managed that. What do you need?”

“Well... something like this.” You gesture vaguely at the weathered but well-maintained suit you walked in wearing. “But... umm... better?” you trail off, embarrassed.

She appraises you more seriously now, experienced eyes darting over worn straps, patches, rivets and dents. Her lips firm, and she peers closer.

“Is that...? Wow! This is old! That's my dad's mark and he put down the hammer years ago.”

She squints at you.

“You can't have been more than, what, 9, maybe 10, when this was made for you?”

You nod.

“Well, I'd say it doesn't owe you anything, that's for sure.

“And these repairs and additions, it's amateur work but solid. Did you do this yourself?””

Another nod. Her eyebrows lift.

“I'm impressed. Must be heavy as hell though, and tight here, here, here.” She points.

Nod.

“And you didn't just wear it here so I could see it on you, did you? Must be quite the workout getting it off and on.””

“Sometimes I sleep in it” you admit.

“That explains the bags under the eyes too then.”

She's not beating around the bush trying to spare your feelings. It's refreshing. You find yourself trusting her a little more.

“I'd like something a bit easier to get out of,” you tell her, “maybe a bit more modular? So I can just wear what I need when I need it?”

“Right! You're not going to need head-to-toe plate very often. What sort of fights are you getting into anyway?”

You shrug. “Have to be careful of bandits.”

“True.” She smiles, not unkindly. “Not a lot of bandits in the city these days though. Mind if I ask about this?”

She puts a hand on the heavily reinforced left side of your cuirass. You nod again.

“It's pretty heavy reinforcement that, and my dad wouldn't have put it in, so why did you? You get hit there a lot?”

“Yeah.” you reply, a little too quickly, and then hesitate. “Well... a couple of times. Once anyway. I was 14. Jumped by a couple of kids from school. They left me feeling pretty bruised and I didn't want to get caught out the same way so I vowed I'd never go without my armour again, and reinforced it to be sure.”

“Well, I'm sure it's done the job you needed it for but I agree it doesn't really work any more. These straps you let out as you grew, they're really too short for an adult.

“Tell you what,” she says, business-like now, “how about you leave that with me, I give it a proper inspection and then give you some ideas on what would work better. Come back next Tuesday maybe?”

“That... would be great,” you manage to get out, “I'll see you then.”

You turn to leave already feeling lighter, and you're almost at the door when you hear a polite cough and turn back, worried that you've made some faux pas. She's smiling though.

“Aren't you forgetting something?” she asks?

“No, I don't think...” you tail off, “oh, right! Sometimes I just forget I'm wearing it...”