Acting Normal Costs Everything

I can hear Vicente pacing in the kitchen. Back and forth. Back and forth. I'm in bed, pretending to be asleep, but really I'm just counting his steps. It's 10:50 pm, and his dentist appointment is at 8 tomorrow morning.

This is how it always goes.

A week before any appointment, I remind him. Five days later, I remind him again. The morning of, I'll remind him one more time. Then I set my alarm for 5 am because Vicente needs exactly two and a half hours to prepare himself for the world.

An hour to shower. Thirty minutes to simmer down afterward. Thirty minutes to get dressed. Another thirty to groom. He brushes his teeth twice—once before the shower, once during grooming. It's a meticulous routine.

People assume autism is some Hollywood version of neurodivergence that gets romanticized, but it's all the contrary, it's boring and systematic. Vicente exists in spaces that weren't designed for him, and he does it because life demands adaptation.

But survival costs him something every single time.

The real desmadre, the real chaos, starts once he's in the truck, awaiting whatever madness life decides to throw our way.

We always calculate departure time, fifteen minutes to get there, give or take. The day before, we check weather conditions like meteorologists preparing for a hurricane. We're expecting rain tomorrow. We factor in traffic patterns that may or may not materialize based on the idiot drivers during morning rush. Tomorrow, we'll be competing with school traffic and work commute. If all goes well, and if I drive the way a mother drives, I should be able to clock in at the estimated arrival time window.

Once we're at the parking lot, another hurdle.

Vicente needs to know how many people will be in the lobby. How many chairs will be available. How many strangers he'll have to share air with while pretending their presence doesn't suffocate him.

Then they'll call his name, and he'll plunge into the unknown.

Vicente has seen the same dentist since he was little. They know him inside out by now. No small talk about the weather or weekend plans. No unnecessary touching beyond what the procedure requires. No direct eye contact. No invasion of his Greenland.

And most importantly, perhaps the most crucial part of his visit, do not call him "Vincent" or "Chente." A firm "Vicente" puts him at ease every time. Respect is the greatest form of flattery. It's also the minimum requirement for cooperation.

Stepping outside his man cave requires an act of will most people will never understand. The sensory assault begins the moment we leave the driveway. Car horns. Radio static. The hum of the engine. Sunlight hitting windshields at angles that stab directly into his brain. He knows he's not normal. So, acting normal exhausts every reserve of energy he possesses.

But he tries to function. God, I know he tries.

Also, he tries because I buy him McDonald's on the way home. A sausage McGriddle with orange juice shifts him back to baseline.

It's his reward for surviving another excursion. For enduring the fluorescent lights that buzz too loud and the dental tools that scrape and whir and the strangers in the waiting room who stare without meaning to.

Just existing is a challenge for him.

It's eleven now and now his pace has elevated into sprints. I can hear his feet thump like hydraulics. This is the final round before he falls asleep, nervous and exhausted.

Tomorrow will suck no matter what.

But at least he knows he won't have to do this again for six months. And that sucks a little less.

@Santitos

@salinasmariasantos

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