I really don’t stim. Oh no. Definitely not.
Except when I suck my thumb when I want to relax or bite my lip till it bleeds when I’m anxious.
Or when I pick at my scabs or dried flakes of skin on my scalp. And then *gasp* eat it. That one I don’t even notice, but I’m guessing everyone else does. I don’t know why I do that one. Something to do with liking the texture between my teeth.
And me rocking in the corner, banging my head, when I’m upset. Oh no, that doesn’t count.
Neither does skipping with excitement, shouting for joy, bouncing like Tigger. Bounce bounce.
Or spinning. Round and round and round and round. Feeling happy and giddy and slightly drunk.
Or being unable to walk through a clothes shop without touching, rubbing, petting the soft soft fabrics. Or rubbing cuddly toys against my cheek. Or picking fresh young leaves off bushes when I pass, rolling and pressing and squishing them between my fingers. Or sitting and watching the flames flicker from candles and fires. Or spinning a spinning top for hours on end, or more recently a fidget spinner. Or throwing feathers into the air just so I can watch them land.
No, I can’t be autistic because I don’t have any stims.
I really and truly don’t. Do I? I do? They count?
I remember the day the penny dropped.