The Black Balloon

My fingers are moving along the clavier at an incredibly fast pace. The notes I am producing swim into my ears and danced through my body. The cold, white keys of my grand piano fit perfectly beneath my finger tips as Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata swirl through the air with every chord. Although I can't read the notes on the pages before me, I somehow know exactly where to place each finger and execute every arpeggio with complete perfection.

Communicating;
Learning;
Social interaction –
The black balloon.

My mind is racing a million miles an hour. My heart is pounding with the impossible task that lay before me. I have to tell her how I felt. I have to reach out and communicate my feelings. How? What am I meant to say? I know how I feel, but the black balloon is stopping me from communicating my feelings through speech. It's like I am chasing the words, but I can't run fast enough to catch them. My vocabulary is a fog of incorrect words and uncertain meaning. It isn't like I am about to ask this woman on a date, she's my mother for god sake. All I wantto do is answer her question. I can't even do that. The only words I can muster from by blurred vocabulary are “school – yuck”

Learning;
Social interaction –
The Black Balloon.

My piano. What would I do without my piano? My piano provides me with comfort beyond explanation. My piano gives me a confidence that can only be understood by people like me. Without my piano my life would be incomplete. The fortitude and speed with which I strike the keys is determined by my state of mind.

As I sit down at my piano, I am instantaneously at ease. My mind is calm and I have found an inner peace. My heart is still pounding, but now it’s because of the joy that is filling my entire being. My body and my soul. When I’m playing the piano, my brain lacks exertion. My fingers do the work; it’s as if they have a mind of their own. The black balloon vacates my mind and I am at one with my piano.

Learning;
Social interaction –
The Black Balloon

My eleven-year-old brain is so incredibly overwhelmed. The words on the page all melt into one another. It is difficult for me to make a connection between a word and its meaning. I struggle to understand what the question entailes and why it was even important. I take refuge beneath the kitchen table, hoping today’s lesson will soon be over. The woman with the glasses and red lipstick, alongside my mother sit with me, underneath the table, trying so hard to teach me, to make me understand, but I just can't. The frustration is boiling inside my body. I scream. I yell. I cry. The black balloon is today, darker than ever.

Social interaction –
The Black Balloon.

My savour is my piano. My piano allows me to escape from the black balloon. When I play my piano, the black balloon no longer exists. I wish I could never stop playing my piano. Beethoven’s Pastoral Sonata begins as my fingertips touch the keys. I relax. Exquisite music fills the room with an indescribable beauty. I can feel the ambience. I can feel the melody. I can feel the music. Hours pass, but they feel like minutes. I escape from the black balloon.

Social interaction –
The Black Balloon.

“Retard” That’s what the kids at school call me. They don’t understand. I am not like them. I can’t learn, I can barely speak, and I look a little different. I sit at my desk and line up the textas and the pens. They are colour coordinated and arranged in ascending order. Smallest to largest. This is what I do. This is what I enjoy. They wouldn’t understand. I look up. The big boy in the year level above me is walking over to my desk. His eyes are dark and his face is a murky shadow of anger. Why is he angry? What did I do? Nothing. The answer is always nothing. He isn’t like me. He can’t understand. Loser! He yells in my face. I want to stand up and yell back at him. I want to hurt him, like he hurts me. I can’t. Instead, I sit at my desk with my colour coordinated textas. My eyes well up with tears and I cry. The salty liquid stings my eyes and rolls down my cheeks. The black balloon will explode.

The Black Balloon.

The woman with the glasses and red lipstick peers down at me as I sit underneath our kitchen table. She is talking to me and I understand every beautiful word that escapes her smooth, red lips. But I am faced with the same blockage that will never leave me. Autism Spectrum Disorder – ASD – my Black Balloon.

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