This is the most strongly coded autistic protagonist I’ve read. Especially of the female, high-masking, chronic burnout variety, and undiagnosed. (Or rather, insufficiently diagnosed with anxiety and depression.) The unconscious stimming! Chronic sensory overload! The shutdowns! The meltdowns! The masking!
I feel like I am operating my body like it’s a vehicle. I am conscious of when I blink, and of when I inhale.
I’d worry it’s that thing where now that I have a hammer, everything looks like a nail. Except I just read Iris Kelly Doesn’t Date, where Stevie has anxiety… and it’s clearly anxiety. Or I recently reread Glitterland, and Ash’s depression is clearly depression. This, on the other hand, is what autistic burnout feels like. I would give it to my therapist to illustrate the internal difference between the two.
So, death of the author and all that, that’s what spoke to me, whether or not Emily Austin intended it.
It’s also only one of the reasons I glommed the book in a day. The writing is sharp, droll, harrowing and laugh out loud funny. I want to wrap Gilda in a (weighted) blanket and give her all the love and support she needs.