At an early age, I learned you could wield silence.

I was a musician, a prodigy of sorts, but not the kind with a natural acuity. No, I was the sort that simply did nothing else. Music meant the world to me simply because the world didn’t. The world was capricious, childish even, and at six years old, that’s the last thing I needed.

I needed a world that made sense, and when I searched, I came to realize I would never be fluent, and that’s when I found music.

Music was to be a shield, a protector I could use to mold the sounds and language that the earth whispered and craft it into my own.

I was hooked.

My parents had me tested, and rightfully so. Their inclinations turned out to be founded, as I came back with multiple disorders, including a considerable high score on the autism scale. I liked high scores, so I didn’t complain.

I don’t blame my parents for how things turned out.

My dad, he worked several jobs, including the third most successful landscaping business in our small town. He was older when he had me, and even older when he started drinking. I knew him as happy once, and I’m sure I’ll know him as happy again. He probably was more gifted at music than I ever was, but he also liked friends and baseball. That can get in the way of greatness, and happiness sometimes too, I guess.

My mom, well she is another case entirely. She worked from home, usually as a telemarketer, and sometimes as an emergency hotline operator when money was tight. She was always happy being unhappy. I could never make sense of it. She drank too, and long before my dad. It was rare to see her without a glass of wine, or a judging look for that matter.

But my childhood, as unremarkably remarkable as it has been, is drawing to a close. I’m off to Julliard in the fall, a full scholarship, and they’ve placed me with a roommate who also has autism. I have been assured during my communications with the school that our profiles matchup almost perfectly.

I’m sure I should be, but I’m not worried about what lies ahead. The symphonies will come and the chance to meet musicians that have submerged themselves in music just as I have is an intriguing concept.

I am, however, worried that I’ve done irreparable damage at home. It’s been five years since I’ve chose to stop speaking altogether. It was a choice I made, and the only one I felt comfortable making at the time. I was unhappy, and neither my words nor my music could be heard quite right. So, I pushed for change the only way I knew how.  Even now, I’m not sure I should be writing this.

See, music can bring understanding, but it’s the moment after, when the violins have quieted and the shimmer of bells twinkle out, it’s that sliver of time right before the applause—that’s what brings change.