I didn’t know why I had to be wrapped so tight in that blanket. It was an insatiable need to feel comfort, to be surrounded by something, and it had to be perfect. The pillows, the exact comforter, the perfect spot on the couch—it was time consuming, and the need was overwhelming. Eventually, I’d get it right. I’d have a brief moment of contentment, and within moments this horrible feeling of discomfort and desperation would overwhelm me. I had to move. All the work, exactness, and time was for a few, short minutes, sometimes seconds, of pleasure, and then it would be over. I would be off on my adventure. I spent my early years sensory seeking. Arms extended behind my back as I ran to and fro. I looked typical in a lot of ways. I spoke. I played. I interacted. I was shy. I was on the autism spectrum.