Category Archives: Long Reads

“Shoes off, fists up”: a hearty fuck yeah for public stimming and righteous, focused anger whenever and wherever we damn well please

preface: like Lydia Brown, I’m not posting this as a call-out of Dr. Loftis. i may not be *thrilled* about the things she appears to be saying and inferring, but that’s different.

i read an article by Lydia Brown about organizing in the neurodiversity movement recently, it’s good and i definitely recommend reading it.

however. having an academic-tinged debate over where and when stimming is valid, and what stims are valid when, and how much, and in what context, and of course, i’d never tell anybody not to stim, but have you considered…

*record needle scratch*

i’ve considered your consideration and chose to ignore it!

that’s sort of crass, admittedly.

*turns off the PA system, walks off the stage – and my parenthetical high horse.*

I don’t like respectability politics. we definitely, as Lydia’s response notes, “need to have our shoes off and our fists up”. that said, i have some thoughts about how to figuring out *on your own* what’s ok or not ok in terms of being “performatively autistic”, which i’ll get into, but in terms of stimming publicly?

stimming is great. do it whenever and wherever you can do it: if you choose to, if you need to, if you have no control over it. it’s *yours*, not anybody else’s. stay safe of course – don’t become a target for violence, either from the police or abusive people in general – but otherwise? go to town.

we get enough pressure to not stim, we definitely don’t need “stim policing” as part of our community work. stimming is valid because it’s valid! if you stim to self-regulate, if you stim because it’s involuntary, if you stim because it feels good, if you stim and feel guilty or ashamed, regardless of whether or not it’s a so-called choice: you are loved. do what works best for you, so we can all celebrate (and fight) together.

there’s a way that doing organizing work, especially in activist and academic circles, can turn everything into an endless rehashing of debates, both public and private – when the answers to problems have already come up, and even been addressed and resolved years ago.

the “self-narrating zoo exhibit” critique is part of doing productive advocacy work. it allows us to figure out “how much is too much” on our own, and when it gets to be way too much (as is the case with certain well-known authors, who use their personal experiences as a sort of bully pulpit to bug at the rest of us, especially those of us who have regular or daily support needs), *then* it becomes a community issue.

in contrast, calling on us to constantly self-check if our stimming is “performative” is more like an invite to nervously wonder if we’re doing it right, if we’re lacking authenticity. i know that’s not the intention, but it’s entirely possible that it’ll get taken that way. i’ve seen this happen a lot in activist circles – suddenly, whatever is being critiqued in specific terms becomes “don’t do that, it’s bad”, in general. people don’t necessarily even know or remember why it started – it becomes “the way things are”. it can become a sort of zoo exhibiting on its own: “look at me, not stimming in public, very politically correctly.”

further, it’s not easy (if not impossible) to tell if something’s performative, in practice. Lydia Brown mentions figuring out stims in adulthood that they didn’t do as a child – I think that’s enough. as they note, stimming is joyful, it’s regulatory (and many other useful things). i’m not willing to subscribe to a vague “you know it when you see it” set of social rules around something *that is one of the most healthy, empowering, self-regulating, joyous, fun things that we do as a community*. we need to be creating spaces for us to stim more, not less! as well as creating spaces and processes for people to reclaim what we do with our autistic bodies.

(an aside: i would add “bad stims” to that list as well. getting hit by a flailing arm can be worked around, traumatizing someone to the point of having PTSD, or worse, can not — and for what? one of us trying to get our needs met, and not being listened to, respected and worked with in a positive manner.)

here’s another thing: i understand Lydia’s need in context to call attention to affirm stimming as an adult as a conscious, deliberate decision. that’s 100% valid as well. i also refuse to quantify stimming that way. i have stims that i suppressed and/or redirected since i was a child, and reclaimed in adulthood. (i grew up in a “quiet hands, look at me when i talk to you” household.) hand-flapping in particular: i’d redirect my very stimmy hands into tapping, or drumming on things. for me, that meant that i was fidgety a lot, because while it’s possible to drum…a lot, that doesn’t always “fall between the cracks” in public any more than flapping does. so i hid. hid, and squirmed.

certain *ahem* unfair people can and will come off with a sort of “a-HA! NOT VALID!” accusation around the process of *reclaiming* stims, if not stimming in general. just like they do with anything they can get their grubby, ableist paws on, in order to try to negate our experiences. as Lydia notes:

“When those of us who choose to publicly and intentionally stim do so, we are not inauthentic or fake, but we are giving ourselves permission to enjoy bodily movement forms that are peculiarly (though of course not exclusively) autistic, and to incorporate them into our palate of expressive communication and self-regulation. Doing so for political reasons does not ignore that neurotypical and other non-autistic people will almost certainly misinterpret it, or attribute horrible ableist meanings to it, but rather, is a direct discursive challenge to that kind of ableism.

It is a political choice, because it is choosing to be openly and unapologetically autistic. Being neurodivergent in public, ever, is putting oneself at risk. And if we’re choosing to stim in public in a way we didn’t do intuitively earlier in life (or had deliberately beaten or ABA’d out of us, in some cases), we are of course aware of and assuming that risk. We talk about the concept of “dignity of risk” in self-advocacy for a reason.”

i’m in the “went through ABA, coercion and abuse” category. i didn’t “choose” shit, it got forcibly programmed out of me — or they tried to do so, for a time, and thankfully, i managed to hold onto enough of myself to not be fully moulded into compliance — and i *choose* to be politically engaged, at times, in public, as an autistic person, including stimming. (it’s also personally necessary, as part of my healing and reclamation process.) is it acceptable? respectable? no. it’s a form of self-advocacy and reclaiming of space in a deeply ableist, neurotypical society. someone has to do it — if we’re all about being respectable, we are calling for those of us who can be out publicly (by choice, necessity or both) into a neurodiversity lite <link> closet! this isn’t progress, it’s regression. we stim because we stim. again: that’s enough. (that said, as a brown, trans/queer, intermittently non-speaking, definitely not “table ready” Autistic person, I’m aware of my surroundings and the choices that I make — I hate suppressing stims, but I’ll do it if it comes down to that or risking my safety — but that’s *not* the same as “be respectable and don’t reclaim space as an Autistic person”.)

having been in and around the trenches of the trans community, as a publicly visible and out trans/queer/intersexed person, since the late 1990s? what respectability politics as an overarching rule, as opposed to a contextual strategy gets us is assimilationist, exclusionary nonsense like transmedicalism, *NOT* cooperative partnerships with allies. actual community-building work is usually done by self-advocates and community organizers, not apologists or hostile detractors. assimilationist approaches are a mistake and will come back to haunt us if we let this become the norm even more than it already is.

that all said — i believe in us! we’ll get there. stay strong, friends. ✊🏽

Down the rabbit hole with WorryFree, as sung by the Crystal Gems

Detroit, in Sorry to Bother You, wearing a pair of earrings that say "MURDER MURDER MURDER" and "KILL KILL KILL"
Detroit, in Sorry to Bother You, wearing a pair of earrings that say “MURDER MURDER MURDER” and “KILL KILL KILL”

CW: cartoon violence, graphic imagery, #metoo, Pulse massacre, Copious Steven Universe spoilers, copious Sorry to Bother You spoilers, copious interest stanning for Boots Riley, functioning labels, passing as neurotypical, whiteness, cishetness

“Look at this place, look at your faces.
They’re shining like a thousand shining stars
Isn’t it nice to find yourself somewhere different,
Why don’t you let yourself just be wherever you are.
Why don’t you let yourself just be somewhere different.
Why don’t you let yourself just be wherever you are.”

Be Wherever You Are” — Steven Universe (SU)

Allow me, oh Rose muse, to quote freely and under the doctrine of fair use, from The Crystal Gems and Sir Boots of Riley and The Coup of Oakland Fuck Yeah.

I’ve had two different coming out processes around being Autistic.

In the same year.

I’d been struggling to find a way to disclose as Autistic for a while. Getting close to finding support materials, then delaying it. Starting to come out, getting scared off (or talked out of it by some allistic friend). Trying again, melting down, waiting. It took two years of sustained burnout, very detailed visual thinking (note to self: don’t read graphic #metoo depictions, don’t read any accounts of the Pulse massacre either), sensory overload and hyperfocusing to decide to take matters into my own hands. Which I did: I took the tests, read the DSM autism criteria, watched videos from Autistic YouTubers, found basic support materials for autistic women, put it all together, done.

I started telling friends online, and discussing things with other Autistic people. Nobody objected, everybody was supportive. Which was a huge relief! “I’m Autistic! Yay.”

I also had a lingering doubt that there was more to this for me than what I kept reading about in the books I picked up, all of which were geared toward Aspies, because that’s what I could find in terms of Autistic 101 self-help books. Once I got past the diagnostic criteria (which was a fit), much of what was being presented as “life solutions” seemed too “shiny“, white, frequently cishet, and written for someone who is closer to “almost neurotypical” (or who views themselves as such). A notable exception to this: Cynthia Kim’s excellent “I Think I Might Be Autistic“, which I found to be much more accessable, informative and not overwhelming in tone or scope.

Further, I deliberately rejected being part of mainstream society as much as possible in my teens (both by choice and out of survival), and shifted my focused to activism, the arts and spirituality. (I also worked full time in the computer industry for years, which felt like living a “dual life”, and frequently resulted in my being notebook-throwing level miserable. I left that behind in 2001.) In terms of useful life wisdom, these books weren’t providing me with much. I was more interested in making informed decisions about if I should try to integrate into society as an Autistic person from a more well-informed place — or more likely, have better tools to inform people with in the creative and activist circles I’ve been part of most my life — but I tried to keep an open mind. “Can’t I just live in a van?”

All I want to do is see you turn into a giant woman.” – SU

“This is where we get our grub on!” – Sorry to Bother You (STBY)

Use your white voice.” – STBY

As I said earlier, while I fit the criteria for autism (readily) and “passed” all the self-assessment tests, I didn’t really fit the “Aspie” social profile, at least as it gets typically presented, either. I’ve also been part of crip liberation movement work, and there’s overlap between the disability community and the trans and intersexed communities I’m a part of. I’m also an anarchist and communist. The idea of looking at “Autistic success” in terms of work and monogamy is discomforting, if not offensive.

Nevertheless, my lack of finding a place that fit made me nervous. If I’m not “high functioning”, and I’m not in need of extensive daily support, then who am I? The best solution I could find to “work doesn’t work for me” is “start a business”, which doesn’t work for me either; even if I wanted to do that, I’d need to spend money to handle things that I don’t have the ability to juggle, or become a boss. Allow me to quote from the IWW Preamble here: “The working class and the employing class have nothing in common. There can be no peace so long as hunger and want are found among millions of the working people and the few, who make up the employing class, have all the good things of life.

It started to sink in that I was a lot more autistic than I had presumed at first. I figured out that I mapped to “low functioning” every bit as much as “high”. Possibly more.

The last “high functioning” book I read was full of dire predictions about the risks of being unassessed later in life, and rather unpleasant (and paradoxical) attempts to unmask whoever was reading it as well. The cognitive dissonance of it was too much to bear, and I started to come unglued.

I am very good at patching my head together on my own. (I’ve got lots of practice.) Life throws something at me, I learn from the experience and adapt. When “something” is more like seeing movies in your head for a month because you read some horrible story, or a series of them, or something affecting you so deeply that it feels like your skull is being split open — that’s OK. I’d learned to take this sort of thing in stride. Pulls out industrial grade self-care kit, gets to work.

So, I know how to fix things, even if i’m the thing being fixed, and I’m the one doing it. Yay! Problem solved, right?

No. I was a mess.

Cassius Green squares off with Steve Lift in Sorry to Bother You
Cassius Green squares off with Steve Lift in Sorry to Bother You

“This is when I started to panic. A little bit.” – me, mimicking Garnet

“Sit. Down.” – STBY

I was in freefall. I pieced my head together well enough, but everything was setting me on edge. It was as if I was living in an meltdown tunnel.

I started reviewing my past in more depth, my childhood in particular. My childhood had no filter. I stacked rocks. I stared at shiny things. I’d read the encyclopedia, or go through the same book for hours. I’d stim in whatever way I’d please, or get stopped from doing so. While a lot of things were rather intense (I remember throwing up in the green stamp store as a toddler because everything was way too green), the most overwhelming thing in my environment were authority figures and other kids. I’d run into closets at the school, chase my crush’s boyfriend when my neurology spiked, reinvent the rules of a game on the fly while we were playing it together, fight back. When I got sufficient support from teachers (which did happen twice), I’d focus on school work, and start to relax. In those cases, the teacher served as a sort of stand-in for friends. The moment I’d move to the next grade, the support was gone, and everything would fall apart again. I decided to bail on society when I was 14, left high school when I was 16, and save for a few rather miserable years where I half-assedly and very angrily tried to assimilate in my 30s, that’s where I’ve lived since. This is not an “Aspie success story”. I’m not even sure it’s an Aspie failure story. The “fitting in, eventually, but still being sort of quirky” narrative wasn’t me. (I also think that narrative is assmiliationist, but it seems like some people are able to sustain that better than I canfrequently at a cost.) I’m not sure that I’m that different from when I was younger, I’m just an older, more experienced, less traumatized version of myself.

Eventually, I started finding more cogent answers on the basis of lived experience, not just diagnostic criteria. I pieced together that “Asperger’s” no longer exists, “functioning labels” are flawed and offensive, and that there’s community to be found across the entire spectrum — but that it’s less likely to be found in a book from a mainstreaming-focused publisher. I was wounded, but I was magical as well.

“You might not believe it
You might not believe it
But you got a lot in common, you really do
You both love me and I love both of you”

You Both Love Me And I Love Both Of You“- SU

We are all part of one spectrum.” – Amy Sequenzia

What saved me was reading people who have a strong self-advocacy narrative around being disabled. I can’t integrate into society, I’ve tried. Perhaps in the future, I will, but I’m not going to risk setting myself up for more failure. It looks way too much like “I didn’t even know that you’re autistic!”, which is both offensive and not who I am. People know that I’m different well enough to comment on it, resist it, give me grief over it all my life. I don’t hold any resentment over that (now, at least), but I get the message. It hurts to say that I’m “too weird” for even “weird subcultural spaces”, let alone mainstream ones, but I am in a lot of cases. I discovered support materials that were more of a fit – “Loud Hands“, “All The Weight of Our Dreams“, autistic bloggers who write about being Autistic as a disability (including bloggers with multiple disabilities), all from a self-advocacy and crip liberation perspective.

I also started to realize – admit to myself, really – that I’m not always capable of speech. Definitely not fluent speech. When I started writing this, I was coming off of two days where I could barely speak. This is probably tied to burnout in part, but I’ve always preferred not speaking. When I speak, I’m not speaking as much as translating (writing is the same way for me, it’s just easier), and unless I’m scripting, I’ll have to pause at times (or go mute for a bit) to “catch up”. When I am speaking, I do love to talk about interests with friends that I trust, one-on-one.

Having challenges speaking was the last piece in the puzzle (cue Autism $peaks détournement) — accepting this was what allow me to feel whole again. I let go of “Autistic as in different” and grew into “Autistic as in disabled”. This also maps to a growing body of information that women and non-binary people (and I’m presuming, trans people as well) have “more pronounced symptoms”, or as I prefer to look at it, “That’s right, we’re even more fucking awesome, even as many of us have more challenges living in a society that was never designed for us in the first place“. I gave myself permission to say goodbye to the high-functioning (?) person I thought/hoped that I might be, but that also left me with a strong “wait…oh, shit, this is deeper than I thought” feeling when I considered that as a possibility, so I could be who I really am, without reservations.

“It’s over, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Isn’t it over?
It’s over isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Isn’t it over?
You won and she chose you
And she loved you and she’s gone
It’s over, isn’t it?
Why can’t I move on?
It’s over, isn’t it?
Why can’t I move on?”

It’s over isn’t it” – SU

“A cop lives inside of all our heads
We’re gonna kill him dead, we’re gonna finish what we started
A boss lives inside of all our heads
We’re gonna kill him dead, we’re gonna finish what we started”

Finish What We Started“- Anti-flag

“This is Cassius Green. Sorry to bother you,” – STBY

So…what’s next?

Running after some “You’re almost neurotypical but not quite, back to work” unachievable goal that recedes off into the horizon endlessly (until it all falls apart and I’m left exhausted and unfiltered), will simply never work for me. In a lot of ways, being someone who integrates into the frequently ableist (and racist, and sexist, and…) activist spaces I was part of doesn’t really work, either.

If the theme of my childhood was being who I truly am without reservations (and paying the price for that), this is the recapitulation.

Sing it loud and proud: I’m a disabled, brown, gendervague, neuroqueer Autie.

I wanna know you, know I know you know me
I want a fire that can extinguish the sea
I wanna crush my loneliness into dust
Please ride with me until this whole thing busts

Anitra’s Basement Tapes – The Coup

Here’s to the new life, friends. Forward.

Alternatives to ABA and behavioralism

This is a first draft. (Yes, I’m trying to set something off here.) I’m especially looking for feedback from Autistics, especially ones who went through ABA or ABA-like programs in the school system. (I’m in my 50s. I went through a whole bunch of behavioralist, ABA-like experiences, including assessment, but this was before inclusion of autistic children was mandated as part of the U.S. school system’s requirements.) “Play nice”, don’t flame me or others, but please feel free to leave comments and feedback.

For Autistic students:

— You have a right to play alone.

— You have a right to your interests.

— You have a right to say “no”, and be taken seriously.

— You have a right to your stims.

— You have a right to not make eye contact.

— You have a right to move your body.

— You have right to sit where you want, and that’s yours.

— You have a right to learn.

— You have a right not to learn.

— You have a right to make mistakes.

— You have a right not to trust people.

— You have a right to interact with who you want.

— You have a right to make friends of your own choosing.

— You have a right to respect.

— You have a right to self-determination.

— You have a right to self-advocacy.

— If nobody understands what you’re asking for, find a way to tell them. (This may take some time.)

— If doing something hurts, try to find something that doesn’t hurt that works just as well. (It’s ok if you can’t.)

— If you make a mistake and people get mad, ask why in whatever way is safe, if possible. (It’s ok to make your own decisions.)

— People say and do things for reasons other than you might think. Observe, learn, and if possible, ask. (You have a right to not respond.)

For parents:

Embrace the child who is front of you, not the one that you hoped for.

Reject ABA, both at a therapist’s office or center, and at home. Being assessed and aggressed upon by teachers messed me up, but not as half as much as having compliance forced on me at home did.  (This was before ABA was formalized as school-age “intervention” under IDEA, otherwise they probably would’ve subjected me to that as well, and fucked me up even more.)

— Advocate for your child. Parent and teacher-led advocacy is one of the things that helped me break free – not from autism, but from people who kept trying to “fix” me. Presume competence.

— If your child has affirming teachers who they have rapport with – let your child know that you support those teachers, and that you disapprove of the ones that deny your child’s humanity.

— Interests aren’t talents or career paths, necessarily. They’re interests, which is enough on its own. (If they wind up being career paths or long-term pursuits, that’s fine too.)

Never demand quiet hands. (This is part of what messed me up.) Suppressing stims, echolalia and interests is abusive. If you need a time out for yourself, take it.

Aggressive behavior is happening for a reason. Center your child’s needs, not their behaviors.

— Read the section for teachers below; it’s relevant to parenting as well.

For teachers:

— Dump ABA, including the “good” ABA. ABA is conversion therapy for autistics. Torturing children for being trans or gay isn’t acceptable, torturing us for being autistic shouldn’t be, either.

— Allow students to find their own interests.

— Don’t suppress student’s stims.

Explosive behavior (hitting, kicking) is communication and self-regulation. Find out what is being said.

— If students want to play alone, let them.

— Ask students about their interests, *gently*.

— Create a welcoming environment, full of things to explore and learn about.

— Create an environment that’s focused on learning.

— What you might think is important isn’t necessarily the same as what your students think is important.

— Don’t force gender expression. Let students express themselves in ways that work for them.

— If a student is swinging their arms, and not seriously injuring themselves: take a step back.

— No restraints! Restraints are violence.

— Every Autistic student is different.

— Every Autistic student is valid.

Nautilus – autism, psychic pain, and the Pulse massacre

TW: mass murder, islamophobia, domestic abuse, authoritarian statism, national security state, extreme alexithymia/hyper-empathy, bogus autism “cures”

TW: bright, strobing colors, intense, dissonant music, images of jaws (in the video link)

Nautilusing – n.

(See Anna Meredith’s piece, “Nautilus”. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vajhs2wBeCU)

1. A dark month of the soul.

2. A personal apocalypse, where everything shall be cleansed.

3. That thing you do that might be because you’re empathic, but you’re not quite sure.

You wake up one day, open a browser, and read the news. You see a headline, you open the story, because it’s about your people and death. Murder. Lots of murder. Of people just like you: trans, queer, black, brown. Family.

You’re devastated.

Imagine the worst physical pain you’ve ever experienced – a broken leg, an abscessed tooth, childbirth – then make it emotional.

Your nerves are at 400 percent, the sky is crimson and the ground vibrates in a way that clashes with the frequency of the air.

You fall into a gaping fissure. All is dark now. You’re alone.

It’s as if you’re in an alternate reality, where the shooter is a guard, and the guard is allegedly a muslim, and then, everything branches off. You’re sort of a mixed race punk rock muslim-ish somebody. You’re not out to your family about being queer or being trans or being sort of muslim (you’re a revert, if a very taqwacore one). (Back in non-alternate reality, this isn’t that far off the mark — you’re old enough to have pre-dated taqwacore, but you spent your teens and early 20s around muslims and western sufis.) But you manage, and you have friends, chosen family, a lover or three.

You hook up with the shooter at the club one night, without you knowing much about him. He’s guilty about having sex, a sexuality, a body. (Which is strange, because he’s always around the club, and he never goes to mosque. Does he even have a Qur’an? Who knows.) He leaves you, then beats his wife instead. He feels guilty about it, so he ups his devotional meds, and goes to mosque more often. (The fact that he never was much of a muslim, and if anything, the feds dropped him off of the watch list because of not fitting the profile they were going for, seems ill-relevant now. The “husband with a history of abuse who works around a shit-ton of weapons and has a security clearance” profile seems to go without consideration.) Then he’s in the news, for weeks.

None of this happened, it just feels like it could’ve happened – one minute, you’re on the floor, dancing – then: a flood of adrenaline, of dopamine, running as the sound of airplanes rang in your ears as people fell around you, and you managed to escape out the back.

Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump.

The next day, it’s even worse, because the political machines kick in. “This is why we need more security, and more contractors, who will employ more people like the shooter.” People object to their pain and grief being used this way, and so much blood and murder and oh god, try to focus, oh god to, to, to, look, it’s not ok to do this in our name, ok?

It’s not like wanting to die, it’s like being in so much pain that your body wants to extinguish itself. You keep it together, and fight mightily against the urge to do anything rash to calm your nerves. It doesn’t work, which is to say: there was no problem, you’re not suicidal, this is just how you’re wired. You feel things. Which is to say: Everything. (You figure out months later that there’s a reason for this, and that it’s normal – for you – to feel everything at once, independent of rational thought. Why nobody bothered to mention this to you for decades – friends, parents, teachers, gurus – is a mystery.)

You also don’t necessarily want it to stop – the passion that gives birth to this is also what fuels your creative work, you presume. Either way, it’s not without its merits – you can feel everything, smell everything, touch everything. Sometimes, it’s as if you can hear people’s thoughts, but you don’t, you just have a keen sense of things, or at least, that’s what you tell yourself to not remember the time someone affirmed that you did read their thoughts, or that you appeared in their room one day even though you were miles away at the time, or felt the rather horny ghost in your apartment one night when the candles flickered, up the hill from the Castro.

A week passes. You’re out of the hole, but you’re still on fire. Everything is a huge, raw nerve. You talk with a friend, they love you, they try to understand, but it’s hard for them to make sense of what you’re talking about, or even if it’s real. (They’re Canadian.)

The news is total shit – it’s like it all never happened. Nobody talks about the FBI, or private security, or anything of much relevance. (Yesterday’s news.) Days pass, then weeks. You’re still on fire, but you learn to not take the political gesturing seriously.

Then, the murderer’s wife is arrested. This pisses you off – don’t they know she was abused?

The story vanishes, and you go on with your life. You learn to be even more circumspect about the news. Sunlight still blinds you, the smallest of noises make you jump, vacuum cleaners sound like they’re sweeping up sonic debris off a tarmac. The worst part is that it doesn’t seem to trace back to a particular trauma. Your mother died years ago, but your vigilance across a variety of topics provided an outlet for your grief, although there were a couple of potholes along the way – the bank messing with your account again (and again, and finally, getting it all resolved), the occasional person who tried to take advantage of you, someone who sneered at you in a wait line (you think – you couldn’t make it out), so you said “What the hell is with boomers” to the clerk, and they said “Customers in this town”, so you know that at least maybe you read the situation somewhat right this time.

The sound of birds helps, even if the smell of everything doesn’t. The laundromat across the four lane highway and half a block down smells like a detergent factory, someone’s fireplace smells like their house is burning down.

Everything is an epic struggle, a reckoning. Spilled grain in the supermarket is a crisis. There are no minor disagreements. You manage, and persevere.

Nevertheless, you recover, and pray it doesn’t happen all over again. Which it will, but you know now. (You don’t actually know, you’ve just experienced a variation on the same thing that happens periodically. You hope it will pass with time. It doesn’t.)

It took you 55 years, 6 months, and however many days for it all to drop in your lap one day, while you were looking for information on being highly sensitive. (Highly Sensitive seems more like Highly Euphemistic to you, but you roll with it.) Figuring out that you’re autistic is both a relief, and a sort of unwanted cleansing fire of its own, especially when you run across people online who think that neurodiversity and autistic self-determination is the same as fascism for some obvious agenda/reason that seems to be about ignoring the spectrum and going for that old timey autism, the kind that can be reduced to nothing but brain chemistry, or psychology, or demons, or vaccines, or vitamins, and fixed with a pill or an exorcism (or with selective abortion), which somehow does not qualify as being eugenicist or fascist or anything other than good and just and pure and by the way, did you know that all self-diagnosing parents of autistic children have Munchausen’s? If only you had bought my book and listened to my coterie of ill-wishers and taken whatever supplements I happen to be promoting this year, maybe you would have known.

But you staple your head back together, and a couple of days later, it’s an amusing anecdote. (You do remember the neurologist’s name, with a strong “AVOID AT ALL COSTS” note next to the link.)

You read and read and read and drink water and drink water and eat and exercise and read and read and rest.

It all starts to make sense. “Oh, ok.”

The songs dance in and out of your head, several of them a day, but you’re learning to listen. Soft means “I’m good”, loud means “OK, this is too much”. Sometimes the songs are more like metaphors for what you’re going through, sometimes they’re just a song.

You almost fall into a ditch again. You throw a ladder across the sink hole, and smoothly, if somewhat awkwardly, climb across.

Then? You watch the news.

You laugh at the devil, even if he is in the white house now. (Which is to say: again.) Just like you did when you were eight, and somehow understood multiple theological interpretations of what the supposedly infinite manifestation of evil was supposed to look like, and told your mom, as if it was a standard grade school sort of passing thought.

You pace, talk to yourself and flap your hands. It feels like flying, sometimes. Soothing.

You sleep with earplugs and with a night mask, even though there’s almost no traffic at night. You think about getting a white noise machine, then remember that even that is possibly too much. You need a room that is pitch black and still, an eight hour mausoleum of sorts, but the rents keep holding you in place.

You wear sunglasses on cloudy days. The auditory slurry of sounds that even three stories and double-paned glass can’t keep out, seems more manageable, sometimes.

At least you know your emotions and your thoughts are in separate rooms much of the time.

Ain’t gonna let no gunman, turn me around. Turn me around. Turn me around.

Two ravens land on the balcony. They remind you of your parents, so you say hi. They fly away.