I don’t know what I am

I’ve found, recently, that there’s something more scary, to me, than thinking I might be trans those few years ago.

That thing is thinking I might not be trans.

I remember when I first thought I was trans. How I dressed up like a man (Er, Mitt Romney) for halloween and realized that, well, I liked it. So I did it more. Eventually, I realized that I wanted people to call me he. I remember being scared. Scared that people would disown me. But also, happy. I liked my binders and buying boy clothes and going in boy mode. I told off a security guard once, because I had gone in the mens’ restroom and dammit, I belonged there as much as in the women’s. That’s really how I felt.

But now, looking back, it feels shallow. I remember always feeling apprehensive, and chalking it up to being afraid of society. Afraid that my boyfriend or my parents or someone would be disgusted by me. But again, looking back, I think it just felt wrong. Wrong for me.

Of course, hindsight is 20/20. I can’t expect my past self to know how my current self does, will, feel.

But I can expect my current self to know how I currently feel. And I should expect my current self to respect those feelings.

But it’s scary to think that I’m not trans, which sounds weird, because there’s nothing dangerous about being cis. But it’s scary, because I feel like I lied not just to myself, but to my peers. To everyone I told to call me “Kit.”

It’s scary, also, that I could be so wrong about what I am. That I could consider taking hormones to become a me that I might have never wanted to really be.

And then I wonder, did I really make a mistake back then? Was I really wrong about being trans? Am I right about being cis now?

I don’t know. I do know, that I’ve been told- and hell, I’ve told people- that gender is fluid. And maybe, this is the prime example. Maybe I was trans then, and I’m cis now, and both of those things can be true at the same time.

Or perhaps, being trans once, I’m trans forever. Perhaps genderfluidity means that you can change back to being your assigned at birth gender when it feels right, and you won’t negate your past transness.

But I don’t think that I want to call myself trans anymore, period. Maybe genderfluid, maybe gender nonconforming. But not trans.

Because as I look into this closet full of often-worn femme clothes and male-coded clothes that are gathering dust, I feel like calling myself trans would be a lie.

I wonder what I would tell someone in my shoes.

I would probably tell them that they can be whatever they identify as. But now, as I say that to myself, I feel it ringing hollow.

What do I identify as when I don’t know how to identify? Can I really just say “I’m trans because I say so,” slap on some makeup and girly clothes for at least 365 near-consecutive days, and not feel like something’s off?

I mean, I know what I’d say to someone in my shoes. “Your expression doesn’t have to match your identification. You can dress a girl and be 100% boy.”

Except, for me, my identification is my expression. That’s not true for everyone, I know, but it is for me. When I wear makeup and pretty clothes, it’s not because I’m a boy, or an enby, saying “fuck the system”. Then again, it’s not because I’m saying to myself “I will woman today. Today, as I have for the last year, I will dress Woman.”

I’m just dressing me.

Maybe that, in itself, makes me gender nonconformist?

I feel like I’m arguing with myself. Half of me is telling me to just give up and be cis, and half is telling me “once genderfluid, always genderfluid.”

But that’s just an issue of names and labels. Except, well, it’s not.

I actively do not want to be cis, is the problem. I’ve spent so much time being all “down with cis” and all, and I’ve spent so much time saying that cis people were the oppressors, and quite frankly I don’t want to be my past self’s oppressor.

Labeling politics shouldn’t play into identities, though. I would never try to claim a non-white ethnicity just because white people suck at racism and shit, so why should I claim to be non-cis just because cis people tend to be transphobic?

I don’t know.

And part of me knows, too, that there’s a chance that in the future I’ll feel trans again. And then I’ll feel like a waffler.

Part of me- no, all of me- wants some all-knowing trans goddess to come down and bestow upon me a label of “cis” or “genderfluid.” I don’t want to navigate this myself.

I don’t want to say I’m genderfluid, because I don’t want to appropriate others’ struggles.

I don’t want to say I’m cis, because I don’t want to have been wrong and/or become the oppressor.

And I can’t look past those labeling wants and determine what I am.

I don’t know what I am.

I really just don’t know.

I really. Just. Don’t. Know.



I’m bitter.

I’m bitter about so many things.

And people say it’s bad for me,

to hold grudges,

to hate five-ever,

It’s bad for my blood pressure,

or something.

I’ll have you know I have borderline hypotension,

And that I can’t stand the tension,

of letting people get by lying,

Without apologizing

for the awful shit they’ve done

So I’m bitter.

I’m bitter like dark chocolate;

Good for the heart,

ignore the “small doses” part.

I’d say I’m bitter like grapefruit,

but grapefruit ruins my medication,

and I’m bitter because

I’m a mental patient,

so that’s no good.

But then there’s coffee,

and coffee’s bitter,

and lots of people can’t get by

without a daily cup,

so what is up

with saying I can’t be

what keeps me, me.

Though I can’t lie

it’s been a while

since I’ve been taken to the cleaners

for my bitter demeanors

because quite frankly

If I speak with you

you are bitter like me too.

So you’re an Autism Parent, and you want to Do Good for Your Child

So you’re a parent of a child afflicted with the deadly disease known as autism… er, no, here’s the first error. You’re the parent of an Autistic child, an Autistic child’s parent, until that child tells you to call them something besides autistic.

Let’s try that again. So your kid is autistic. You want the best for them, right? If you don’t, kindly step off to the side until the end of the post, where I’ll have a special message just for you.

You. You want the best for your kid. You want them to grow up into a world that loves and accepts them. You’re probably wondering, “how do I do that?” Or, hopefully you’re wondering how you do that.

…what, you mean you’re already trying to do that? And you didn’t consult and autistic adults first? Okay, we have to start from somewhere below step zero, then. We’re gonna have to unlearn some things.

Step Negative Three: Understand that your child is not wrong.

There is nothing wrong with your child. They are not broken, they are not less then, and they are in fact your real child. They were not stolen by a changeling, or ruined by a vaccine. This is a short step, because literally all it is is saying to yourself, in all honesty, “This child is my child, and they are not wrong.” But apparently that is super hard. Super duper hard.

Step Negative Two: Embrace the Autistic Community.

The autistic community is not some strange realm full of evil spirits and vaccinated, swearing shrews. It is literally the group of people that your child will grow up to be a part of. We are your child’s future extended family, and that is *not* hyperbole. We are the ones who will actually get your child, who will actually understand your child.

We are the ones who understand what it was like being Just Like Your Child, as they are now. We know what they’re going through because we went through it. Some of us more than others with respect to some children more than others, but as a whole, as a community, we went through being Like Your Child.

So we’re the ones to consult when you don’t know how to properly serve your child. When they can’t tell you what they need, what they really need- not because they’re autistic, or non-vocal, but because, being a child, they have not had the experience to know everything that they need. Now, that said, if your child actually communicates to you that they have a need, you don’t have to ask us, because we’ll tell you to listen to your child. The order of who knows best when it comes to access needs is, more or less, first your child, then the Autistic community, then non-autistic people (you).

Yes of course, if your child asks for unreasonable needs like “I need to run around in traffic,” you can say no. That’s unreasonable. But “I can’t eat that food because I gag upon putting it in my mouth,” is not unreasonable. And if you’re wondering what’s reasonable and what’s not…

Ask us.

Step Negative One: Stop filming videos of your child in the bathtub.

No seriously just stop. Or talking about how they poop, or divulging huge secrets about mega-meltdowns they have, or taking videos of them shutting down. All of those moments are private moments, and until they themselves are old enough to communicate about those moments first hand, they are not to be talked about. That is a huge, huge breach of privacy and trust.

Step Zero:  Embrace that it is not about YOU.

It is not about you. Yes, you will have a hard time parenting an autistic child, and yes, it might be harder than parenting a normal child, but that does not make their struggles about you. Your child is the one struggling to navigate a world that they are new too. All children are struggling to do this, but your autistic child especially, because this world has been made hostile to them. Your child is the one feeling sensory overload, and having meltdowns, and you are just the spectator and the support. You are not a center of attention- don’t try to make yourself into one.

Are we good? Are you still with me? Here’s a cookie for staying through the hard part. Don’t get used to it, the autistic community doesn’t usually hand out cookies for baseline decent behavior.

Now on to the actual steps:

Step One: Know your terminology.

There is a big, gaping difference between the Autiscommunity and the Autistic community.

The Autism community is made up of autism mommies and brothers and daddies and sisters, made up of therapists and caregivers and what-have-you’s, and whoever else finds themselves vaguely associated with autism. This community is very toxic, and likes to talk about how vaccines cause autism (they don’t) and how they can sympathize with those who murder their autistic children.

The Autistic community is made up of people who are actually autistic. We may be young or old, self-diagnosed or classically diagnosed, and we may even have autistic (or not autistic) children ourselves.  What brings us together is that we are all autistic. Also, we hate the Autism Community.

The other important terminology: We, the Autistic Community, by a wide margin, prefer identity-first language. This means that we call ourselves autistic. We don’t like person-first language, which insist that we are “people with autism.” There are a whole lot of reasons why we like identity-first over person-first, but the big reason is that it seems that the further people place the word “person” from “autism” in a sentence, the further they think autistic people are from being actual, real people. See “families of children who are affected by the condition known as autism.”

Step Two: Ask the Autistic Community what they want.

Never, never ever assume what would help us or, by extension, your child. We have a phrase- nothing about us without us. It means that you should never, ever, ever make a campaign or anything about autistic people without at least consulting an adult who is actually autistic and a member of the autistic community, and honestly, that autistic person should be running it and making all the big decisions. That pretty much safeguards you from messing up and being eaten alive.

Step Three: Know off-hand the things that the Autistic Community definitely does not ever want.

There are a few things that will always make us mad.

First, talking about cures. We don’t want to be cured, we want to be accepted for who and what we are.

Second, talking about awareness. Awareness makes people afraid of us and beg for a cure. Again, we want acceptance, not awareness, not cures.

Third, Autism Speaks. Autism speaks wants to cure us all, kill us all, or make people “aware” of us. Autism speaks has no autistic leadership and is generally hateful, and I’m pretty sure has never listened to an autistic self-advocate even once. So if you want to do a campaign, don’t make it benefit Autism Speaks or a similar group. If you need help identifying good groups, head back up to step two, and avoid anything that talks about burdens or cures.

Step Four: Do the thing

Fine. You got this far and followed the rules? Make your campaign. Help us out. Whatever.

Step Five: Did you still mess up? Listen.

You probably did. Because everyone does. Now is the time to put your ally-skills to the test.

Listen to us. Listen to our criticism- which includes our anger and our swearing and our mocking- because hidden within will be kernels of truth and wisdom. Especially in the anger and swearing and mocking. Do NOT silence us, either by deleting everything or ignoring us or what have you. Face what you did, and listen, so you can do better.

Step Six: Be an ally in the interim, and while it’s all going down

Are your friends, family, and supporters insulting us? Are they, for instance, calling us “mindless idiots”? Correct them. Don’t sit idly by while people abuse us- the people you want to help- because if you do you’re making it clear that you favor peaceful injustice over loud, raucous justice being served and explained and argued. If you actually care, you’ll listen, and you’ll stop people from abusing us.

Okay? We’re done now. Now give me back the cookie. I actually deserve it for sitting here and teaching you all this for free.

Why Atheism+ is still (And always will be) necessary

There’s a point I see made… a lot. “I don’t disagree with the goals of A+, I just don’t see why it’s necessary”

Now, ignoring our goal of “get rid of the sexist shit in the Atheist community that is so prevalent”, let’s pretend there was no sexism in the Atheist community. There are still a lot of reasons we need to exist.

My reasons:

I’m a… transgender… genderqueer… thing, not quite a trans man but definitely not a woman, but still very femme, and somewhere on the masculine side of things identity wise… using he pronouns. Atheism+ gives me a place where I can be that, without everyone flipping their collective shits asking invasive questions and misgendering me. And while not everyone will necessarily understand, the questions that they have will be asked respectfully.

I’m super-duper suicidal at random times* even whilst medicated (sometimes? I’m bad at medicating) and nobody there shames me for being the horrible terrible thing that is… mentally ill. Or the horrible terrible thing that is NOT TAKING YOUR PILLSSSZZZ.

…and in regards to those things, nobody is going to say that I’m an abomination against god OR try to comfort me with “God made you that way” OR pray for me.

Then there’s the fact that we get to combine skepticism with social justice. We don’t just have to look at claims like, say, “Trans people are mentally ill” (a fucked up phrase that needs a lot of unpacking, more than a post worth) from a moral point of view; we have the community with the skill set to look at that claim skeptically, from a scientific standpoint, to back up our claims. Differences between the (more than two) sexes? We have science to use there too, not just feminist reasoning. Not that there’s anything wrong with arguments from morality or feminism, but when we add science to the mix, we’re fortifying ourselves.

 And finally, there are about eleventy billion Atheist orgs out there who claim to be “Good without God,” but in my experience they don’t like to really explain how. They refrain from taking stances on issues, like feminism and racism, and as a result end up sticking their feet in their mouths regarding such.

A+, though? We can tell you what we believe and how we believe it and why. We are, non-controversially, pro-feminist (though some, for good reason, would argue womanist), we’re anti-racist AND anti-islamophobic, we’re pro-trans AND genderqueer people, and those who aren’t cis but are neither of those things, we’re against ableism (and ableist shit like Autism Speaks)… we are essentially very explicitly caring about social justice issues, and are not vague about what those issues area. Whereas I’ve seen orgs go “We don’t have a mission statement! We don’t have a philosophy or ideals!”… we DO.  And I think that is important for getting real things done, not just pandering to the middle about how we’re Just So Good. Atheism+ says, “We are good. This is how.”

*-For the record though, I’m happy to say that I’m currently over my last bout o’ fun

Sex and Gender and the difference

I’m in the minority here. I don’t like how some people (that being, some enlightened trans-friendly social justice folk) deal with the distinction between sex and gender. I can’t stand how I get told that my sex is always going to be female, and that doesn’t make me less of a man, because chromosomes and… something else. But wait, this isn’t gender essentialism! It’s important! For doctors to know! We have to keep sex something we are assigned at birth, because otherwise doctor’s couldn’t treat us right. Or something.

I have a suggestion. Instead of giving doctors the ability to say that our sex- a term that I for one want to protect as being able to define myself- is something determined by certain biological characteristics, we create a new term to mean “the information a doctor needs.” Like… Biological Unimportant Little Label Stuff Health Institutions Track. Yeah. That works.

More seriously. How the hell does retaining a F or M on medical charts *really* help medical professionals? What does it tell them that couldn’t be more accurately obtained by testing and question asking that doesn’t involve pigeonholing people? Chromosomes? Nope. Hormone levels? No. Genitalia configuration? No.

When is gender even relevant medically in a way that wouldn’t be better served by asking specific questions anyways? The only gender specific thing doctors ever talk about with me is my period, and considering that I’m a quasi-dude who gets a period while there are cis-women who don’t… it would probably just be easier to ask everyone about their possible periodiness. And really, the same could be said for any biologically essentialist trait.

I for one would rather see a world where instead of having “male” and “female” categories used by medical professionals to make broad assumptions about people, we actually looked into what people were made up of on a case-to-case basis so we could make informed decisions and treat people ethically at the same time.

But I guess giving a woman an M marker and dehumanizing her is easier.

Why we don’t take our pills and why we’re still human

This post is in response to the fact that the world is terrible.

Well. This blog is in response to that. But this specific post regards a specific terribility. Namely, how the instant that a mentally ill person stops taking their medication, they become evil, irresponsible, terrible, sub-human non-people.  Even in secular, pro-social-justice spaces, Not Being Medicated is regarded as pretty much a crime. Because HOW COULD YOU, mental illness is clearly so heinous that you are but one missed dose away from eating a basket of kittens alive or something like that. As such, mentally ill people are obligated to take their pills. They don’t get choices. Nope.

Now, see here, that is fucked up something awful. Aside from the basic notion of bodily autonomy that is “you get to decide what goes into your body,” which of course doesn’t apply to mentally ill people because we’re not people with things like bodily autonomy, there are a lot of damn good reasons why we can say we don’t take our pills.

Some reasons can be summed up under the broad topic of “not fucking worth it.” Psychoactive drugs are not magic. Mental health care is not magic. Because these things are Not Magic, there are flaws. Some are minor, some are big and blinking with neon signage and their own zip code. For instance,  there’s money. My pills all together, after insurance, cost me $60 a month (on top of the co-pay at the doctor). If I was on a tighter budget, that’d be a choice between pills, or… cutting my eating for the month in half. Or not buying gas. And what good are pills to make you happy if you’re starving with a dead car? NOT MUCH GOOD. And that’s with insurance. Being mentally ill people, we sometimes have trouble with the whole “keeping down a steady job” thing. Which messes up the whole “having insurance” thing. Which leads to the fun little catch-22 of not being able to buy pills, because you don’t have a job with insurance,  because you can’t afford pills. Yay!

Then there’s the whole deal of side effects. psychoactive drugs have a lot. There’s nausea, dizziness, drowziness… I once took pills that made me drowsy and tired. Not like “Oh gee I sure could use a nap!” tired. Like, my-mom-found-me-passed-out-on-the-bathroom-floor tired. Same pills, for depression I will add, also made me suicidal. LOL. Now, yes, that’s a matter of them being the wrong pill, and you can always change pills. Unless… you go on to the pills I am now, which thankfully work because if they didn’t, I would be completely screwed. In short, miss a dose? You get a magical thing called brain shocks. They’re about as fun as they sound, I promise. And they can last a loooong time after you go off of that pill. (My doctor didn’t feel the need to warn me about this. If she had, I would have nope’d her to the moon.)

But wait, I could just fix my brain zap problem if I just stuck to my pills!

Except no. Because for me, sticking to my pills is not a choice. I try. I try really hard to. But with autism comes problems with executive function, and with depression comes lack of motivation, so all at once I have difficulty doing tasks like “take pills daily at same time every day” and on the other I have “Oh god, I need to take my pills… but I can’t even move. Lol guess that’s not happening.” This results in a bajillion missed doses, and even more doses when the same issues mean I don’t get my prescriptions refilled in time and just straight up don’t have pills. Of course, I could commit myself to an institution or live with my parents and have people who constantly remind me to take my pills, but that would honestly trigger so many issues in my brain that it would counteract any benefit the medication would give me.

Which leads to the third part of why it’s okay to hate pills, which is… the mental health system. I’ve written about the fun adventure I’ve had with it before. If you haven’t read those posts, the short story is “holy shit fuck the mental health system.” It’s an abusive, ableist structure filled with a whole lot of power-abusing authority and not enough people who are decent. I’ve seen abuse and neglect, I’ve seen terrified patients, I’ve seen threats and fearmongering, I’ve seen some shit go down in the name of helping people (helping them, my ass- it’s more an industry of fucking with them until they’re normal or killing them off) and it overall gives you a bad taste in your mouth for the idea of mental health in general. So when you’re surrounded by people  buying in to the hate perpetuated by abusive doctors, insisting that you’re not human until you take the magic pills, insisting that you relinquish all of your rights the moment you stop medicating yourself, insisting that if you don’t take your pills of your own free will you’ll end up being forced… the natural human reaction, the natural human rebellion, is to say no.

Say, “Fuck you, I am a human being no matter what I choose to ingest or what I choose not to, and I’m not going to do what you want.”

It might hurt to do it. It hurts to be off your pills, after all. Whether it’s withdrawal or the feeling of the pain of mental illness creeping back into your brain, it just hurts. But it doesn’t always hurt as bad as the memory of the “therapist” from the mental hospital you’d been abused in telling you that if you don’t admit yourself to their hospital you’ll just try to kill yourself. It doesn’t always hurt as bad as the scorn you feel cast upon you when you admit you’ve forgotten to take your pills. It doesn’t always hurt as bad as the inherent judgement embedded within the phrase “did you remember your pills?” And sometimes, saying no, saying that you will be a human being who can make their own choices no matter what pills you do or don’t take, feels sweeter than all of the pain in the world. Sometimes it’s just plain liberating.

So if someone confides in you that they didn’t take their medication for whatever reason, the answer is not to scold them. It’s not to call the cops on them. It’s not to threaten them, or declare them a threat.

Offer them support. They’re probably hurting in some form, from withdrawal or from hatred, and the one medication that mentally ill people can use more than anything- yet are so often denied- is unconditional care, support, and understanding. Give them that.

Brain Zaps

I’m tired of them.

Brain zaps are what happen if you miss a dose of venlaxafine (and other SSRIs/SNRIs). You know how your heartbeat feels? That’s what my brain zaps feel. Except. In my brain.  Weird-ass sensations of throbbing. Not like a throbbing headache, where it hurts and then you actually feel your heartbeat as the throbbing… but your brain itself actually seems to throbbing. Or lurching. Or jolting. Kind of like how you suddenly tense up when something scares you. Except HAPPENING IN  YOUR BRAIN. And all of my auditory input gets fucked over to- that throbs as well along with your weird little brain pulses. So if I’m hearing my air conditioner whooshing, instead of an even “whoosh” it’s a fucked up “Wh-wh-wh-whoosh” 


This happens every time I move my eyes. Or my head. It sucks, is what I’m saying. And no doctor or side-effects pamphlets told me this would happen (I didn’t find out it was a thing until I got fed up with them and started googling shit in response). Also, nobody asked “hey, are you able to take a pill EVERY SINGLE DAY consistently?” Because, I can’t. I’ve never been able to. Dunno why. Alarms and reminders and set times every day and all kinds of nonsense have never made it possible for me to consistently take a pill. So I end up where I am now… brain zapping.


Except this time I didn’t just forget a pill. If I just forget a pill I take one and it goes away in a few hours. No, this time, I’m out of pills. Because just as I can’t remember to take pills, I can’t manage to call my psychiatrist to refill my perscription. I’ve lost my concept of time just a little, but as far as I can tell it’s been anywhere from a month to a few weeks to maybe just last week that I’ve needed new pills but each time I call they’re busy/out of the office because I woke up too late or had to work or whatever, and they haven’t returned my calls… so I’m just learning to cope with my brain whooshing around in my head and hoping they just fill the fucking prescription maybe even before I go to work tomorrow because I don’t want to do a six hour shift where I can’t think straight. (it won’t happen)


I’m also wishing someone could tell me if “incapable to remembering to take pills and such” is a thing, maybe with a name or whatever? Because I’d like to be able to say “I’m this” instead of throwing up my hands and describing the problem and people chalking me down as lazy/irresponsible/whatever.



I am autistic

I’m going to go out and say it. I’m going to stop worrying that I’m appropriating, that I’m a hypochondriac. I’m going to stop worrying about the people who think you have to be diagnosed when you’re three or it’s not real. Or that you have to be male. Or you have to do X or Y behavior and you can’t do this or that or whatever. Or that you can’t have developed any coping mechanisms to help you pass.

I’m going to say that, all things considered, it’s the diagnosis that makes the most sense, that makes me the happiest and describes me best.

Because I do things, and am things. Maybe these aren’t all autistic things, but these things are me.

I can’t form interpersonal relationships. Or, well, I can. But I’ve done it roughly… twice? In my whole life. And it was hard. Because I can’t take social cues and I can’t understand the context of conversations and relationships and I can’t nurture and grow connections with people because I straight up don’t know what I’m doing. It’s like I am one machine, and people are the other machine, and we just are not compatible unless you’re one of the few special people who has the adapter. This makes understanding the few people that I do entirely beautiful.

Again, I don’t take context. I don’t take cues or understand unspoken things. People tell me things, like that they know people like me, or that they know someone is joking, or that they know whateverthehell about whatever situation, and I don’t see it. Other people see in social situations things that are simply invisible to me, that I just can’t pick up.

I learn my social interaction. It is an art to me, something that I actively think about, actively study- by watching and observing the actions of other people, and mimicking them- and am only capable of preforming as, well… a performance. I take my phrases, I take my attitudes, I take my everything from the people around me and string them together with my own thoughts into conversation as best I can. I fuck up a lot.

I mimic like shit. Seriously, I pretty much am a mirror for people. I echo how people talk and how they act and all of that. I latch onto new dialects and ways of speaking and use them in my stock phrases, use them as templates for how I talk. I even do it on the internet- to a lesser extent, but still to a degree. Thanks to this, Yo Is This Racist made the way I type entirely awesome. When I’m not talking like a lolcat.

I have interests that are intense as hell. Seriously. Cats. My blog is Grimalkin my boy name is Kit after a nickname Kitty and I have drawn, crocheted, programmed and metal-cast cats. Numerous times. I like to meow.

Speaking of meowing, I like to stim. I stim vocally. I sing, endlessly, out loud, and apparently it’s awesome to hear. I do it because it makes me feel good, physically. I sing and hum when I’m feeling hurt, or sick, or sad, because the feeling of the vibrations make me feel better. I just like to make noise.

When I’m nervous, I have to be moving my hands. They will grab anything and play with it.

I move weird. I position myself weird. The most comfortable way for me to stand and walk is with one hand down at my side and the other bobbed up in front of me. I become very conscious of how I walk around people and make deliberate movements. It’s not usually possible for me to “just” walk around- I have to think about how I’m carrying myself and how I’m walking.

I like to just get up and move, sometimes. No, not like- I have to. Sometimes I have to get up and go downstairs and come back up just to be happy. Not do anything, just leave where I am and go somewhere and then come back. Mainly when I’m thinking or excited.

I cannot function with schedules. Apparently this actually is the opposite of what Autistic people are, but I’m listing it here anyways. Seriously, schedules and routines just straight up do not and never have worked for me. Not with planners nor alarms or… anything.

Also, I hate facial expressions. I apparently always need to be smiling? I think that smiling looks like when animals bare their teeth, and eye contact similarly looks like an animal threat. I do both because they are expected but enjoy neither.

I am a lot more things than all of that, I’m sure. But that’s all that I can think to list.

Fix the world

Stop telling me to avoid stigma. Stop telling me it’s easy. Stop telling me I’m so close, because you know damn well that’s when it hurts the most.

Stop playing with pills and talking about therapies. Stop taking away my methods of hurting myself instead of my reasons. Stop trying to fix me.

Fix the world first. Fix the systems, fix the failing structures. Move away the stumbling blocks before you chastise me for stumbling.

But failing that. Failing fixing the things that make me hurt. Let me hurt. Let me fail. Just once. Stop forcing me to defuse this time bomb that ticks inside my head and let me let it explode. Just once.

I’ll clean up the aftermath. I’ll put everything back where it was as best I can. Everything will recover, if you’ll just let me stop. Once.

It’s hard to tell

When you’re used to being depressed all the time and suddenly you’re diagnosed as bipolar and put on antidepressants, it gets hard to tell if you’re manic or you just feel good.

But the nice thing is you don’t care, because you’re not depressed.