From this broken hill

By the standards of a distant, ignorant and famous man that my psychologist mentioned, I’m not autistic. I picture this reality as whitish, smooth and blunt, a tooth-shaped domino piece hammered down into the ground to block my path.

I picture it often. Denial of autism is the end result of every arbitary division, every general distinguishment between one supposed kind of autism and another, every trace of the idea that there is any one behavior that one must have to be autistic, and there are many of those.

So I’ve had my neurotype denied for many things.

I’m called “high functioning” because I can type, and hence I’m told I have no social issues, and I *choose* to offend everyone I talk to. I’ve been declared not autistic because I draw attention to my neurotype so often, like when allistic people expect me to do things I can’t and blame me for it.

A favourite is that I’m not autistic enough because I can talk.
But most often, I’m not autistic enough because I have a good reason *not to* talk.
I live in a simple, blunt world. It is without much emotion, it is without much beauty.

It is really without the conventional idea of love, and I have known nothing else, so I am happy with it. And everything I do is bound up in this world, because it is the place I exist in. And every time most people hear one word, read one letter, comprehend *one syllable* of this world…

I get a little more less-than, a little more of a tragedy, and a little lower in “mental age”. Take my psychologist. He is middle-young aged as far as I can tell, he talks somewhat loudly at times, and most importantly, he thinks I’m on an “autism spectrum” that he refuses to explain the extremes on.

This means that I cannot trust him.
Because this a man who will, when I explain to him that the place I should have met him in didn’t exist today because there was a shut door and a different pattern of sunlight on the walls, earnestly and unmaliciously think that I’m wrong.

Even if I add a “to me” to the end of it, like a good autie, he may still begin to tell me that I’m wrong, with booming-voiced good intent. And he will regard me as sad. Pitiful. A tragedy, and deserving of a cure. Because the space I inhabit is fundamentally wrong, and my poor autie self just can’t understand how.

Because most people think it’s the same room, with a shut door and a different pattern of sunlight on the walls. This is a man who doesn’t believe that 3 emotions are all I have, because my poor little autie self simply lacks the wit to delve deep enough.

This is a man who I can never trust.
I get less autistic with everything I don’t reveal, and lesser than him with everything I do. This is what I experience with nearly every single persyn I know. How much do I reveal to avoid seeming like an allistic jerk, and how little to avoid becoming too far less-than, too much of a tragedy?

Who can I trust to think of me as *me*, not as work, a tragedy, a charity case, less-than, or a broken shell that houses likable bits of a valid persyn?
Will my mother regret not aborting me if she learns that I’m never “happy”?

Will my father regard me as “low functioning”, a broken down, battered doorstop in place of the high-capability, bells-and-whistles neurotypical he ordered?
Will a new friend worry about me hurting them, if they learn that they’re not completely real to me yet?

I don’t know. You only find out when you tell them, and by then it’s too late.
You can’t explain that you like your life and that you’re too weak and clumsy and impaired to hurt anyone even if you wanted to.

That you are worth something, you do function, even though you can’t explain how you are worth something, what you are good for, why anyone would want an unemotional, clumsy, *developmentally disabled* persyn like you, who lurches into walls, cringes from slamming doors and hugs too hard for comfort.

Why nobody can even work us into fiction, unless it’s as a slot that spits out someone who isn’t broken when you slot a convenient cure into it.

You just know, or maybe you only hope, you desperately and fervently *hope,* that you are worth something, and perhaps even worth something as you.

And you hope that you’re lucky enough to have people you love that think the same.

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About chassisbird

Chassisbird is autistic, trans, a survivor of abuse, possibly gray-asexual, queer, polyromantic and very into D/s. It uses it/hir pronouns, tends towards apathy and would like to resemble a spider much more closely.
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