The red, messy underpart of my arm is showing in a thumbnail-slashed line, but there’s still the thinnest layer of skin over it. I’m unsure if it will be healed by tomorrow, debating if I should expect the ability to wear short sleeves and reassure my father I’m no more piebald with discolouration and scar-striped than I was a month ago or just scrawl “die cis scum” over it, quash that possibility for comfort.
As I said a few posts ago, it has been years. It has been four years, I miscalculated, and it will be four and a half years before I’m given basic medical care by the NHS, I have been informed. Nearly a quarter of my life, I will have been waiting for basic medical care post-request. And, as my psychologist informed me, then I will have to convince them to let me have it.
Apparently I looked upset.
I don’t know. My face was numbed by a slow bloom of coldness, and I just retreated inside myself to a place where an expanding rictus grin felt like it would peel my face away, wetly and obscenely to match the rotten giggles that were hysterically choked up from some abyss inside and spilled out in a rich stream as my arms tensed and muscles bunched and whoever did this to me choked through a sucking wound and gave those great, slow, shuddering sobs I’ve so intimately known on occasions.
It lasted for three seconds or so of imaginary respite before I had to talk to the psychologist, and I apparently scared her, ripping stripes down my neck with a blunt fingernail below a face that felt impassive but doesn’t have reliable sensory input, banging my head on the wall and being gently told by my mother that there might be someone in the next room.
Another day, another appointment, staggering into an agonisingly noisy library feeling like my skull has been replaced with some crushingly heavy fluid. Someone supposed to return me back from the cracks in the educational system I’ve slipped through, informing me that every option is soundly guillotined under the failure of abled people to account for the existence of anyone like me.
I strike a mental bargain with the stress of yesterday and pull out the caustic remarks that my politeness-conditioned self normally wants to start screaming and crying and never stop at the mere thought of using, directing them only at the twitching corpses of my platforms to survival.
It’s a pointless lashing-out at the endless door-slam of closed-off options that chases me inevitably towards one last anticlimax at every turn, a final roll of the dice on bigotry and neurotypical privilege to see if I can get a fact so obvious it shattered years of conditioning against percieving it validated by those ignorant of it, a gateway to grudgingly-given, capitalism-defying survival handed out by the government, a diagnosis of autism, benefits and that charming title of “burden on society”.
I stumble up to what may be the point of determination of my survival, and I am so tired of being inches from death that I cannot rouse myself to anything more than a mild headache. The abuses and denials and disingenous, acceptably-toned-by-neurotypical-normative-standards defenses have piled upon one another, and my ability to care is simply exausted, like some endlessly-exercised muscle, like the childhood empathy I used to have and suddenly lost one day.
I don’t even know if my apathy is borne on resignation to death or certainty of my own immortality, if it’s yet more damage done to me by the medical industry or a self-forged improvement in the face of all that I’ve ever been through. I have no certainties about myself but the most obvious and basic, and now I put those on trial by ignorance for a bribe of the fair chance at life implicitly promised to me from birth.