Sometimes I want to cover myself in glitter and dance in your sunshine. And sometimes I want to throw my hands over my head and scream until you leave me alone.
I will sing along, I will woop, I will clap, I will beat the arms of my seat – so to be able to both watch and join in this experience, without fear of judgement or backlash, brought a tear to my eye.
I’m scared that, on Friday morning, I will have to talk people down from killing themselves. And I’m scared that I will fail to talk people down from killing themselves.
Autistic people should not have their inalienable right to diagnosis and support denied because their autism doesn’t present itself in a way that fits into the correct boxes.
People were swelling with an outpouring of almost regimented grief that I felt cast to the side of; watching with a furrowed brow, scrunching up my face as I tried desperately to march in time, going red and tearful with frustration as I failed to keep step.
I have a voice that deserves to be heard, and, even if the system we work in is determined to stifle that voice, to not vote would have been to stifle my own voice. And I was going to fight against the gag kicking and screaming and biting and gouging.
For every person who complains about how annoying they find this new fad, I will shoot back that it’s a lot less annoying than a twenty-five year old woman descending into meltdown in a public space.
I’ve always known I feel the cold. I had just never thought about in terms of those wonderful labels that started clicking into place once I got my diagnosis.