Queerly Autistic

Because we live in a culture that doesn’t talk about death, I am innately curious. It’s the ultimate unspoken thing -final, unchangeable, ridiculous – that my brain wants to unpack and understand.

In an age where cuts to support are justified by shifting the goalposts of ‘need’ , the Paralympics are held up as an example of what all disabled people ‘could’ achieve with a little bit of spunk and a can-do attitude.

The next week (or so) has been bequeathed from hell to challenge me. 

The Liebster Award is designed to encourage connections between bloggers. So let’s get connecting!

Mainstream political concern about mental illness, neurodivergence and the relevant support systems exists only as a cover for calling out white male violence. 

As women, we are taught that we must shoulder the emotional burden of being okay. As autistic women, the burden of okayness becomes even heavier. We are always okay. Except when we aren’t.

My mum is and always has been my safe place to fall. And as I get older, I’m becoming more and more aware that some day I won’t have her there. 

I feel like an imposter in my own neurotype. And, in a room full of people I know I belong with, I find myself thinking: but what if I don’t?

He goes through so much and is still the happiest creature. It’s like we were meant to find each other. We both struggle. And we know how to look after each other. 

But why, oh why, was I locked in a toilet doing my ‘calming down’ checklist in the middle of the afternoon? Two words: forced socialisation.