The Alternate Lexicon
Currently viewing the tag: "frustrations"
Less than a week in the US. Feels weird. Words are a little hard to come by now that I don’t have to pretend to be fluent and fluid and talkative at work, which maybe says something in favour of faking it or maybe it’s just about regular sleep schedules. I have packed and repacked, abandoned much of the stuff I thought I simply had to have to exist, and decided more hair dye totally beats clothes any day, because awesome hair is awesome even if I only have pajamas and t-shirts, and manic panic is hard to come by there.
We spend a lot of time looking at houses in between my fits of playing the sims and trying to shove more stuff into my over-full suitcases and being sat upon by the cat, who is in a panic, too. I have chai cola. It is delicious. My life is inane.
I am feeling resilient and tired and ready.
In two and a half weeks, I will get on a plane and cease to live in the US, for permanent as far as we can guess.
When I land, I will be a new person. I will be neatly crafted, all smooth lines and invisible joins, not cobbled together of hurts and fears and sinew like I am now. A clockwork person; a robot made out of human bits of bone.
I will be Eliot, sometimes. I will be trans without being ashamed, or anxious, or both. I will be openly, joyfully queer (and if the immigration stuff goes easily, maybe even poly). I will be proudly autistic, honest about the disabling bits and all the good things. I will be clever and quick and funny and obsessive. I will make friends.
At least, I’m going to try.
Tagged with: ali • asperger's • autism • friends • frustrations • gender • melbourne • moving • neurodiversity
What gives me away, in the end, is that I don’t ask questions.
It has something to do with tone. I’m never clear if I’m being given a small fact or invited to discuss something larger, deeper, more complex and personal. With a handful of people I can usually guess correctly, but for the most part I resort to ignoring these maybe-invitations; I’ve gotten that guess wrong far too many times to try it.
I very much want to know, that isn’t the issue. It’s not that I lack curiosity about the lives and inner workings of the people I am close to–far from it, really. I am desperate for a glimpse into how they work, how we are alike and dissimilar, because I like that sort of thing, that sort of science of thought. But I can’t bring myself to ask, waiting to be offered tidbits of information and never able to complete the follow-up that is required for more.
It comes out of a sense of not being owed knowledge, which I actually think would be rather an improvement for everyone if it was the baseline opinion instead of the reverse. No one should tell me anything about themselves, because their lives are private and what they want to disclose may or may not match up with what I want to know–and their comfort should always be prioritized (and mine, in turn). No one should get to ask me about being queer, being some flavour of trans, being autistic without my express permission. No one should be able to make sexual advances without my permission. My body, and the mind it holds, are mine alone to share as I deem fit.
This isn’t the default, though, so my inability to ask at all the right times is pathologized and made into a symptom instead of the polite respect that it is intended to be. I would love to know. I’m just waiting for permission.
I had no plans for a medical transition. I had barely come to terms with the effective reality of not being a girl, after all, and all of the names I liked and wanted to associate with myself were feminine, anyway–or at least the sort of names that would be read as feminine on my person, old-fashioned androgynous names that had long since been entirely overwhelmed by girls and women. So I gave myself a new name, one that fit much better than the old one, and didn’t think about giving myself a more masculine name.
I still have no plans for a medical transition, but I’m in a better place than I was a year ago, and my name is fine but not always me.
It might be nice if I can sometimes be Eliot. A gentle tease for all of my Australian aquaintances who can’t hear the difference between Ali and Ellie, and a sometimes-better fit. Eliot. Els. Yes. I think so. Sometimes.
Tagged with: a little bit late • ali • frustrations • gender • genderqueer • melbourne • meta • new name
I am still.
When I was six or seven, my mother told me that flapping my hands was Not Okay. It’s something my cousin did, full of exuberance and ADHD, and it was made clear to me that I was Too Smart For That. He was stupid, no one expected much of him, so if he wanted to flap his hands, it was fine. But I was bright, so clever and sharp, and I should not do those things. People would get the wrong idea.
I became still.
I sit like a small animal, surrounded by predators, every muscle tensing and untensing. If only I could go unnoticed! I wait for the threat to pass, and it never does, because it’s a threat built into the foundations of my culture. Sometimes I let myself flap, or bite my nails, or wiggle with joy, but only after I have given up hope of passing, of being overlooked in my stillness. I think this is the outcome of a life of being instructed not to be exemplary in any fashion. Worse, it incapacitates me in my desire to no longer be still. I don’t actually care what anyone thinks of me anymore. I don’t care if they think I’m stupid, or if it annoys them. I want to feel comfortable in my skin.
Instead, I stay still.
Tagged with: ableism • ali • asperger's • autism • depression • disablism • frustrations • gender • neurodiversity
I’ve been reading back over a year, and oh god. I have been a whiny shit. I am so sorry. I promise to stop being such a whiny shit. For real.
I actually did end up writing a really great piece about what it’s like to be autistic for TEACCH, which I will publish here soon, which is what led to me reading stuff I wrote months ago. I probably could have cobbled together something from all of the millions of times I wrote about it previously, but this new piece is good. It’s confrontational and social model-y and I like how my writing voice has evolved in the past year (it means using AND a lot because I want to, mostly, and also comma splices). I almost never remember that there was this one time I was in college and got published in an anthology. Like I can actually write, if I stop being such a shit and just do it.
So that’s going to be my goal: just write, and stop being such a shit. I have a little over seven weeks until I leave(1), and I think it’s incredibly reasonable to suggest I could write a post a week. My intense interest in autism hasn’t really faded, but I no longer feel compelled to write about it exclusively; since being made an Official Autistic, I have felt much more comfortable just being and not having to yell a lot about how autistic I am. I’m very caught up in MBT fandom brain at the moment, but I don’t know that I want to write fiction and I have a tumblr dedicated to fandom thoughts. So I’m not sure what I’m going to write about, just that I think it can happen, and I think it can be excellent.
I wrote once that when I feel brainless, the only cure is to force myself to do something intellectual I enjoy. Greensboro Public Library, nonfiction section, around 360-375 and 616ish, I owe you my brains.
Not in a zombie way.
1. OH GOD OH GOD I haven’t told work yet (I’m planning to give them a month’s notice) and there is so much packing and cleaning all the stuff and I am using this stuff, how am I supposed to also pack it? Shit.
Tagged with: ali • AND THEN BAD GRAMMAR HAPPENED • asperger's • autism • frustrations • kit • melbourne • meta • monster blood tattoo • moving • work
Hi, Dylan. Google analytics tells me someone in Charlottesville spent a while on here late last week. Then you tried to friend me on facebook. I have a hunch those things are connected.
When you tried to friend me, I responded with a single question: why? I’m not sure yet if I’m interested in your interpretation of that question or your answers to it, but I am interested in a thought-ramble about you. Stina complained I only wrote hurt letters to her, and maybe it’s time to fix that.
To start with, I never wrote hurt letters to you for a few reasons. One is because the pair of you are a collective unit, and I knew whatever I wrote would make its way to you. You were my friend first (Stina intimidated me terribly when we met), and we were so close of course I had to be friends with both of you. We told strangers we were siblings. We told your coworkers we were siblings. And I loved you like the brother I wanted to have. You frustrated me and hurt my feelings and I loved you anyway.The relationship we had could not be quantified in words, could not be described with pen to paper or words on a screen. I didn’t write you letters because I don’t think about you in words.
Not speaking to Christina hurts. Our whole relationship was built around words, around the way we used them and had shared language to draw upon. Not being near you hurts. I miss the physical comfort I had with you–it’s hard to come by, for me, but you made me feel at ease.
You hurt my feelings–often, actually. You refused to use the language I asked you to about my sexuality. You were so dismissive of non-binary genders I never made a sound about my own after a single, tentative suggestion. You styled yourself as an expert on the autism spectrum because you work with little boys with social issues. Dylan. I’m not a ten year old, socially awkward boy. I’m me. And I’m autistic. Insisting I was wrong, that I was looking for excuses, that I wanted to be special, it fucking hurt. You never noticed that I hate the Little Prince, hate it with a passion. Instead you got me another, more special, more expensive copy.
I wasn’t a model best friend. I still don’t know the full story about your falling out with your parents. I don’t know if you had lung problems before you started binding. I don’t know why you became a vegetarian. I don’t know a fucking lot of things. I was afraid to ask. Asking feels off-limits, so staunchly rule-breaking I can’t do it–not an excuse, just an explanation.
I don’t know anything about you anymore, and I’m no longer sure you know anything at all about me. I’m not sure I want to be friends with someone who made me feel inferior all the time. So, why? Why ask? Why now?
Tagged with: ableism • ali • asperger's • autism • depression • disablism • dissolution of a friendship • friends • frustrations • therapy
I tend to enjoy the Thinking Person’s Guide to Autism, a group blog authored by adults and teens on the spectrum and family members of people on the spectrum, with a decidedly pro-science, pro-research bent. A recent post about presuppositions got me thinking about the value of diagnosis (self or professional) and being open about that diagnosis.
Okay, so presuppositions are the assumptions all people make about the way other humans work. Everyone has them, but sometimes they don’t match up very well–this is where conflict happens. They involve all axes of oppression (class, race, cultural background, gender, etc) and when we interact with someone who is not a close match of our own experiences, we tend to rely on stereotypes to form our presuppositions about how they will behave.
This is, obviously, a big sticking point for people on the spectrum. We don’t naturally behave or respond the way most people do, at least not innately. Things like delays, stimming, lack of eye contact, avoidance of people, they’re all traditionally seen by researchers through their own presuppositions; that is to say, researchers make assumptions about what autistic behaviour means based on what it would mean IF A NT PERSON behaved that way, rather than consulting autistics and getting a general consensus. See the problem?
This is all related to being aware of being autistic (via self or professional diagnosis) and being open about it because I think that is the only way we are going to change the stereotypes associated with autism–the basis of people’s presuppositons about US. If I am distant or use stalling techniques while my brain catches up to what I just heard, it isn’t because I don’t like other people or because I didn’t deem the person speaking to me important enough to pay attention! It isn’t that I don’t care. It’s that my brain gets easily overwhelmed and I need to sort out how best to answer or behave. Being open about being autistic and (sometimes) able to discuss this idea with NT people means I can, hopefully, gradually shift their perceptions and assumptions about how autistic people react, think, and behave.
The conversation usually goes one of two ways:
The first:
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: No way. You can talk [or work or live independently or cook my own food].
Me: Officially diagnosed and everything*. Autism is a very broad spectrum of people with difficulties communicating and socializing typically, and we’re as individual as anyone else.
The second:
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: Oh. I would never have guessed. You are such a good example for people with autism.
Me: You know that’s really demeaning to everyone else with autism, right?
I am discomforting to people not familiar with social justice and disability rights. I am the worst sort of disabled person, because I have an invisible disability and I can fake being neurotypical, at least for a while. I am a secret spy for the disability community, come to infiltrate the temporarily able world at large with my sarcasm and socially unremarkable stims. I call them out on their language and attitudes and then have the audacity to reveal I have fooled them all along. This does not usually go over well (see above).
I have spent the past three months officially in this position, and it does not get less awkward.
So I thought I’d talk about ways I would prefer this conversation to go. Bear in mind that this is relevant only to conversations with me, as I cannot speak for the broader autism community, and autism is a special interest of mine, so I have a lot of facts ready to be provided on request.
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: Really? I didn’t know–sorry, didn’t mean to joke about a sensitive topic.
Me: It’s okay. There are a lot of adults like me on the spectrum, though, who may not be read as neurodivergent but really are. You might want to consider that before speaking.
This is sort of the baseline of what I would consider a good conversation on the topic. When someone comes out to you in some way, revealing a sexuality, gender ID, neurodivergence, what have you, that you didn’t previously know about and have been making fun of, it is a good thing to apologize. If you are making fun of it after knowing, then you’re an asshole.
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: You know, I wondered about that. You can be very [negative stereotype--usually "emotionally distant" or "stand-offish" for me].
Me: Well, that’s a stereotype–there are a lot associated with autism, many of which are only the tiniest bit true. I might seem stand-offish, but I’m really just trying to [listen/understand what's being said/ignore sensory imput/reduce my anxiety levels/work out when it's my turn to talk].
I think it’s a very human thing to relate what we abstractly know to personal situations. When I tell people I’m autistic, it probably makes sense to relate it to what my interlocutor knows about autism (usually precious little). While this pattern can be annoying, it gives us the opportunity for learning and growth–something I’m usually up for helping with.
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: Oh. I thought that was a thing kids have.
Me: Kids grow up, and a lot of the behaviours that people associate with autism are things kids on the spectrum do, but not all or even most adults on the spectrum do. We can learn and grow perfectly fine, we just do it atypically. I’m 26, so my experience is going to be different than that of a six year old.
Other person: That makes a lot of sense. What is autism like for you?
This is one of my favourites. The huge push for autism awareness has created a background awareness for a lot of people, but it’s awareness of the wrong sort. Simple statistics would reveal that more people on the spectrum are adults than not, but the focus is on what autism looks like in very young children. This obviously leads to the assumption that either you outgrow it, die from it, or you remain just like a three year old forever and ever. I’m not a little kid anymore! Even if I have to remind you of that, being aware that autism is different for each of us is appreciated.
Me: Yeah, I went to this [autism related thing].
Other person, joking: Ha! What if they mistook you for autistic? That would be so funny.
Me: Er, I presume they did, since I am.
Other person: Interesting. So [have you seen the new whatever/done something I'd spoken about previously/read this awesome book/something totally unrelated]?
Autism awareness will begin to shift into acceptance when I can tell someone that I’m autistic and it doesn’t make a damned bit of difference in how they interact with me.
*I’m a fan of self-diagnosis and was comfortably self-diagnosed for years. Had I not had the opportunity to sit an eval for free, I probably still would be self-diagnosed. Unfortunately, the sorts of people who insist I cannot be really autistic place a lot of weight on official labels.
Tagged with: ableism • asperger's • autism • BADD 2011 • blogging against disablism day • disablism • frustrations • neurodiversity • utter pedantry
So, when you get unfriended in facebook, is that the point where I have to stop referencing them as if I have actual friends so people at work think I’m less of a freak? Because my circle of friends is pretty much limited to Hez, Kit, and Sarah right now. I think a huge, huge part of me has been thinking that when I get back in therapy (next week? Might’ve found someone I like finally), I’d work out how to forgive and forget (not skills I currently have) and we could be friends again. I guess not.
Will I ever stop feeling so sad? I can’t even make steps towards making friends here because everyone gets measured against the litmus test of fucking Stina and Dylan. I want best friends. I want my best friends again.
I’m a failure.
Tagged with: ali • asperger's • autism • depression • dissolution of a friendship • friends • frustrations • therapy
My name is Ali, though sometimes it's Eliot.
I have many tumblrs, which you are welcome to also visit:
The Polite Yeti - My personal tumblr, full of silliness.
Fuck Yeah, Kate Miller-Heidke - the only active Kate fan site, which is baffling.
The Branden Rose - the only active Monster Blood Tattoo fansite, which is less baffling.
I also have a semi-successful etsy shop, which you should visit, below.
Please buy things from me:
A brief history:
