A love letter to the Autistic internet
“Some people will never understand the kind of superpower it takes for some people to just face the day.”
My day begins at 6:30, sometimes 7:00, with worries and unsolvable queries. With self-doubt. With wondering how I will ever get through. My cat sits on my chest as I check the text messages I’ve accumulated over the night — from friends’ tweets across time-zones. If only people understood the lengthy space between waking up and getting up. Wishing for several more hours rest. Letting my chest rise and fall with orangey tabby sitting on mountainous blankets.
Some people will never understand — but they do — to the uninitiated, they are my disability support group — but they are more than that. My not-at-all imaginary friends. Across the world. And yet only 140 characters distance from me. We are broadcasting our breakdowns, meltdowns, shutdowns. Celebrating long-fought for diagnostiversaries with cake. I’ll save a piece for you — eat a slice in your honor. This is the Internet.
As we begin #TalkingAboutIt — sharing our moments of falling apart again, sitting in yet another waiting room, for a diagnosis we have long recognized. But these #onhere understand the anger of being misunderstood. How microaggressions are larger than they appear. We survived April together. Then our Day of Mourning. We are unicorns, Loch Ness. Museum curators of our own lives. Never self-narrating zoo exhibits.
We are our own — no need to explain, #onhere. We are a 24-hour clock, a news-cycle of disability, not-fitting, ill-fitting — creating our own space to be ourselves entirely. Coming out to become ourselves. Knowing no other way, we have made our own. A safety net in cyberspace. In Autismland. There’s a Twitter for everything: disabled, academic, feminist, some faith, grad student problems, me. #onhere together.
In a space where we name our own mile-markers. Adulthood is a process. Independence is an illusion, we remind ourselves. Sometimes we even believe our own stories. In this space, we have a shared story. Created nonfictions. Known and loved — because of not in spite of — I repeat to myself. Tell others what is true. This I know. Because we are not alone, here together. Stories typed into the lines of characters before us.
Here in this place — yes, we are, fitting, belonging. Together — here in this creative space of stories.