Ask an Aspergirl

Essays and poems about Autistic experience, mental illness, & (post-) ABD life

Tag: anxiety

Shelter in peace

The girl who sits before you contains multitudes — feeling far too old to be this young. I’m getting used to this back-and-forth dialogue. That lives in present, past — where trauma echoes and hope lives. I contain bunkers and bomb-shelters, yet another reminder to self, “You are good; this is just hard.”

The coffee on the table nearby is steadying in this fog. Chairs find their way — just close enough to read text and expression of this twice-a-week narrative.

There is shelter in this place, a room contained by time and affirmations of feeling. Of belief. There is a peace in just enough questions when answers would be too easy to explain away. Sometimes why’s don’t help. I am living in the how.

Blue would be too obvious — an explicit expectation for a calm that makes no fucking sense. So the room settled for shades of green and grey-near blue. The sunlit boxes are my favorite. This space contains a multitude of words. Feelings identified in the expressions her body makes — pain, tension, pain. I thank my body for giving voice to what I’m learning to name. Sometimes simpler words leave me as my anxiety rises — a friend’s name… I’m sitting in a — oh, chair.

I apologize to my body for what she understands far too well. Pause for breath before the words flood this box of stories. Sometimes the best I can do is describe the inexplicable. There are no why’s; the how’s and when’s and what’s ache with a body who knows more than I do.

Present tense — wrist aches, shoulders in and of pain. All I have are these words — sometimes I cannot say them aloud without brain and heart attempting an exit. Leaving my body and pounding through my chest.

I’m learning to feel things in real time. My feelings are returning slowly — anxiety felt, disorienting, but recognizable. Anger is a cloud of words, tone questioning this nonsense that she keeps happening. Sadness is a relief away — she comes so briefly. Only when I’m safe enough to mourn. I sit in a chair beside her; trying to explain what I don’t understand myself.

There’s validation in being told I am real, seen, that the lists holding me together are working and it is a feat of bravery to hide, to ignore phone calls, to grieve a storm that hasn’t passed entirely.

Vibrant metaphors find a home here — in this holding space — banking, castles, shelters, waves — then plain words — I hate that this keeps happening. This hurts. Why do I have to be so strong? There are no answers, only the safety found in an expression of kindness, of surprise.

I don’t know what normal is anymore. I suspect she doesn’t either. I find shelter in stories of becoming and sometimes being with is just enough.

After Wonderland

“I’m free,” I thought to myself. After 10 days of fewer choices and disempowerment, I am returning to the regular world of normal people with fewer visible mental health problems and mental illnesses.

But I don’t feel free. I feel lost and without power. I exchanged one set of problems for another. I want to tell the uncaring folks — the too busy and too tired to care more than they are legally bound to do so — to go fuck themselves!

Anger is so much easier than sadness. Because sadness is what sent me there. I hurt until I am numb. Find my tears again in the safety of another mother’s phone call. Not changing, just listening.

I met so many women like me — there are only so many reasons why our brains give up on living and take us down with them: anxiety, depression, trauma. But did anyone tell you how brave you are? For living, for signing your fate away to a locked ward. For losing your safety and yourself to try to stay alive.

To submit yourself to an uncaring system, to learn to live with pain, to find a community of women in pain, struggling through just like you. You are brave merely for trying. For giving up your freedom to find it again. You are finding your own answers, asking what do the labels mean. Do they matter? Do I matter?

What if we are talking ourselves into nothing? I can no longer listen to bullshit words that hide the truths we are too afraid to witness. What if we are broken and that’s okay? What if we are a days missed pills away from another breakdown? I saw another patient on the bus — more lucid, more herself — her pain, her struggle, was louder than mine.

My anxiety, my depression — the pills I take to prevent an attempted murder by brain. I am so much closer to the edge than I like to realize. I am learning to trust doctors again — to insist on my words mattering, that my quiet voice and unspoken fears be heard. That my trying (sometimes failing) is brave enough.

Perhaps bravery is persistence. Another crying phone call. Sitting with the numbness — emotional bubble wrap. Being brave is accepting that existence is exhausting enough. Bravery is saying aloud, I don’t trust you, as I sit across from my psychiatrist and her sitting there listening, believing me. Being with, acknowledging and understanding, not explaining away the hurt.

My therapist thanked me when I explained how little I trusted professionals like her. She kept room for hope, while understanding my sadness. I wept and cursed; she listened. Holding space. Instilling hope. These are clinical skills. But this is also being human.

I left today’s session with unexpected hope. I described a fire that burned away my trust. But seedlings keep finding their way to the surface. Perhaps we will nurture this fragile hope — with water and time — patience and soil — compassion and sunlight —  together.

 

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.

An unexpected visitor

Seedling

Drew McLellan (CC BY-NC 2.0)

This weight. This heaviness. This fog. An unexpected and yes, unwanted, visitor. I always thought depression would have more feelings. But this wait. This living in lack is too much for me. Bed is a respite from the drudgery of everyday life. Of pushing myself to do — again and again — until I cannot.

Being so tired all the time is tiring. In the exhaustion of being. In lack. In need. Overly anxious. Too much. Not enough. For me, for them — to get on with it. Shame is a weighty burden.

I want to give you up — a backpack of rocks placed on the shoulders of a small girl, now adult.

I long to molt. To shed this shame. A cocoon for wings — to leave it all behind. But shame is elusive — and it does not tolerate metaphors. It lingers in the broken places — my broken places. It hurt; I know.

Shame rips and tears and weighs me down. Berating me for this exhaustion. Too many words for you — for me, until there was only a blankness. But my words are slowly returning. To page, to life. I am returning to myself. Slowly.

Impatient with myself. This in-between hurts. I am restless for spring. Seeds to ground — looking for tiny sprigs of hope. To see. To savor. To water, then fertilize the soil with pills and words. As a rain of tears speckles the ground. Glittery raindrops appear beneath the soil. My roots and bones ache buried underground.

Healing is hard and I am impatient with time and this artful chemistry, when looking better comes before feeling better. Healing is hard, I remind myself yet again. And growth is slow — and often exhausting. Be patient little sprouts.

Take hope. Then leave aphorisms behind. Find your own words for being alive again. Roots run deeper still, even with little support. We grow so slowly. And patience, like hope, is hard to sustain in dry ground. But still, we hope. Because the absence of hope dries the soil. Seedlings need rain and fertile ground. A plan for living, being, existing. They cannot sustain themselves. Or live on hope alone.

And so we sit with these seeds buried deep in earth. Waiting for spring to arrive here.

On tessering

“How are you?” It’s a question that begins most of my conversations these days; I’m never quite sure how to answer. Most of the time, it seems like an acknowledgement of the other person’s existence, not an inquiry about our deeper feelings.

This is not the time for me to unpack my emotional states or the worries I’ve tried to quell all day: How I can’t seem to shake the idea that something is wrong with me and my subsequent actions are making me feel worse. How I often wonder if I’m missing something. When I fear I’m not enough.

This is merely a time for social niceties. When I respond with “okay” or if pressed further, with “managing.” Managing what exactly? The world around me? My own anxieties? Because both tasks seem daunting.

What if I’m tessering? But that response would require greater context. I would like to look outside of this exhaustion and fears that I’ll always feel this way — to see a kind of hope, a will be that hasn’t arrived yet. In A Wrinkle in Time, tessering is a more efficient form of travel between time and space, but the in-between still hurts. That’s where I am now.

“What if you stopped contingency planning?” she asked. What would it be like to just be here? “I don’t know,” I responded. Because this is the space I’ve inhabited for as long as I can remember. I don’t know how to be in the present without looking further ahead and subsequently worrying about how things could fall apart (because of me). Self-doubt is vicious.

Some of this is ableism. I’ve internalized the norms of a society that doesn’t recognize disabled experience as a way of being in the world. So when I’m utterly exhausted, it must be my fault, and I should have coped better (forgetting how much harder it is for me to steady myself).  There are fewer models for graduate students like me. I’ve mostly learned to self-accommodate; I create structure when I can (wishing more was in my control) and seek help in coping with my anxiety. I take meds; I attend therapy. But I’m still tired.

I recognize that this weariness is normative among graduate students, but it seems to hit me harder than others. I’ve reached the end of yet another exhausting semester where I’ve pushed myself to keep writing and breathed my way through shutdowns. When I’ve just stopped because my processing was too slow to continue working. When I feel lacking as a grad student. When I fear for what’s next for someone like me. For me.

I keep an ongoing mental list of the things I’ve managed to do while anxious and/or exhausted. Sometimes reviewing this list helps. In the middle of things, there isn’t an endpoint, a definitive will be if I follow these steps. I’m tessering because I’m not completely certain of my destination. I hope for what will be in the midst of not knowing.

I feel pressured during these holidays to gather myself back together. To rest intentionally and then return to school ready to write (and ignore my feelings). There must be an in-between, but the “how things got better” narrative dominates. I’m afraid to admit when I’m still struggling. What if my academic supporters lose patience with me?

Perhaps more graduate students like me are struggling to balance self-care and productivity? Maybe even wondering why they’re still pursuing a goal that feels so abstract? Are we hiding out of shame and self-preservation?

For me, sometimes hope means worrying about the future. Because that action assumes I’ll find my way through now. Sometimes the best I can do is to acknowledge both realities: that I don’t know how my exhaustion will resolve, but a future where I’ve cared for myself and completed my PhD exists. Maybe I’m even earning a sustainable income in a context I enjoy. Maybe.

I imagine myself looking at a door to a world parallel to my own. Where what will be exists and hope lives. I stand in its entryway as I remind myself, “You are doing the best you can with the resources that you have. That’s enough. And so are you.”

Into entropy

In such turbulent times, I feel smaller and lapse into doubt and disbelief. When suffering is so relative and my life feels rather slow. And yet my mind worries, perhaps coming from before. But this day-to-day is long enough. I cannot imagine mass-scale casualties or loss of lives. And ideology of violence and  hatred feels too abstract.

Chaos reigns, said the fox. We go into entropy. My thoughts overly examine will overwhelm. When there are not enough lists to contain the will be’s on this tiny dot of green and blue. It’s hard to imagine a year from now without falling apart into blank pages — all I see is not yet and I don’t know and the vast lostness of what I cannot know yet.

This turbulence happens on a micro-scale: missed bus, forgotten meds taken close enough, trying to imagine  recreating my network of professionals.  I stare into the storm of will be’s, when the list of nows could overwhelm.

There will always be things left to do is hope and reassurance.  Damnation and statement of fact. I could imagine myself through this space, but I lack the imagery.  In these turbulent times, my problems feel small and yet this life of doing enough and being with this precarious enough.

I feel like a spider whose web is facing winds and rain; nearly blown away, but threads remain. In these turbulent times, I cannot process everything at once, or see beyond myself. Global pain is an abstraction. Over there captured in imagery that comes to my screen in 140 characters and infographics.

We share personal narratives to make sense of these larger patterns. A chorus of me toos on #ThatAbleistScript. My day-to-day barely touches this larger space — mine is getting by and hoping for more; while doing what I can, wondering if it’s enough.

My emotional weather is enough to track. Problem-not-to-scale are problems enough. Tracking the befores and afters, hoping a pattern would emerge. Because sensemaking is comforting. And yet so much of this storm predates me.

I don’t know how to have a conversation with you. Instead we talk of cooking fish and doing errands. There’s a script we’re both following with parenthetical dialogue. The storm passed; is passing — but the narration is absent.

In these turbulent times, I need an emergency power-down switch. Before overload comes, I wish my brain would tell me how I’m feeling. And yet that usually comes from fictional characters. Body and brain in disconnect — sometimes asleep at the controls.

In these turbulent times, I’m catching up with myself. Running down checklists of tasks I wish weren’t mine. Making up certainties from an imaginary will be. I’m not there yet. This waiting place is task enough. What next? A fictional future appears.

I tire more easily these days. As if my body knows what my brain will not reveal. In these times, normal is relative, ill-defined. I have so many stories that remain my own, but what if community emerged.

What if we are creating this busyness? In failing to rest, we miss this obligation to ourselves. I get lost in the not yet, fearing what I cannot anticipate. External turbulence is pervasive, yet inexperienced. The end draws near for some, yet here we are.

It all seems so random — maybe this turbulence is entropy, the chaos of a universe behaving like a toddler, toys scattered across the floor. Until Legos press into skin — leaving indentions.

How can we can we steady ourselves in a space unknown. Unexplored. Too vast to imagine anyone but ourselves. People not like us become monsters, dissidents, the ill-fitting. Am I us? Are you us?

What keeps our planet steady when we are not? We are pieces of stardust in a seemingly limitless galaxy. We are nothing and everything. We are enough to be with this chaos.

These spirits are absence.

The spirit of grief lingers with me, through time and space, not easily described or grasped. It aches, sometimes desperately and violently, until I can feel no more. We live together in a space barely explored. Where words are deprived of their meaning. When the violence of metaphor barely explains what it is like to live here in this.

Anxious, trouble, troubled, but only after the fact. In the excruciating now — would be too much for her to handle. I would be too much in overwhelm. Fearing she would encroach upon my space — my anxiety — to handle. To throw pills and magic words at an illusory condition. To will myself here and have my mind wander anyway. To accept myself as I am. But you need me to be better — but that’s not myself.

I have so many metaphors to describe these lingering spirits of worry and overwhelm — as they loop and surpass I and then. I lose myself in imagery, trying to describe what outsiders cannot feel. These ghosts of what was and is. How I grieve for what never was. As I become myself, the violence of words plagues me — as anger and unintended cruelty visit me in yet another form.

A brain against itself cannot stand; but it can breathe, sit, be with the moments I wish away; on floors of clean, well-lit spaces, as I wonder if I’ll always be here. Clinical language cannot describe this viscera. It just is. I sit with my worries and unsteadiness until I safely return. Sometimes after the flood of words and the torment of shame relents.

I sit here waiting and hope is here too; a ghost of memory reminds me why I cannot pray to far away or up close. I was abandoned unto this. So here we sit with a community of ideas and bodies. Of an after this, when we live here.

Grief is like a boomerang, distant storm clouds that shake bodies into memory, into being together in the inexplicable nothing. In the why would God; why do we still believe in anything; when it breaks so easily. My words go into air as I grieve for an idea that becomes being. Here in this place; fitting; belonging.

I was talking to a ghost. A paternal who never was; could never be, as grief cycled through generations of men and abandoned us here in the echoing silences — between the floods of angry words. Here we are after the storm. It is too quiet. Can’t they hear the distant thunder? See the cracked earth? The dead leaves — crumpled under feet as earthworms turn to soil.

In the post-conflict of grief, I sit and sing and be with a figure I’ve never known well — a jello-molded god of what was not. Can I be disappointed in non-existent, maybe is imaginings? Is it easier to find a ghost than to implicate absence? I’m angry with an idea, but today we sit with a grief I share, but never knew myself.

You hurt, I cry. As you speak of a kind man I never knew. I wish I did. Mine leaves me vaguely written well-wishes. Any more contact beyond these ghosts would hurt me too much.

Sometimes i don’t believe my own phantom pains. Wondering what could have been, if they, if I… But these what might be’s are only ghosts. And I am here with aching grief — inserting hope into a pain I am only beginning to explore. These wounds are deeper than I know.

I wait to be minimized. For a proclaimation of not enough pain to count. But ghosts don’t care. They linger and remember the was and is. As I hope for what will be after the violence of memory.

Cat story

So whatever happened to you getting a cat?” she asked after hearing how isolated I’d become this summer. I suppose I gave up in the idea. Maybe I talked myself out of it after my car met its demise a few summers ago. The pet deposit was nearly a month’s rent. I was worried how I would get to the vet if the cat got sick. Adopting a cat felt completely unrealistic and unsustainable — another “not yet” in a series of post-graduate maybes.

But when I got home, I decided to call my landlord’s office, just to see how expensive the pet deposit would be. I left room for hope and perhaps another point of connection. “People are still important,” she reminded me, “but having a cat could help you feel more connected — less in your own head.” I was surprised to hear that the deposit would be waived because my therapist had written a letter of support for me to get a cat as an emotional support animal.

I texted a friend of mine (because I’m also trying to reconnect with friends in their own busyness). We met for tacos and toward the end of our meal, I apprehensively brought up the idea of adopting a cat.

I’ve learned to feel guilty for the pleasures I allow myself. Maybe that’s because I’ve mostly lived in survival mode — to take up less space and want fewer things. To grow up needing little because I learned the cost of things early in life. To hint rather than ask directly for things I wanted. I justify the small purchases I make — the decaf lattes are accompanied by social interaction; I get a cheap meal to leave the house when I’m lost in my thoughts.

Adopting a cat seemed impossible, given the current circumstances of my life. I worried I wouldn’t be able to care for the cat if it became ill. That my budget would be stretched too thinly. And yet I followed up on this notion. I left room for joy, thinking of sustainability in emotional, rather than just economic terms. I asked a friend for help in navigating the adoption process. I allowed myself to connect with someone who didn’t see my need (or me) as a burden.

I visited the shelter I volunteered at a few years ago, when I’d visited the possibility of adopting a cat. I brought a list of names from the online listings, but those cats didn’t seem like a match. Then I met TC, a two-year-old tabby who seemed rather affectionate. I asked my friend who came to guide me through the process what she thought. She agreed that he was mellow and would help me calm myself.

Last Friday, I took home TC after the adoption application had been approved earlier that week. Once I gave myself permission to look into getting a cat, the idea didn’t seem like such an impossibility. “Your mental health isn’t a luxury,” I reminded myself. “I’m capable of caring for a cat; being with a companion animal will get me out of own head.” I made lists, consulted with friends, and researched cat care.

I’m finding my own rhythm lately — texting friends to spend time together and being more intentional about conversations in community spaces. I’m taking care of myself even when it’s hard. Coming home to a fluffy orange companion helps with this process. I’m making room for joy.

imageImage description: Sleeping orange and white colored cat rests his head on the leg of person wearing grey shorts. Both sit on a blue patterned couch.

Sometimes feelings are hard.

This is me sitting in the waiting room, moving my Tangle back and forth as Aloe Blacc plays from my headphones, then switching to sketching a tree in my poetry notebook. I stim and intentionally breathe. The psychiatrist is running late and I’m already nervous about seeing this new clinician. I got a phone call the previous week that my former nurse practitioner was no longer seeing patients. And so I sit there, waiting to be called back, tired and anxious.

I suppose worn isn’t an emotional state, but when I’m feeling utterly exhausted, describing my feelings becomes increasingly difficult. These experiences are too abstract. Dialogues about internal states become like a parlor game — describe the external cues and guess the feeling. I notice my shallow breathing and feeling distant, and then conclude I’m probably anxious.

But how anxious or for how long have I felt this way? I don’t know. Those questions are harder to answer. Sitting across from this unfamiliar clinician, I feel like I should have an answer. I try to come prepared for meetings like this — with notes on legal sheets of meds taken and how my body felt (tired mostly — but that feels so vague). In these moments I feel complicated, wishing I could see the histories taken by previous clinicians, those attempting to describe my mental state. I have trouble trusting myself — my report of what happened and what is happening.

I’m afraid my descriptions of my internal states — of myself — will be inadequate. That they will result in a treatment that only sets me further back. I fear being misunderstood — that my words will fail to say what I need, what would help. I rely on someone outside myself to interpret this narrative — to see the patterns I’m trying to describe. My tiredness is a frustrating distraction from the present moment. I don’t feel enough.

I suppose that’s an ongoing theme in my narrative. These not enough feelings that linger. Not enough sleep, not enough words, not enough support, not enough direction, and not enough time. That my actions will leave a space for failure. I find as I get closer to dissertation, these fears of completion grow stronger. What happens if what I present is rejected? What if I meet these requirements and I still feel stuck? These questions don’t feel like they’re going anywhere.

I wish I knew where these questions were coming from. I can only ponder. I know safety is an unfamiliar feeling for me — that internalized sense of resolution never arrived. It was outside my frame of reference growing up; I feel like I’ve been trying to create that sense of security ever since.

This is usually the part of my blog posts where I’ve reached a conclusion or at least a stopping point. I have a harder time just writing into the ambiguity. Perhaps that’s my wound — the kind my writing group facilitator encourages us to write into. To say, I don’t know, and sit with these words is so hard. In these moments, I feel lacking. I am a rough draft — both in-progress and good enough. And so I keep writing…

In the first sips of coffee

Until she walked out the door, the day had barely started — it was on pause in the darkness of her apartment; coffee mug left beside a screen of other people’s lives. In this cave-like space, the world remains at bay, email unchecked, lights low — eggs remembered via the light above.

She sits somewhere between worry and doing — alarm reminding her to “take her damn meds” rings loudly. Dose charted, day continues. Behind a screen of retweets and favorites, a series of hashtags, is a collection of stories; what #TraumaMeans, #OverloadMeans. Stories of not-entirely-strangers who know more about their lives than their neighbors do.

Until she walked out the door, into them sunlight, only now remains. Though future and past attempt to creep in — fears of support networks fading, the uncompleted deadlines, and the uncontrollable in-between. But this was now — in the first sips of coffee, in the barely awake, trying not to plan the day away.

She sits with the lives of people she’s never met — in sentence-long summaries revealing more than an hour of conversation. What would it be like to not talk around, to state directly? To live with, to exist beside this lingering fear of what might be? What might be is too close and too far away. She is here in-between.

Before she steps through the morning, she is here — bite to fork, fork to mouth. Rising for more coffee, to return to a seated position — wishing she could stay here; waiting for the day to begin.

Before anything happens, there is worry. As if it appeared rather than was self-created. She is worry. In the waiting for what might be, in the hope of continuing to try, imagining a what could be, will be, in the terrifying not yet. The being with these fears of leaving and being left. Of wondering what then and finding herself here in the wondering.

In the conversations with herself of “Is this supposed to be what I’m doing.” Yet I am here now. Not entirely sure where I’m going, but stepping forward, only to look back. You are here — like those signs in the mall orienting you to a dizzying space. In preparation for what’s to come, I want to experience now — to anticipate a will be for women like me and then create it.

This living in-between is the hardest space. The fear of not enough until it is tolerable. To be in this space of not knowing and fearing is exhausting. To talk through worry loops and the few knowns.

You are here. Waiting for a later being slowly created for women like you, for you, by you, and this work is disorienting. Not knowing how you fit, into a space of learned recognition. This is now. In cups of coffee and brief encouragements between the blank spaces. This is hope living between the known and will be.

This is enough — to sit with these lingering fears and coming acceptance. Knowing feels impossible, as I anticipate a murky hope.

Coaching Along the Spectrum

Because nobody is an island.

The Little Explorers Activity Club CIC

Autism Friendly Holidays & Pony Rides

sleep wake hope and then

life as an autistic (former) grad student

Craig Nash

AT THE INTERSECTION OF BEAUTY, BEER, HOPE AND HEARTACHE

piper grace lynn

writer. feminist. human advocate.

recoveringmamablog

life, love, kiddos, recovery

Seeing Double, Understanding Autism

raising awareness and understanding the perspectives of children and adults on the autism spectrum

Eclectic Autistic

Days in the life of an adult on the spectrum

Let's Queer Things Up!

Talking mental health with Sam Dylan Finch.

hayle williams

If you are afraid to write it, that's a good sign. I suppose you know you're writing the truth when you're terrified. [Yrsa Daley-Ward]

distractedblog

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