Ask an Aspergirl

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

Tag: she did it anyway

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.

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Reframed narratives and Autistic experience

Cynthia Kim, an Autistic blogger and non-fiction writer, includes a passage in her book, I Think I Might Be Autistic that resonated with me:

“There are other people like me! I’m not defective. I’m not randomly weird. I’m an Aspie. One of many.”

In response, I wrote in the margins of my copy: “And this is an incredibly powerful statement, telling shame to fuck off.” (I’ve noticed that as I’ve found ways to manage the anxiety, my expletive usage has increased considerably. Part of me still feels apologetic; the rest is strangely amused.)

It’s been nearly two years since I began this process: exploring the possibility that I might be on the spectrum, not ready to call myself “Autistic” (wondering if I fit anywhere) and lingering on passages from Rudy Simone’s books and later the writings of autistic bloggers. Last summer, I wrote a series of poems exploring Autistic identity; I called them my proud poems, after Laura Hershey’s “You Get Proud By Practicing.”

These are your bits of narrative. Claim them. Embrace them. Feel them out. This is not a rejection of the self you knew — this is a renaming, an honoring.

Not weird — othered or strange — different perhaps, quirky — autistic in a way you haven’t all the way acknowledged. Every word but that one. Yes, this is a thing.

Last night at open mike, I read these words aloud. I spent the evening moving my Tangle back and forth between my fingers. Perhaps I was trying to lessen my nerves about reading in front of a crowd. It’s like Fight Club, I said to the friend siting beside me; if I attend open mike, I have to read. I realized sitting in my seat, that I would be calling myself Autistic, claiming that identity for myself in front of a crowd that size. “What if I’m wrong?” I thought. “Remind me why I’m outing myself in a public setting.”

Because this is the night of #shediditanyway, I told myself. When women share their stories with one another, maybe from the professional distance of 3rd person, but these are our narratives. You want to be part of that experience, even though you’re scared.

So I shared two proud poems, amongst the shaking of my legs and the audience before me. I’d already witnessed the tears and snaps that accompanied the other women’s poetry. They clapped. I walked back to my seat; the night continued. A friend from school hugged me afterward, telling me she loved “She Did it Anyway,” a poem that began as a shaming. In retelling that experience of shame, I wanted to find another story.

I’ve attended womyn’s writing circle these last two years as well. I started attending this group the same semester I started the PhD program, the same semester I acknowledged to myself, “I think I might be autistic.” I love the carefully worded nature of Kim’s title — how it reflected my experience of exploring my own identity. I think… I might be… It’s harder to form the words that follow because I could be wrong. And that’s still terrifying.

I’ve written so many versions of this narrative — why no one noticed my autistic traits as a child or even adolescent, then young adult (until they did), how I successfully completed undergrad, and where I made friends. Questions remain about what happens to Autistic adults like me — seemingly unicorns, whose therapists ask, “You mean Asperger’s, right,” even though it had been a year since ASD encompassed the entire spectrum.

We become incredible self-advocates — keepers of our own stories — because we have to — to be ourselves; to find a measure of self-understanding. As we learn to believe ourselves. Of course this is a thing, she replied.

My Autistic experience is a series of narratives — reframed, retold, and sometimes rewritten entirely. And the first page will state, in a voice that is growing louder, “She did it anyway.”

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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]

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