I will make no secret of this fact. What I choose to write about at any given moment is a highly unpredictable and quirky thing. One day, I might decide I want to write about a film I have just seen and been half blown-away by. The next, I might decide to write about how stupid the powers that be in the film and television industries appear. But here is the thing: I am like a computer up to a point. What comes out of me is a reflection of what is put into me.
Over the past week or two, I have been reading stories posted on Fudgebook about things being done to autistic children, adolescents, and adults that quite frankly make me want to hit people. There are numerous ways I can explain my reactions to them, all of which are equally valid because I have all of these reactions at once. For instance, when I was unfortunate enough to read that people purporting to be doctors, a whole conference of them in fact, were saying that it was alright to pour bleach into the anal passage of a child in an effort to make them “not autistic anymore”.
Words fail me. Although I have never learned any language other than English beyond a “do you speak English?” or “I cannot understand quite what you mean” level, I am pretty sure that even Spanish lacks the ability to express the level of rage and anger that is appropriate for this.
Let us play hypothetical for a second. Imagine this was being done to a normie child. Imagine this was being done to your normie child. That someone purporting to be a doctor whilst completely and utterly ignoring the Hippocratic Oath introduced things to your child’s anal passage that contain bleach, a substance that will burn, leave scars, and cause the child everlasting physical trauma as the grow (scar tissue does not grow as you age). Would you be angry? Upset? Wanting to know why this doctor is allowed to call himself one? Think about it. Yet as soon as we are told that the child in question is autistic, we are supposed to accept inhumane, inhuman, Nazi-like things being done to them. Anger does not even begin to describe the way this makes me feel. Especially considering that if I held one of these doctors, or the parents who did not say “what kind of stupid idea is that?”, down, stick a funnel into their arse, and pour household bleach into said funnel, I would be sent to prison no matter how many times I pleaded that what is good enough for the autistic child should be good enough for their medical practitioner or their parents.
Can I say it any louder? If a doctor was doing this to a child solely for being female, being black, being Asian, or being just about any other characteristic that happens to be involuntary, that doctor would not just be persona non grata amongst the medical profession. The legal system would throw their repugnant arse in prison, where they can fully expect prisoners who were once abused children themselves to nail them into a board and hang them from one of the prison walls. After raping them so many times that having bleach poured into their anal passage would seem like a godsend by comparison. And if I were in more of a position of power, I would be paying the guards, prisoners, and whomever else is necessary good money to let myself and other Powell types come and watch. I would even pay that audience money to point and laugh at the child abuser, to convey the full message that this world, all 6,378 kilometres of its radius, is not big enough for both me and their filthy, dirty, abhorrent kind to live on.
Are you hearing me, abusers of autistic children? I do not consider this planet big enough for you and me to live on in anything remotely resembling harmony. Even Jupiter, which is approximately 317 times the size of the Earth, would not be big enough for you and I to coexist on in peaceful terms. On such a planet, no matter that it took an eternity, I would hunt you down and make you bathe in a tub filled with bleach. Are you hearing me?
Which brings me to the second point about why I have not been writing so much about the promotion of autistic civil rights so much. As you all know by now if you have read all my posts, I associate the puzzle-piece symbol with curebies and the type of space-wasting asshole that thinks it is okay to put bleach into a child’s body so long as they are autistic. Now, last Friday (the eighth of June), my dear old stressed and worn out from the rigours of being mother to a PTSD-suffering grown-up son came to visit me to help with some basic living stuff. All was going well until I came out of the checkout aisle and saw a sight that has had me feeling sick all over since. Sitting out in the “community” area of the local Woolworths, I found a box adorned all over with puzzle pieces, and the words to donate for “autism”. Whether it is good or bad judgement on my part, I simply left the store with my mother, although from the way I turned back to get a better look and shuddered as I left, I think she knew something was up.
Since then, I have made attempts to contact the management of both the Woolworths chain and the store itself. That said, I urge all of my readers to go to the Contact Us page on the Woolworths web site and echo what I have tried to tell them. That this is no different to having boxes out the front soliciting donations for the Whites Only party (I think the last iteration of a political party along these lines I heard of in this country was called Australians Against Further Immigration). You might think this is different, Woolworths, but only in the specifics. As one of Stephen King‘s most memorable characters says to himself in The Stand, if it has two legs and belt loops, it is a pair of pants. Never mind the colour.
Oh, and if anyone who is responsible for that box and its adornments being there can read this: fukk you, too. You can give me all the crap you want about how sincere and noble your intentions were. But that is precisely what it is: crap. Clearly, you have not asked enough autistic individuals in the area for their input. You clearly have not read posts online like this one or this one, which make it very plain that acceptance of the puzzle piece as a symbol of what you are makes you an Uncle Tom in the eyes of the conscious autism civil rights movement. And as I will continue to reiterate: this puzzle piece logo strikes fear into the hearts of autistic adults like myself. How else do you expect me to react, given that I have been abused all of my life for a characteristic I cannot help, and now I have very real signs that people are living near me who want to pour an acidic chemical into my anus in the belief that it will remove it from me? And here is a fukking clue for you, sweethearts: I do not want to be “cured” of something that makes me different from those who chose to abuse me for being different from them. That is like trying to “cure” someone of being black, being Jewish, being a woman, or being a number of other things that define a person differently to those around them. To autistic adults like myself, it is not any different from being murdered. Would you donate to a “charity” that proposes to murder people simply for being different to you? I sure hope not.
So to Woolworths, I would like to say the following. When an organisation or person claiming to be part of the “community” proposes to put up things like this in your store, look more carefully in future, please. Because your community may consist of a number of autistic adults, and when you do things like this, you are basically telling them that you do not want them in your store. And people on the autistic spectrum have to eat, just like you do. By putting things like this in your store, you cause those people anguish, despair, and distress. Hence, simply removing this material from your store is not going to suffice. A public apology will be required before I stop feeling that I am unwelcome in the Morayfield, Queensland branch of Woolworths, and possibly others. I am guessing that this is not what you had in mind when you pictured yourselves opening parts of the store up for “community enrichment”. Unless it is your position that the autistic have no place in your community? Given what I have spent there to date in the pursuit of supplies and creature comforts, I sure hope not.
To the rest of the autistic community, the people who are reading this writing, I have one thing to say. Please affirm that I am not alone here. Because that is the worst thing about being an abused autistic child of the 1980s: the feeling of being so utterly alone that even when someone is flagrantly abusing my rights, I cannot cry out for help. Please make do not make me feel I am correct about this. I am already feeling very convinced that I have no place in your whole world. Please do not convince me further. Do the right thing for a change.