Note: the following is an outpouring of rage at a person who has caused this author nothing but pain during his life. That the person in person happens to be a masculine parental entity is beside the point. It is extremely nasty, to the point where murder sounds like a logical outcome of the conversation these statements would form part of. Do not clink on the full link if you are not a hundred percent sure you can handle it.
A number of times, I have used the words “Powell Aspie” or “Powell type” in this journal. The fact that there are all so many different kinds of autistic adults with different quirks and personality traits is something that we could write encyclopedias about. But trying to write explanations of what different types of anything are is a tedious endeavour with little in the way of returns. So instead, I will do what I am actually good at. Focusing on what I am or why.
In the documents that I have read, or the video I have watched on the subject, I remember eight distinct types mentioned. But the one that stood out the most to me was the Powell type. I have no idea who it is actually named after, but the description in what I have read mentions aggression, a propensity toward violence, and most importantly the feeling of a need to protect oneself through aggression. I cannot speak for others, but I feel a need to offer my speculations about things that go into the type of people we become as adults, or indeed at any stage of our lives.
As I have mentioned elsewhere, I was born to a young mother. Not so young that it makes the papers and prompts outrage from the clergy, but young enough to make a dramatic impact on my life. I have also mentioned that having a child when you are in your early twenties is difficult, but having an autistic child when you are in your twenties is powerfully difficult. It can break a person. And whilst my mother is made of stern enough stuff that I can say it did not break her completely over the last few decades, I think her mother would tell me that she is a completely different person in the before and after sense.
One statement made in descriptions of the Powell type reads “may have been abused as a child”. And that is true. I am no longer disposed to even speak to my masculine parental entity. Ever met a dog that has been hit with a newspaper or similar object at random times for reasons that it cannot discern from the means it has available? They tend to be vicious things, prone to harming whatever is in front of them at the drop of a hat. I am not kidding when I say that in order to make me do extreme harm to a person that they might never completely recover from, all they need do is convince me that they mean to do the same to me. This is because I have listened to threats and talk-down-ats from figures of power in my life that the mere hint of it sets something off in me. Something so ugly it resembles the shot in Blade Runner where Rutger Hauer has put his head through a tiled bathroom wall and is telling Harrison Ford that he is going to have to get it up, or “I’m going to have to kill ya”.
Over the years, there have been so many attempts to do something different, to change, to fit into something. Anything. I have lost count of all of the attempts. The total lack of support in any of these endeavours at any time, at any age, in any circumstances, has put paid to them all.
I know what you are thinking. Dean is just having a whinge, or the like. But it is like building a house. If you build the foundation out of cardboard, the whole thing will fall down. People like my male parental unit do not even want to grant me that much, though. They think I can just build a metaphorical house for myself with no foundations at all.
If it has not happened already, it is only a matter of days, maybe hours, before it will. I will be an uncle to three children. The other two were born on the last day of 2010, and I honestly wish I could say that their world can be different from mine. But I fear that their grandfather, my male parental unit, will help break that down. So I am going to publically say something to him that I want to be taken with the utmost seriousness. My male parent, as I refer to him, is dead to me. He is nothing to me. He is not a dad, he is not a father, and he is not even what I thought of him as (a bully who just lived in the same house) anymore. There is one exception, which I am going to detail here so all can see how serious I am.
I am recalling a time when I was young. I mean young as in a small child. Maybe a year or two into school. For some reason I do not fully understand, I thought I might like to attempt to learn ballet and tap dancing. Yes, I know how that sounds. Alexander Godunov, the man we see beating the absolute shit out of Bruce Willis toward the end of Die Hard, was a Bolshoi ballet dancer. No, I did not that at the time. Die Hard was released a few years after the time I speak of. But this is beside the point. At one point, in a context that I both cannot really really and know did not prompt this in any possible way, my male parent told me once that he was going to do something that haunts me. He said that he was going to haul me up in front of the ballet class, tell them “this boy is a bugger” and such, pull my pants down, let the audience say things like “ooh, see the little doodle!” (his words), and start “smacking” my arse. I hereby swear a number of things.
But first, I want to make something perfectly clear. This is exactly what I am talking about when I use the words “psychosexual abuse”. I doubt that he would have understood then or now that as he said those things, I could perfectly visualise every element of what he was saying. But that does not excuse it. If the clan system was still in force, I were an elder, and I caught a younger father in the clan saying this to his son, I would kick his arse until his nose bleeds. It is abuse. No two ways about it.
Second, can you hear me, Thomas McIntosh? The whole world knows now that you have inflicted such serious emotional and psychosexual harm upon your son that the concept of a normal relationship is beyond him. I do not care if the people of Cuntborough revere you as a god. You are less than the dog shit on the boot of the dog shit on my boot.
Lastly, I swear one thing. If I hear so much as a breath of a similar story from either of my nieces or the niece or nephew that my sister’s third child turns out to be, I will kill Thomas McIntosh, and painfully. I mean that I will not just get a knife and cut off his genitals. I will make a large incision in that area, rip out everything that connects them with the rest of his digestive system, and spend his final moments making him eat them. I fear for my sister’s children. Not just because of the world that they will become part of, but because of their grandfather. So I will murder him, and do so with a brutality that would make Josef Mengele call me a sick fukk, if I hear so much as a hint that he is going to do unto my sister’s children as he has done unto me. Had I the same powers as Magneto or Wolverine, he would be forbidden to leave the place I refer to as Cuntborough under any circumstances. Under pain of death.
When I started writing this, I was seeking to explain what makes me the kind of person I am. Well, we have one very big chunk of the answer now. One that I believe people are going to be very repelled by. I am fine with that. But if you are that repelled by what I have just told you, do not take it up with me. Take it up with Thomas Edwin McIntosh. He lives at 107 Frank Street in what I refuse to call anything other than Cuntborough anymore. It is about three hours’ by car to the North of Brisbane. If you have a problem with how pissed off I am to have him for a male parent, go and take it up with him.
We now return to our regularly scheduled programming.
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