Okay. I am going to do something I have never done before and write a post on my ‘phone. This is not because I like the idea of doing so.
Rather, it is because I have moved house again. And I do not merely mean a few kilometres. Any move entails a lot of stress. During the first twenty-two years of my life, I can only recall one occasion when I moved house. And that was from the suburb of Guildford to the suburb of Greystanes. And I would have been a toddler, if that, at the time.
During the next twelve and change years, I have moved enough times that I can no longer accurately count it. It might be ten times, maybe more. Moving is a bit like some say working on RoboCop was. Your mind tries to blank it out.
My latest move was done very differently to all those prior, too. I literally received no help with packing up things, with predictable results. Having such a shortage of space that one has to do gymnastics to get around furniture is bad enough when one has to pack it all up. But when your brain lacks a certain organisational function, as mine seems to, having fire ants crawl up your arse would be preferable at times.
This is not to say that moving is the worst thing a person can go through, autistic or otherwise. But if you were to compile a list of the hundred worst things that people voluntarily put themselves through, moving house would rank very near to the top.
I am also not saying that I deserve anything extra when moving is involved, on the basis of my being autistic. I am sure that one of my new neighbours would find moving the same distance as I did today at least as stressful, if not more. So I have to say that I am thankful I am still physically capable of manually filling two bags with about thirty pounds worth of gear that the removalist should have boxed up and moved. Not to mention carrying said gear between a house, a bus stop, a real estate agent, a bus stop, two train stations, another bus stop, and my new home.
Yes, that really happened. So if you live in Sydney and need to move house, for Odin’s sake do not use AAA City Removalists. It might seem racist or classist to some, but when part of your work involves asking a client what they want you to do, giving them the impression that you either cannot or do not want to understand what they are saying to you is not on.
A man who had about as much respect for the principle of diversity as I do for him and those who follow him once said that communication is the universal solvent. So allow me to reiterate. It might sound classist or racist (probably both), but those people really made me understand why we used to relegate people to salt mine work and the like.
Okay, I am done rambling about the actual move experience now.
I am sure you are wondering where I have moved to. I will not be specific, except to say that it is to the North of Sydney. Which begs a certain question. Why?
During the hellish years I spent in North Brisbane, I made a friend online who lives in this area. In spite of all my best efforts (ha ha), she and I still talk and even get along most of the time. I know sometimes she must hate the sound of my voice but she has been more generous and patient with me than almost anyone else I can name. Which saddens me, in a way. But the salient point here is that she is now a neighbour.
Part of the reason I moved to the location in question is because of a certain implied promise on her part that I will find better support and medical attention in this area. Truth be told, that is a promise that has been eating away in my consciousness for a while. Even the few friends I have cannot expect me to unwaveringly believe in their promises, that is the extent to which my trust has been abused on prior occasion.
But even a vague promise, combined with the desire to have an understanding ear lent to me at times, is enough to motivate a big move. I just was not quite planning on going this far to the North. But with options rapidly running out and mere days before the deadline, I was not going to mull it over further.
Agoraphobic Nosebleed have a cover of the Voivod song Forgotten In Space that I listened to several times during a lengthy trip between suburbs. As the title suggests, it is about being flung out into space for not fitting in with the societal norm and forgotten about. Which is a good summation of what I have been feeling for a while now.
On my journey, I also finished reading the George Orwell novel A Clergyman’s Daughter. I will not give away too much about it. It is, of course, about a Pastor’s daughter and the life she leads, but what struck me about it is how its political-social theme is very reminiscent of those in Nineteen Eighty-Four. The role that habit and familiarity plays in determining what we do is the pervasive point of the story.
In any event, the lure of sleep is calling to me, and I feel the need to answer. Hopefully more updates will be forthcoming, as well as some new themes. To those who are still out there and reading, thank you.