I doubt that anyone who knows me as a person will find it surprising that I am autistic or that I learned such at a relatively late stage in life. But there are things about this that need to be thought about or reflected upon. Sides, issues, and all that hoohah. So for the next page or more, I am going to pour my brains out onto the page and see if you learn anything from it.
Very recently, I was diagnosed with a mutated gene that causes the likelihood of vascular thrombosis (that is, clotting of blood whilst it is still meant to be going around in my veins) to go up by five to seven hundred percent. This gene is one of those genes like that which “causes” Down’s Syndrome, chronic skin cancer, or other things I would rather not live with. That is, if a person has one copy of this gene, that means that one of their parents has it as a “carrier”, as opposed to active gene.
So the first thing I did when I got home from learning this news was to contact my mother and ask her to inform my sister about this. To make sure she does not have the gene, either as an active or carrier gene (I do not understand how these genes work except for the carrier part, and even then only a tiny bit).
The thing is, because this condition that I am going to be taking yet more medications for is a genetic thing, that means I have had it since the day I was born. Just like being autistic.
Wait, let us back up a second. You know how curebies keep waffling on about how baaaaad and much worse than death “having autism” is? Well guess what, you fukking creeps? Not only would I kill you for trying to make me “not autistic anymore”, regardless of what that means to you, if there were a queue for things that outsiders should want to remove from me, autism has gone back even further in the line. This gene, which I will just call the thrombosis gene for argument’s sake, shares the number one place with my diabetes and the fact that I am so much more likely to develop skin cancers.
Have you ever had a large skin cancer, Suzanne Wright? I have. When they took the staples out of my face and removed the sponge, I could see a hole in the side of my face big enough that a golf ball could sit in it. I nearly fainted. My mother and the nurse that had removed that horrible dressing were suddenly trying to help a 200+ pound man sit down without falling down.
So when I say that on the scale of things I would rather science remove from my person, autism is not even a fart within a cyclone that has swallowed up a razor blade factory, understand my full meaning.
Superficial vein thrombosis is also deeply unpleasant. It is one of those ironic things. Deep vein thrombosis, the one that was in the news a lot recently because it had caused deaths, is actually hard to detect until it has caused terrible brain injury or death. Superficial vein thrombosis is not necessarily fatal, but it hurts like hell. Because the vein is basically frozen solid, things around it become very tender and sore. Essentially, it is like a big bruise effect, except bruises fade in days. Thromboses stay put and continue to spread until they either spread into deep veins and seriously injure or kill you, or they have to be treated with anticoagulant medications.
Dear Odin, anticoagulant medications. When you have been taking them in injected form for a week or more, they are somewhat more tolerable. But for the first few days, the anticoagulation effect is making the blood in your body much looser, which in turn produces all sorts of unpleasant sensations that are somewhat like metal sprouting into your skin from the tissues underneath. Or at least that is what it reminds me of. And in a way, that is exactly what is going on. The iron in your blood is going to places where it did not before.
Oh yeah, and if you cut yourself whilst taking anti-coagulant medications, it is harder to stop the bleeding. Cannot forget that little difficulty.
So with all of this in mind, one can think of my life in stages. Both of these stages have substages to them. There is the stage before I was told that I am autistic, and there is the stage after. Perhaps I can best summarise the problem that links them by quoting from the introduction to the “Redline/Whiteline” version of Ministry’s best-selling piece of work, Jesus Built My Hotrod. (The original source of this quote is Brad Dourif’s character called Hazel Motes, from the 1979 film Wise Blood.)
Where you come from is gone. Where you’re thought you were going to weren’t never there, and where you are ain’t no good unless you can get away from it.
This quote says a lot, not just about being autistic, but about life in general. Where you are is never any good unless you can get away from it.
This quote also exactly summarises how I feel about the life I had before the asshole at the CRS promised me that things would get all better after they told me that I was autistic.
You see, for a long time, I was plagued, pervaded, by the feeling that important things about me were being kept from me, and they were putting me at a severe disadvantage in every aspect of my life. Those IEP meetings and “plans” you hear parental units bitch and moan about having difficulties with when trying to speak to teachers about how BelittleAndAbuse is not the best way to deal with their child? (Who would have guessed?) Those did not exist when I was a child. When I was a child, it was basically eat the teacher’s shit and ask for seconds or face serious abuse.
Enough of it, enough so, that twenty-five years after the fact, I will still go back in time and vote for Hitler in order to prevent David Shuster from existing. I sure hope you do not know anyone who hates you this much, as it proves something about you.
Films about children discovering that they have some special power or ability or connection with something extraordinary were also popular, and produced a lot, when I was a boy. Flight Of The Navigator was godawful, but it is a good example of the genre. Well, for all of the years I was in school, especially when names like Shuster or Buttsworth (yes, I remember you and your children well, too, asshole, and you are going to hear nothing but cussing for the rest of your days when I catch up with you), that was what I was hoping, “praying” for. That some weird-looking guy from the CIA would come to the school and say “son, you are coming with me”, and I would never see that piece of shit school again.
Recently, I came across a graphic in which it is stated that if you tell a child “do not be mad at yourself, be mad at autism”, you are teaching them “internalised ableism”. (I could go on for days about “ableism”. Use the word “ableism” in front of me whilst you have to live with diabetes and take medications for something that will cause your veins to get clots in them, hippie morons.)
I have never, not once in my life, been “mad” at myself. This might come as a surprise. It should not. I have never been mad at myself in the sense of “I am not good enough to do what they want me to”. If you take nothing else from today’s lesson, normie parents, take that.
No, I was mad at people like my ignorant asshole male parental unit and my mother because communication was like a bad game of Chinese Whispers to me. I could say “ABC” and be told that I had said “stick your fingers up my arse and roll”. Or similar. It did not help one bit that in school during the 1988 bits, I felt I was always under an all-seeing eye that was basically one girl in my class reporting everything I said to the teacher. I spent so much time being told how baaaaaad I was by that teacher that she is likely long dead and I want to murder her grandchildren for being related to her. By the way, that girl who is now likely a mother and all, I have never forgotten about you, either. Think on that whenever you speak to your children in future.
No, I cannot remember a time after my sixth birthday when I was not angry at other people. Really angry. Although I did not understand then the wide implications of killing people, there have been teachers I have wanted to kill. When you hurt a child or hurt other children in front of them and say it is okay because you are a teacher, in a population of some hundred or more children, it is inevitable that you will get one child over the years who wants to kill you.
And now, as the diagnoses of chronic and difficult things to live with keep piling up, the anger just keeps building.
You expect me to build things with blocks you will not let me have. Why would I be angry with myself when I am absolutely drowning in reasons to be angry with you?
Where you are is never good unless you are able to get away from it.