For all of the songs that go on about Summer as if it were a time where sparks shoot out of our arses and we get to piss champagne, I just wish there was one song dealing with the reality of my Summer. My Summer is a painful, crippling place where heat leaves me unable to sleep, exhausted when I am awake, and sweating so much that you could collect it in a bucket.
But it gets worse when normalism is added to the mix.
Now, Empathize This posted this lovely article on their site on September 15, 2014.
I first became aware of it days ago. During one of my late-night sleepless panic-rage-benders, I created an image that not-so-elegantly summarises how this cartoon makes me feel.
I have some things I would like to say to Empathize This about their original post.
I am sure that you feel rape jokes are not funny, that rape apologism or rape culture defending as has come out in force recently is offensive. Well, what I am trying to make the audience understand in the above image is that the cartoon you distributed makes me feel something a lot worse than being raped.
Numerous films testify to the imagined horror of having someone cut out your brain replace it with something more to their liking. The 1998 film Disturbing Behaviour is an absurdly good-bad example. When you say “…with autism”, you immediately bring that horror to my consciousness like a fleet of armoured trucks, all with horns blaring and squalling. I urge you to go and watch this film so you can see what I am talking about. You can find the first of what I guesstimate to be six parts here. Or if you can find it on decent-quality media, then do.
Take note of how what the “kids” in this film are reprogrammed into is the height of disgusting. Ivy League Rape Brigade.
That is what you make me feel you intend to do with me when you speak about my neurology as if it is a separate thing to me. Like you are going to nail my arms into a chair and tamper with my brain surgically (or pour bleach into my anus, or flood me with oxygen, or whatever else the flavour of the “torture them until they does not have the autismz!” camp month is right now). In the hope of making me resemble something I absolutely hate the mere idea of.
Small wonder then that you can make me feel violently toward you just by using the words “has autism”, “with autism”, or worst of all “suffer from autism”. Hate does not even describe what I feel when I hear this.
Empathize This proclaims that they did not create the original comic. I will give them the benefit of the doubt on that, but I do find it interesting that they also make no attempt whatever to show the comic’s true author.
Then you have people commenting and proclaiming autistic people prefer being talked about this way. Hey, it is your first day on the Internet, asshole. Maybe you should try going slowly, you know. Like not pissing off an entire disenfranchised minority group right from the get-go. Welcome to our Internet, by the way.
So in order to make the point clear, I will transcribe the image I post in this entry says.
They write: “It’s rarely the person who has autism who tells the stories. [Break] People like me are treated as objects of inspiration and burden. [Break] We don’t mean to inflict pain on those who love us, but we are the center of their pain.”
To this, I say here that we are going to absurd levels of effort to tell our stories. It is people like the normie brigade out there (and, original author of this graphic, I suspect you) who are not listening. I made a video to this effect in 2003 or so. “I am talking. You are not listening.”
You could also catch up to where I was at in 2003 by reading about the meaning of expressions like “inspiration porn”.
But I post in the above image, below the original:
“Okay, I have something I need to point out to you. I am autistic. I. Am. Autistic.
“I find you referring to my neurology as if it is a separate thing to me (“has autism”, “with autism”) not merely offensive, but physically threatening. You could be eight feet tall and graphically describing to me how you are going to rape me to death. That will make me feel less threatened than does the separationist language in this post.
“I genuinely no longer wish to live on a world where this is thought acceptable by those in a position of say. No, normies, I do not love you. I will never love you.
“You make it impossible. Goodbye.”
Which brings us back to the title of this post. The family unit I was part of in what seems like another eon now had a lot of people who were fans of the late Joe Cocker. Singing parts of his song Don’t You Love Me Anymore was an oft-repeated ploy.
Well let me phrase what I am trying to say in my graphic-modification above into something resembling the Cocker song. Imagine that I am addressing my mother, the rest of the planet, you name it.
No, I do not love you anymore. I never have loved you. You have made it impossible for me to love you because you loved me under condition of meeting your impossible expectations.
You know full well that I want nothing more in life than to learn to live without you. That is, I want to learn to be able to live my life in such a way that I no longer even have to talk to you. You, however, seem determined to deprive me of that choice.
In case you have not figured this out yet, that is the biggest and most powerful reason why I find it utterly impossible to love you at all. Leave alone “anymore”.