Hey Dad?

I consider place of birth and national identity to be two very different things (aww really, I hear you cry). But like a lot of people who lived in Assholia between the years of 1987 and 1994, I watched a lot of episodes of the situation comedy titled Hey Dad..! (The dots are apparently a part of the title.)

Musing about child abuse culture.

Many times during the past year or two, I have read the words “rape culture” online. I have understood this phrase to mean tolerance, condoning, or even encouragement of the act of rape. If I am mistaken, then please feel free to correct me in the comments. The reason I mention this is because reading Dylan Farrow‘s post about her experiences got me to thinking about another disgraceful culture we live in.

A culture of disbelief.

I am not going to lie about this. I do not see parental units of any stripe as being automatically worthy of respect and praise. I do not care what anyone else thinks. Just because you are a parent does not mean I should treat you as if the sun shines out of your arse.

Thank you, K.

Neurodivergent K, as she prefers to call herself in her online writings (and I intend to respect that preference), recently posted this article concerning why people who have no intention of changing or even acknowledging that they have done wrong solicit forgiveness. This, in itself, would not be remarkable.

How to not get welcomed as a reader, a look at a point I have made previously…

I write a lot about the abuse of children and how it comes back to haunt others around that child as said children become adolescents and adults. Given that things do not go away if you ignore them, no matter how many times people in a position of say over me have tried to tell me otherwise, I feel more than just driven to talk about it. I feel compelled, in much the same way as a ten-ton bomb feels compelled to hit whatever surface is below it when it is dropped from ten thousand feet above.

Okay, time to say something unpleasant. Whose view means more?

It seems no matter where one goes or where one looks, you can always find some jackass who thinks that what they think overrides the view of the autistic, even when they are not remotely autistic themselves. Call me narrow-minded, but I am struggling to even understand how such a belief works.

What makes me me? Rage, hatred, quite frankly…

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.