A dozen things that a Powell type autistic adult wishes you grokked

I have two very specific and very unhappy memories relating to the time when I was told that the reason I was having so much difficulty in life was because I am autistic. Number one, I was told before the diagnosis and immediate plan was laid out that things would improve from this point. Very specifically, I was told, I might add. So the fact that the Commonwealth Rehabilitation Service worker who made this promise to me has not been severely disciplined for making promises she had no intention of acting or following upon makes me angry.

Call me an adult with autism again, I dare you

I do not know what it is about norms and normies that makes it necessary for people like myself or Lydia Brown to write about it multiple times, but here it is again: calling me [insert word here] “with autism” is wrong. Not just wrong in the sense that I do not like it. It is wrong in the same sense that putting one’s fingers or penis into a child’s anal passage is wrong.