I don’t do arguments. That whole in-your-face shouting business? Take it somewhere else because I don’t want to know. I’ve gotten my reasons for avoiding these situations, some of which relate to my autism, others to my anxiety.
Stimming is very important to me. I stim when I’m happy, when I’m nervous, when I’m thinking, and when my senses are overloaded.
Picture, if you will, the scene of a domestic argument between a 210 lb, 6″ man and his 90 lb, 5″ wife. One — call them A — has just come home from a night out drinking and is in a volatile mood; the other — call them B — is sitting quietly in front of a laptop.
Gender can be a tricky question, especially when you’re surrounded by people who have a very conventional view of such matters. (Note that this post is about gender identity, the subjective experience of gender. Not sexual orientation.)
I’ll admit I’m finding things difficult right now, what with stress, anxiety and a dash of depression throw in for good measure. And always there in the back of my mind, nagging at me like a hangnail, is the feeling that I’m letting people down.
Tear-stained eyes stare at the screen,
Hands shake, hovering,
Potential of words at my fingertips.
Thoughts circle and weave,
Fleeting flashes as they catch the light
And then slip from my grasp.
Empty of tears, empty of thought,
My hollow husk remains,
Drifting on the wind.
Home was long ago and far away;
I would miss it could I feel.
My dreams must still be there.
I’ve been listening to a particular song over and over over the past few days. I’m listening to it on repeat as I write this: Going Under by Evanescence. Not only do I enjoy the combination of Amy Lee’s clear soprano vocals with the heaviness of the music, but also there is personal meaning to the lyrics.
The night is dark and cold.
I sit alone and think:
How long has it been since
The sun began to sink?
Its warmth now long forgot
As darkness claimed my world,
Slow stillness touching all,
In silence I am furled.
But night will reach its end
When tendrils first appear:
Bright fingers of the dawn
Caressing, soothing fear.
I don’t feel safe. What was my safe place has been invaded, violated, desecrated. It can be hard for someone who isn’t autistic to understand how vital it is to have somewhere to drop your guard, relax, decompress in the sure and certain knowledge that nobody can get to you, nobody can harm you.
I don’t usually put warnings up, but there are elements here that might be graphically disturbing. It’s a little poem about self-harm.