April is here and spring is surely in the air in most places; one can tell by the plethora of flowers, the rising temperatures, the April showers, and the godforsaken blue puzzle pieces everywhere. It's Autism Acceptance month. If you don't yet know why Autism Speaks is bad, google "eugenics" or just look at my youtbe channel DizzyDollie7 where I make a habit of ripping them to shreds. Or ask any mildly self-aware adult Autistic. Either way, Neurotypical people are getting their fill of disability inspiration porn and the disability community is just plain getting their fill. We're fed up. And I, myself, am discontented on a very personal level.
A disability pours into every area of ones life. Much like the personality, and much like the temperament, passions, voice, and smile, a disability is part of our makeup as human beings. When I speak of my own "disability" I am referring to the disorders that exist alongside my "mild Autism" or "Asperger's" and indeed sometimes the Autism itself. This is the disability that matters. I'm also nearsighted, but that disability has, for the most part, been tended to via contacts and glasses. That is a disability I share with quite a number of others and it's a disability considered mild enough for me to be treated still as human and not as a disposable burden despite the fact that without an aid, I will walk into walks and cannot drive. Autism with a side of ADHD, panic disorder, a sleep disorder, and discalculia (math disorder)are very deeply embedded in my life and mind and behavior. Do let me tell you how.
I wake up at four in the morning, sleep, anxious but ready to write. I spend a few hours in my head, writing, drinking coffee, jumping from task to task without hesitation but with intentions that are never quite fulfilled on time unless I set timers to remind me to go back to task one. I have things to do - I need to work on this book, that book, that research, this chore, prepare for a phone-call, make my daughter breakfast. I do one thing. Another timer for task two. A note on the whiteboard about task three. I reply to messages and texts I fell asleep on the night before, and flip my phone over so I cannot see the response until I am prepared because I need to control my social interaction. The same album plays through my headphones over and over and I find I'm not in my chair anymore. This is the kitchen, and I'm twirling, and I'm swaying. My gaze meets itself in the dark window, because the sun hasn't taken to the sky yet. Now I'm baltering about the living room. Life in my apartment is forever an adventure.
The sun is up and my time reminds me to do a few workouts. Feed and change my daughter. Because I do not have a direct employer, I don't have insurance, and I recently moved to New York and am in the middle of getting medicaid again. As a disabled person, legally, I qualify, but the process for both myself and my child takes time. After giving myself a pep-talk, I call medicaid. I give them my name, and my social, which I only remember because I rap the numbers.
They ask for my zip code. I ask out loud, "what is my zip code? Give me a minute."
I try to remember or find a piece of mail with the zip code on it. Reading numbers is hard. Repeating them back from memory after moving a dozen times in the last few years is nearly labor.
The person on the phone loudly tells me I have to already know it and hangs up on me as my ex condescendingly writes my zip code largely and sloppily while smirking after trying to rip the phone from my hand. I feel a meltdown coming on. Breathe. He doesn't matter. He's worthless. This is why we're divorced. Go to hell. Go to hell.
I call back and speak to a better human and straighten out the issue. I need more documents. I will have to pay out of pocket for nearly $300 of medication again.
My mode is switched to offense. Life my head is forever an adventure, as it would be for an alien abandoned on this planet. My daughter is speaking in broken words and I love her and I change clothes into something softer, because I am exhausted, and she is loud while the cats smell bad and I am so alone.
This is all over by ten in the morning.
J.Endsley
The sun is up and my time reminds me to do a few workouts. Feed and change my daughter. Because I do not have a direct employer, I don't have insurance, and I recently moved to New York and am in the middle of getting medicaid again. As a disabled person, legally, I qualify, but the process for both myself and my child takes time. After giving myself a pep-talk, I call medicaid. I give them my name, and my social, which I only remember because I rap the numbers.
They ask for my zip code. I ask out loud, "what is my zip code? Give me a minute."
I try to remember or find a piece of mail with the zip code on it. Reading numbers is hard. Repeating them back from memory after moving a dozen times in the last few years is nearly labor.
The person on the phone loudly tells me I have to already know it and hangs up on me as my ex condescendingly writes my zip code largely and sloppily while smirking after trying to rip the phone from my hand. I feel a meltdown coming on. Breathe. He doesn't matter. He's worthless. This is why we're divorced. Go to hell. Go to hell.
I call back and speak to a better human and straighten out the issue. I need more documents. I will have to pay out of pocket for nearly $300 of medication again.
My mode is switched to offense. Life my head is forever an adventure, as it would be for an alien abandoned on this planet. My daughter is speaking in broken words and I love her and I change clothes into something softer, because I am exhausted, and she is loud while the cats smell bad and I am so alone.
This is all over by ten in the morning.
J.Endsley
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