A Small Thing

Nothing stays the same. Everything changes. 

That's the opening for one of my attempts to write something today. It's a piece on depression. I got partway through trying to describe the deepest pits of despair and darkness, and then I realized I didn't really want to talk about that. 

Even taking out politics, I think we've all had enough of that this year. Heck, enough of that for the past four years. 

So, slight confession. I don't know exactly how anniversaries work and how they're calculated. I just know that on 15 October 2010, I wrote Real Communication Shutdown, which was followed by Autistics Speaking Day and Preparing to be Loud. 

It is now 2020, and 11 years later. And I'm not sure whether the 10th anniversary was last year or this year. I'm not very good at these sorts of things. But I counted the years on a piece of paper, and according to my count, it's been eleven years. 

It definitely doesn't feel like yesterday. This year alone has felt too much like forever for it to be yesterday. But I'm reminded of both the changes and the similarities, both the good and the bad. 

There are the obvious things: I live in a different location. I dress differently, my hair has grown and I dye it a different colour. 

Family drama has come and gone and most like will come again. 

I've learned that my body is not quite as reliant as I thought it was, and the gears of capitalism is wearing it down. 

And countless other things, the painful, the joyful, the sorrow, and the wonder. 

Including, the fact that this is the year that I am finally finishing my Disability Studies degree. As I type, I am in my last elective course: creative writing. One might think I can get by with minimum effort, and then pass. But they would be wrong. There are some frustrating aspects about the course; there are a lot of readings that show great misunderstandings and misjudgment towards genre fiction. It's a widespread attitude throughout academia that makes studying creative writing typically difficult. 

However, I'm making my own challenges for the class, taking the assignments as they're given and putting my own twist to them. And the result is that I'm finding myself more encouraged to write more.

The last few months, I've been making more things, sewing, embroidering and crafting. It's been a sliver of silver lining, and I wish I could just stay home and create.

I know that there are still troubles ahead of us, and I hold onto the fact that writing gives joy. That making things makes me happy and gives me reasons to start my day. It might be a small thing, sometimes, but sometimes a small thing is all a person needs to keep going. 

And sometimes, a small thing becomes a big thing, and lasts for years. 

Here's to making things. Here's to the small things. Here's to the big things. Here's to the things that just make us happy in these dark times. Let them keep us together. 

For ASDay 2017 and Ever After

I didn't think I was going to write something this year.

I have two works in progress waiting for me to finish, after all. A piece on how jokes can be harmful, especially when IEPs and disability are thrown in, and an open letter to Simon Baron-Cohen about how he's completely ignorant on neurodiversity when he tried to write about it in a recent article.

These are pieces that are so close to being completed. And like a lot of my work, I'm not sure how to conclude them. How do I tell when something is finally done? How do I wrap it up?

It's a problem I have with my writing, it's a problem I have with a lot of projects. I wonder if it's going to be a problem I'll have with ASDay. I hope one day I'll be able to say "okay, it's been a good run. We did what we set out to do. We're no longer needed," and pack it all up.

And while I think 2017 has been a bit of a slow year, for various reasons, I don't think this is the year that happens.

It may be the year I spent the night before hanging out with a friend having a mental health crisis. It may be the year I spent the evening beforehand at work on a retail shift wearing inappropriate shoes because I was in costume and totally regret it (always, ALWAYS wear appropriate work shoes, even if it doesn't go with your costume). It may be the year I only got 5 hours sleep and dashed out the door to a doctor's appointment.

It may be the year my doctor told me to stop doing everything that I love, to stop typing, to stop writing, to stop all my hobbies and restrict all my leisure pursuits. It may be the year that I promptly ignored my doctor's advice and spent over twelve hours on the internet, doing what I love.

Because ASDay is still needed. Because someone sent in a 20-page essay on neurodiversity as philosophy theory. Because we're still fighting for AAC to be considered a language in its own right. Because I can't count how many people send in self-discovery stories. Because autistic people are still demanding our rights, demanding to be heard.

And we're not going away.

So, for this ASDay, and the next one, and as many as it takes, here I am.

An October Day

A piece of creative non-fiction, as well as some photos, as a submission for ASDay. 


There are dishes piling up in the sink, a folding crate full of recycling by the door. In my room, a laundry basket overflows as it waits for me to take it to my parents for washing. I've just taken down a large garbage bag to be thrown out on my way out the door. I spent $20 of my last $35 on cat food; payday is another week away, but I think I can get by on instant noodles and frozen veggies. There's some meat in the freezer, but I might have to spend my last ten dollars to buy meat for a few days.

I was going to do chores yesterday, was going to paint yesterday, work on an assignment. However, I woke up with rain outside my window and pain pounding at my temples. A can of cola and a fist of painkillers later, the pain receded, but I was left woozy and scatterbrained. My main focus last night was to get actual food in me, which I more or less succeeded.

Right now, it's still raining, but my head isn't aching. Sleepily, I had contacted my workplace to double check on my schedule for tonight, only to be told I'm off for the weekend.

I hear children racing down the hall. I only hear my neighbours when I'm in the hall, or when they drop something overhead, or if the windows are open.  Or if one of their dogs is barking and barking and barking. I generally don't worry about the sounds I make, only when it's 3 AM and I wonder about the volume on my TV. It's peacefully quiet right now. No sounds above, below or from the sides, only the drizzle from window. That's not even a lot, since it's too cold to have it open more than a crack.

What I do hear is the elevator running, the hum of my refrigerator, the kettle on my stove. I pour myself a cup of tea and let it seep, wearily eyeing my cupboards. It's after 4 PM, and I've gotten out of bed some hours ago, but haven't eaten anything yet. I've had a shower, and haven't eaten yet.  Putting on gloves, I wash a bowl and peel a potato. Usually I just scrub the potato, but the skin makes it crispy. As the potato cooks in the microwave, I stir sugar and milk into my tea.

Maybe later tonight, I'll have some of the fish in my freezer, make a bit of pasta, microwave the leftover veggies in my fridge. But right now, I'm having a potato with a bit of butter and a cup of tea. Last night, in bed, I drafted out some of what I wanted to write. It was too late to pick up my tablet or the pad of paper on my night-stand; I was curled up with my cat, huddled together as I try to cover her with my blanket against the cold. I'm still hesitant to turn on the heater, even though it's almost November. So I lay there and dreamt up words for when I woke.

And now, with warmth in my belly and in my hands, I sit down to write.

~~~