Search

My Life Cubed

Adventures! Art! Associations!

Can I rest yet?

Have I grown tall enough?

Are my leaves as green as needed?

Did I reach a wire?

Or were my roots tangled in pipes?

Will you cut me?

Burn me?

Build your life with me?!

Or will I be chipped and scattered?

Soon the worm’s feast?

Is my flesh red enough to be treasure?

My grain flowing enough for strength?

Am I easy enough to carve?

Or hard for your long night burned through?

Now that I am gone to the eye:

Will you forget I was?

The service I have done lost?

Is the air I made less precious…

Less needed to breath now

……that you have burned me?

And this ash that serves to clean…

Is that of me or you?

Is it the closest I can be to you?

Or will I be reborn with legs today?

TW: Do not read if you side with rapists.

An upstairs neighbor moved in. His demeanor classified in my cousin’s range. Drug dealer stereotypes mixed in with assumed dominance as a birth right. I noted my trauma’s screams and chose to try and see past it. Attempted calm, kind, clear communication when his parties harmed my sleep cycles and my dog’s peace. I can’t count how many times I was kind. Then I started loosing it on him over it until one day he decided to listen. I’m not proud of yelling and cruel reactive me. My trauma does create a pressure vacuum eventually, or maybe its just human to scream when ignored repeatedly. Months had passed after all. Their laughs and whispers clear for me.

Still, once the music ceased his kindness in regular interactions began. Casual hellos, nothing big. Then his dog bit me while I removed her from attacking my own. He went out of his way to help me up after while I sat triggered, struggling to find the real world. The dog had escaped his grasp; I chose to not report him. My family always told me dogs that bit were put down, and I would never want that.

Finally one day, I needed social interaction and he was outside and extra chatty after returning from walking my pup. I figured why not, he had showed his impact mattered and to me this meant safe to interact further. It was the illustration that the stereotypes weren’t accurate and he had made room with accountability to connect. So we chatted the evening away, drinking and smoking green. We laughed and found similarities. Joked and talked about a few serious things, I can’t help myself. He was sharing his life pain and complaining about people that he felt weren’t up to meet his needs but were attempting to manipulate him. It’s only connection with mutual sharing, afterall.

Eventually, I decided that it was safe to be sexual. I told him I was going down stairs to get condoms. When I returned and closed the door, locked behind me, I sat down and he pulled a knife. Started screaming and accusing me of setting a trap. He jilted the knife towards me. A foot away from my body it seemed but probably more like three feet. This told me the PTSD response was growing inside. The adrenaline responses already coursing. Two options, as always present in a trigger, to pacify or fight. Run didn’t even reach my mind this time. So funny how black and white a moment can become.

I reassured him. I brought the greens I reminded in a steady calm tone. Kept my shoulders down, eyes to shoulder, all the things that had kept me safe years and years ago. I made myself small. My need for safety in a fun night for once overwhelming my attachment to what reality was handing me: a threat on my life but someone who was exhibiting paranoid thoughts and violent physical behaviors. It was nothing new to me though. Routine. Comforting, nearly…especially when he settled down and began to laugh at some jest I made mocking myself.

Eventually we began the act. He broke the first condom with misuse. The second used he went outside to smoke. I was relieved for silence. Let myself start to fall asleep, facing the wall. He came in, I heard the knife’s weight hit the floor. I froze. He lay on me and forced his bare self inside me. My voice wouldn’t work. Stiff and dry, he grabbed at my body and forced me into position like I was a doll. Spit. My brain screamed: the knife is just there fight your way out or be beat for saying no again. Neither were option were in reach. My body was not responsive. It hurt. My face grimaced. He proclaimed he was almost done and faked cuming. I recognized what drug he had used now. In my 20’s, I knew what caused that inability.

How had I not seen the danger I was in? Even had I fought that drug allows a level of inhumane booze can’t. Freeze was the right response. The next morning I had another chance while he slept to “fight back”, upon seeing the knife laying there, but I left instead. Began arranging moving plans. I had chosen to ignore red flags I grew up knowing well. I am accountable for that, but not his choices to ignore my requirements for a condom, ignoring clear body language, and using a weapon as a threat twice. The second didn’t need to be direct, that sound is unmistakable.

Since this night, two women have shamed me, blaming my lack of boundaries. I want to be clear. I spoke them clearly and I refuse to take accountability for anyone who chooses to abuse instead of listen TWICE. Yea, I should of left after the knife. I wish the fawn response wasn’t a long term nervous system truth for me, too. Unfortunately part of the definition of PTSD is the imprint the trauma does to the nervous system altering how one CAN respond. I have been working for years and have made huge progress. He made a choice to threaten with a weapon, twice. He made the choice to do what he wanted while I was despondent. Furthermore, he knows I’m disabled.

So if you’ve finished reading this and you support him, end your subscription. Because nothing I write here will ever be for you. Who I am will never be of your preferences because I am not a doormat for a male’s ability to avoid accountability. I spent too many years taking the blame for another of those, and I won’t do it another more.

If you choose to lie to get laid. If you ignore what was clearly communicated, you are the problem. Not someone’s clothing, choices, or their consumption, YOU. Control self, it’s not within anyone’s to control another. So why are we still feigning that reality.

PS: Fawning was the correct choice for my autoimmune body. Even if it meant tolerating one trauma, at least my body is in one piece. Its more than a month since he raped me. He and his friends are still harassing me regularly when I leave the house. Moving in just a few days and yet, I spend most my days in terror. But thats what he wants. That’s how he feels strength, thanks to social stereotypes. Maybe its past time to change the concept of domination through violence as male magnificence. Now, which male leader will go first?

Dear “stop waiting for someone to save you” beings:

Community is part of healing. Finding who will reach back is part of it. If they don’t, they aren’t for you. Bottom line is interdependence is health and those not ready to do so will passive aggressively destruct everyone around them the way they do self. They deserve love, but boundaries keep it safe for all sides.

Choosing self love and healing means getting honest about how people treat us… often we have accepted and sought out what hurt us to begin with for comfort’s sake. So sure we have to choose better and only we can do that but community reaching back is part of getting all the way out of disassociation.

Feeling/being safe to share is indicative of healthy space offered. Its sad how many think its an acceptable norm to be targeted for sharing. A sign of the traumatic times. 😞

My strongest addiction: adrenaline & cortisol.

These natural body responses have been with me since I can remember. Of course in the beginning I had no idea what high I was riding, just that the hyper-vigilance granted protection through awareness of my environment. Not that the fancy terms entered, just that predicting, preparing, and paying more attention to my environment was more beneficial for my safety. This is a standard for many raised in the seen and not heard ideals of generations past. A parenting mentality that typically leads to cptsd and codependency. Those that escape these behavioral imprints had outside of close knit family support. Privileges come in many flavors, even my own.

A young single mother struggling with her own mental growth raising a child is bound to pass the stress. Nothing shared in my pages is ever to shame a parent: we do better when we know better. The part of love and pain exchange that allows healing of the past is allowing current pains to be acknowledged and behaviors shifted. Suddenly we can even treat self kinder from such awareness granted due to the external nature of connection. So please understand what is written here is always about light shining, not shame and guilt shading. Nothing can heal that stays hidden.

My addiction to these natural body responses to danger started earlier than the story I am about to share, but this one was rehashed at my recent birthday. The reflection glaringly obvious and nearly impossible to get around to celebrate at all. Such blocks are nearly a blessing as they rise like road blocks in a moment. The body goes full stop. Freeze response as if a lifetime of danger was happening all at once. The red flag came when I felt a sudden ease at the encompassed freeze me. A forced investigation followed using whatever resources maintain memory for me. Images being the most helpful with previous gifts the next. The birthday song itself playing so many videos in my mind space I struggled to separate.

For a day or two before I was engulfed. Frozen and pushing anyone near by away. Especially if they sought out anything that reflected joy for the years passing me. That’s when it hit me, my birthday avoidance more than a traumatic childhood event, it was a reminder that I lived and they didn’t. That my life was still deteriorating even though I maintained the gift of it. The weight only became heavier at this realization. The relief of the additional stress hormones dropping and I could self care again. Yea, freeze response ended because grief grew. I was activated and capable of doing what I needed to in order to seem human and functional from the outside looking in. A thing I have survived because of for decades.

So many years I spent telling myself it was all due to a single birthday. Tender age of 8 (I think). Month before mother had showed me a bedroom set that was a big deal to her because it illustrated our getting out of poverty. As a child, I missed that compassionate view, and told her on the spot I hated the lilac covered set. The princess canopy adding to insult. Girls weren’t friendly to me, I had little desire to appear like I enjoyed what they did. Purple was abhorrent then and flowers?! My childish mind wondered if my mother had met me. I was happy to squash that bed-set. In my head I had won the discussion and had been heard.

The day of my first big birthday party came. Unannounced to me, my mother had invited my whole class. People who had made sure I knew I wasn’t invited to theirs in the two years past. At first I had blamed my newness (it was familiar per our moving standard), but at my birthday I felt the truth of their rejections. The only three that came were the other outcasts. One would steal from me in the future; while being a tool for sexist shaming through example making. Another had been used to abuse me with: I can still hear it, “you’re uglier than him, but you’re both tall so you two are boyfriend and girlfriend.” As if elementary dating was valid, but in that class room, it was a vital part being paired.

My family was there, too. I swallowed my pain when everyone arrived and tried to get happy. It was my first birthday party! There was a piñata and everything! So much food for all the beings that didn’t show. I tried to ignore that glaring reality but it hid in party favors, too. Finally gift time, mom all excited. My gut told me to be and yet I felt overwhelmingly anxious. Would I preform how I needed to for everything to stay calm and joyous? Gifts were always overwhelming for me due to scarcity alone. The surprise nature of them became a threat this day though. When she opened my bedroom door to a totally lilac room with that white and floral set, curtains to boot!

I screamed. But not in bliss. I did my high-pitched hell noise everyone hated. Not that I knew the words but betrayal had set in. My permanent residence surrounded in something I had clearly said I hated. When she forced the lilac walls, I should of known. But surprised at ignoring my wishes none the less. I had what I now know is an autistic meltdown. My normal environment had been taken out of my comfort level suddenly and into a place I had clearly communicated a “no” to. Not that this was the only time that had happened in my family, but that each time my “no” was ignored the painful reaction grew. This time I screamed and ran from her. And she “spanked” me publicly. I sulked for the remainder of my birthday as I had been promised it was my first and last to celebrate. (Spanked is in quotes because she was hurt, angry, embarrassed, and triggered. None of that allows for actual discipline because there is none present. She is not the same human now and this is not me holding that day against her.)

So for years I have blamed my one bad birthday for every birthday being bad. Only they weren’t and I was just seeking fulfilling my addiction to the stress hormones. The addiction had grown to a monster beyond my grasp. My brain doing an automatic memory wipe of good things in order to maintain my fix guaranteed annually. The loss of my brother and sister only locked in the behavior and buried it deep. It had become the foundation of my self identity: someone abandoned and shamed for my preferences and differences. My mind determined to keep its fix, repeatedly insuring either I don’t participate in the day or that I forget if it was enjoyable.

Here I want to take a moment to apologize to each being that has made effort to celebrate my birth even as I fought you. I apologize for forgetting your efforts, if I haven’t managed to recover the memory. No being deserved being dismissed because my body needed a fix to keep swimming. My addiction to feeling badly a comfort zone where I can meet my needs, even presently. I also want to take space to say THANK YOU to each that has attempted to reach me on this day where I have regularly attacked myself. I have dismissed many a reach out. Take this as a sign of acknowledgment and gratitude. The truth is those reaching allowed a light on this pain and without them I may have continued.

This year, I had space in my rest/freeze response thanks to being on disability. My need for food and shelter both currently met, even if I have created yet another situation that grants adrenal dumps regularly. Although I can not take full credit for how poverty, gender, disability, and race affects my neighbors and their choice of friends and behaviors, I can take ownership of attempting to connect with beings that had illustrated within our first interactions that I was not someone of value to them. Verbiage and actions committed can not tell a lie and yet, I re-entered my cycles to feed my addictions with an attempt to help. Both actions feeding the same egoic hell: a self image of self loathing. I learned ages ago there is no saving another and yet, I spent time expressing my truths in hopes they might heal with me, thusly making friends. Repeatedly these beings used these truths to abuse me socially and psychologically. One even physically. I heard their denial of my truth and continued interacting as if that could change their ears. I don’t deserve their wrath but part of me was betting on their abusive interactions to feed my addiction.

What’s worse, is I know today I will go outside and say good morning kindly as if I were unaware that they were manipulative and mocking. I will continue to be friendly. Not because I seek long term connections, but because they have already illustrated the mockery and every exchange is a gamble for another fix on my addiction that just might propel me into functioning long enough to get away or maybe even have a moment of bliss because that’s what meeting an addictive need means. The question still lies in how much is projection, alas, actions clarify that it isn’t. Forgiving my painful actions allows me to see they too need the same due to the same: carried traumas.

This birthday memory is just an example of how my past has carried with me as a means of survival and maintaining what comfort I am most accustomed to: chaos. Thriving from depletion is literally killing my nervous system. Fibromyalgia pain is the sensation of nerves dying. My addiction perpetuating the choice of environments that refuse to hear my “no”. My nerves overloaded so many times they are wearing out before other parts of my body. My strength wains with it. And yet, I have yet to find a way to quit something innately gained. I’ll just keep breathing as I address my trauma from the embodied approach more everyday, relief finds windows. Like a cat in the sun’s rays, I stretch for those moments in patience. Deep grooves take time to smooth, I am only human.

Data Compiled:

DC

Birth given name and ability:

A power source for self and world.

Fiercely focused towards

Pain gained

Seeking my inner cure.

Any scrap of a concept:

Surrounding abuse.

What’s and why’s

How’s with stored where?

My body lodged deep with trauma.

Cycle’s full circle:

I bullied the bullies in gradeschool…

Just like now as I am determined

To heal myself

and

Those harming me.

Beliefs bone deep

That my task

Was set to save any hurting with me.

Pain passing

Disguised as savior-ship:

For those who aren’t reaching,

Save to push me down

Away.

Abuse accepted culturally

Survival means!

How dare anyone address the elephant?!

I fill the room.

Crushing them with a reality their minds are safe from

Demanding my boundaries valid:

Their actions abuse

“How obtuse!”

Trigger’s reaction

A standard of both.

And so a step back to see…

Attacking core values

Regardless of level of self harm caused

Is abuse, too.

Non-consent healing:

Really a wound.

Sharing my truth

Just another knife in the back.

My concept of love

Their idea of shaming.

The reverse applying

As they too seek to convince me

My boundaries are silly.

Their path works for them,

Why should I question it?

The shared struggle for each

From the same need to be heard.

And me?

Demanding how other’s act

Instead of hitting the track.

Trying to change them no different.

Both against current,

Passively clashing.

All because my path is different.

My needs of sensitivity

Too obscure to accept.

Today, thats finally okay.

A river flows away.

Rocks happily rooted in place.

Erosion expansion,

A piece of each sediment floats along

Inside and yet separate.

Things learned in the burn

I made determined to make a space

In a place where it couldn’t.

My love was well intentioned

But my impact equally harmful

My reach, push, and run.

Desperate to meet needs

Even in conflict…

A child’s perspective: shifted.

The love I have ever present,

Yet my lack of acceptance

For their ways

Made it seem like hate.

My current too direct.

My deepest apologies

For fighting these

Who are pleased where they rest.

No offense meant,

My heart too longs for it.

I just haven’t found space in me yet.

The final letter of self defense:

Is self acceptance.

Dear beings that think they know what I need:

Oops havent deleted u.

Ps using the triggers you heard I had from other’s against me to trigger me is known as reactive abuse. Its the targeting of known triggers to upset the other being. You acted on them from day one and its how I knew you didn’t see me even once. Its also why I allowed myself to blow up medium on the call/visit/interaction where you intentionally compiled them.

My triggers, disability, the brain damage the ABUSERS caused, is not anyone’s target and the moment they aim I know they mean no kindness. I also know their ableism runs deep and likely abuses them.

You, dove, chose to abuse me with them. You chose to play the game. And so I returned play. Perhaps its time you stopped listening to people who dont listen to you and punish you for using your voice.

All you needed during your distress was comfort. The comfort you weren’t allowed as a child because of seen and not heard abusive mindsets. What you said didn’t need to make sense: you just needed heard and held. But they were too triggered by your needs to do that. So instead they abused you the same way they have been abused.

I tried very hard to get you to see the reality of your pain. Ur inner child begged for my touch but you continuously pulled away. Thats because you were punished for reaching…. just like you’re all doing to me.

I am not the abuser for self defense or emotion. People that ignore boundaries to spread rumors for control and punishment are lost in their own pain. So yea, I have learned many things here: the foremost being that when someone only hears the pains to push them, they aren’t even acquaintances, just automatically enemies per trauma’s fearful control. Thats why they needed to control you. And its why they continue to attack and isolate me.

May you all find the healing you need to see you are each worth space heard. I will continue taking each manipulation as an attempt to learn how to better counter those that refuse my truth. And with each my stance will become better formed as it came from eons of accumulated knowledge that I merely compiled, experienced, and connected. That is the autistics blessing after all.

Ps. I address this to all because we are all guilty of this control and domination technique. I learned it growing up to call it joking, but then realized the targets are always the one’s least included. This is a choice to perpetuate a broken colonialism. There is no hierarchy, just many beings reaching or hiding because there is no safety, even in close connection which is that a choice this society is making. Why connect if we aren’t listening to bring joy in?

Two eight legged dreams and 1&1/2 realities:

Lets start from reverse: I was a toddler. Mother and I lived somewhere west, perhaps we were in Idaho, I don’t know. I know only I was young from the multiple times I have heard the tale told. Sitting there on the kitchen floor, I had been found with half a spider hanging out my mouth. Mother screamed, this scene is sometimes in my dreams, her fear enveloping her. Of course, this is where I caught arachnophobia, though I worked through it with exposure therapy and now dawn a tattoo of one on the back side of my arm as the fear is behind me and yet woven into my known ability to overcome even me. I remember her calling it a brown recluse, but who knows, just that I bit it first…

Now onto the dreams, only a few nights from each other. The first was me lucid as I searched my pillows for a spider to eat. The corner of my bed held a cave that got larger upon my crawling into. This is what woke me.

The second came short and strange. My bed was in the cave this time. The spider shrunk smaller as she grew closer, until she crawled into my mouth cautiously, instructing me not to bite. I opened my throat and felt each of her feet as she climbed deep within me. I awoke still feeling her within me.

Oh just a half: a trip’s visionary play. Myself the spider long before these dreams. I was dancing on the web of life, each strand brought forth a face, some known other’s strange, yet tied to my web intricately. Some came with music and other’s with colors, but all had pains that resonated with my path’s gain. Just another piece motivating me to share my life’s journey, as none of them were close with me and yet I felt a responsibility to share my healing publicly so that any hurting similarly might find relief from my strife and attempted triumph. Knowing in that space and now this that even when it seemed I was alone, I was not as the web is ever connected even in bleak silence.

Her name was Sally

And she was my mom’s friend from the military. It wasn’t the first time I met her but it was the first mom left me at Sally’s house alone to spend the night with her daughter. (Name changed for privacy)

We were playing peacefully. Singing silly pop songs, gushing over teen-bops, nail polish, ya know what any grade schooler going on 30 would be into. While we sang silliness, I picked up a doll of hers to look at. She snatched it up without explanation; to which I responded with a quick snatch back. This started her screaming and a whole set of abusive events.

The mother comes up screaming for silence in the standard military tone. My words went unheard as she believed everything her daughter said which excluded the part where she ripped the doll from me first. After a good bit of being screamed at for being selfish and ungrateful for their hospitality, I was told to stand in the corner at the back of the room without touching anything while the mother watched her movie.

Every noise or movement was more time added on. I still had severe issues with my legs and feet then from the birth defect. The pain set in quick standing still. She didn’t care. Hours went by. There’s a gap in memory here…Eventually, I remember my mom being mad at it. And swore we would never be back.

A few years later Sally reentered our life. She came to visit us. I don’t recall what I said. But her response was to slap me upside my face. Mom saw her and kicked her out… but why did we forgive her to begin with?

And this is where my ability to connect logic is lost. I agree that holding grudges is harmful, but at what point of abuse is there no point in going back to? Where is the line that says “there’s no point in crossing”? Clearly this woman and my mother were close and communicated well, but not enough for her to speak to my mother before doling out physical punishment? Or to hear me speak at all when her daughter is being manipulative? Isn’t a space unheard enough to know there’s no point in return?

I ask myself this morning as I sit fresh from yet another night reliving past things I have no way to change in my brain. My mind convinced that if I study hard enough I can unlock whatever solution there is to the never ending reality of not being heard when I speak or text even. It’s like my voice can’t reach past some internal barrier. Now that I know I’m autistic, I know that barrier is called an internal bias. I know that I have them, too. And I know its up to the individual to decide not to allow them to rule. So, with each unheard word, I know where my voice is wasted when shared. Every time a rumor blares through a new aquatinted, I know my time to be heard is long gone. And so I roll on, seeking grace with the continued reality that people will only listen when they choose to and my voice is one that’s not in that range of acceptance.

Noting that this constant self blame isn’t just self trained, its a social perception. Just the other day I was reminded that no matter how much another shares with me, when I share my pains, its too much. The constant reality that I am wanted to listen and serve not to be heard lulling over my need to speak and coregulate yet another trauma. The end of the meeting concluding with an explanation of avoidance of negativity, as if they hadn’t been sharing their pains with me. It’s not at all funny how many people come to me glad for the space I will make only to blame me for the hell I wake in daily. The missing piece for each of us is to be heard especially at our lowest and yet, I must remember, there is nothing to be done about another’s internal bias.

Its a choice to listen and I’ll keep learning how to make space while I wait for those who are willing to do the same without tone policing or corrective listening. Mind you both of those are things I do too, but I’m aware and thats where the change waits.

Racist’s pitch: all the times people have tried to convince me racism was just.

As an autistic being, why has been a basic need my whole life. Love a given the moment anything is new and requires learning. Someone once accused me of exoticism, to that I no know a reply: if that were accurate their history wouldn’t grieve me nor would their traditions shift that which pains me traumatically. I see each culture a gift full of knowledge for the full rainbow of living. So many have given me that life vest to carry on life’s river forward flow.

Many times in my life racism has been explained historically, socially, and even personally through one on one connections from people of many shades. The most disturbing of these conversations come from people my shade. Some innocent and observational, others directly hateful and willfully ignorant from what is clearly a fear space gained ancestrally. Nothing that deep runs from one lifetime after all.

The first I can remember may be here somewhere else within these achieves: there was a beautiful girl from preschool. Her eyes clear as ice and skin akin to milk chocolate. Her hair always neatly arranged with beautiful bows and beads of color and glitter. I remember begging for some just like hers. This was the girl who taught me how to snap, in fact! Her sweet smile and wave alerted my mother to what I meant, as I didn’t have a name for such things (to this day thats my life: probably forgot what she told me then). Mother sighed and had us wait till the car where I learn the social reality for beings mixed. She was sad as she explained no one would claim that beautiful child, that racism was against her in all ways. As an adult there are movies about this pain people carry I have seen and wept for the girl’s true struggle. As a child I had pretended my mother was just cruel. It didn’t make sense to me.

Many years past. Very few POC in my next schools. I knew the difference was due to location and wealth distribution. Local KKK chapters. I had heard of a couple events they were active in during my high school years. I was astonished no names ever came to light. Forced to watch roots, I realized a higher price to the silence I had given in my private life around such ignorance. Not that anything surfaced aside from my own awareness to those around me. Its almost like I stalled to gather enough information to counter the obvious ignorance. After-all, in my mind at the time, hate came from a lack of exposure learned due to my many moves and seeking of connection. Seemed simple enough…if only that were the sole role at play.

So many years spent listening and gathering knowledge from as many sides possible. Asking why’s strategically. Looking for something beyond their one experience that sounds like a Paul Bunion tale. At that time I didn’t know what I connected with falsity was really just a triggered being attempting to recall. Words so tangled and fast speaking, added in wide eyes with pupils dilating: all signs of adrenaline dumping. These beings had never reached regulation on the events recalled. No surprise in a society thats about ramping up and holding on while stuffing in instead of letting it out and go for good. I get it, still reprograming here.

Finally, living in the south, I came to a decision to respectfully avoid the topic unless within close connections. Personal boundaries have included no hate speech for much of my life. It hurts me, and even as a child I would go elsewhere when the N word started somewhere. Though at that time it had been explained to me through misconceptions that it was okay to say once friendships had commenced. Now I refuse, even if someone did grant it, simply because somethings are too tied to hate to absolve themselves. The word FEELS like hate to me, even in music. (That audio-tactile synesthesia explains so much of my experiences.)

So there I was living in the government housing, a long term cigarette smoker by this point. I sat on my porch regularly. A lady across the street eventually became friendly over months and months. Eventually she began using the N word as she complained about her black neighbor. The first few times I attempted to sympathize while intentionally replacing the phrasing to something less abrasive. We are ripples in action, but it failed that time. I had to directly address her hate.

One day after she said it I called a full stop. Explained to her that I don’t feel the same and explained that I could not sing praises if she could avoid the blunt racism. She agreed. For months I thought the matter was settled and that I had made a true friend with this mother figure like white lady. One morning I was outside and wished the POC a good morning on her way to work. She flipped me off. I was baffled as our only exchanges had been smiles and politeness for the whole year I had been there.

That night I sat with the friend on her porch casually, as was common more than half the week. It was nice to have a friend so close. Well…. the neighbor came home in a huff and tense. I stayed sitting and casually asked for her time once she was available since she had just gotten home. She was immediately screaming. The “friend” jumped up and got in her face. I sat and defensively said it was just so I could understand what the issue was, just in time for the “friend” to shove her causing her to grab me by the hair and pulling me over the rail, thusly beating me senseless into the concrete. I refused to fight over nothing. My mother called the cops once she heard. Next day I found out the “friend” told the neighbor many lies. My agoraphobia intensified, but I didn’t learn to be racist. A white lady’s hate proves nothing, no matter the force used against me. Her point failed to be proven regardless of all her manipulations.

In the last several year there have been many a racist bark near me. Rarely do I participate these days. I just know who not to trust. Any being that needs to be higher than one wants to be higher than all as they are living in trauma and fear as a standard. This is my new understanding of racism. A term of tribalism thats internalized and automatic for survival and connective control in sameness. Only civilized minds are not in this space and unfortunately with the wage gap higher than before the French Revolution, not many have the space to have needs met and escape that traumatized mindset. Living in scarcity is bound to have its draw backs on more than our bodies and budgets, the mind focuses to seek those basic needs by any means.

Since coming out autistic, many beings have assumed the nazis were accurate in my lack of ‘theory of mind’. My traumatized being feeds into this misinterpretation of my being-hood via hate blind science and a current unwillingness to see outside of the observer’s opinion. Because of this ignorance embraced by even medical professionals within my society, people have continually attempted to convince me to believe whatever they do instead of my own developed opinions over time. People have told me everything from be less kind to explaining why I deserve what comes with my skin color.

Understand, there is nothing more disgusting to me. And yet people who barely know me have taken the time to explain to me why racism is acceptable using examples like black women beating whites etc. I have outright blocked more people than I have added in the past few years for attempting to convince me of such ignorance and doing so with such gusto. People in person misidentifying my clothing with labels that don’t even resemble the attire, as if they are announcing their total ignorance while also attempting to slur me for not standing with their hate willfully attempting to convince me that I already misappropriate. (Shaw is the word for that item people: it looks Nothing like a Kimono: from its tight elbow length sleeves to sheer and totally open worn style; its even boarder-less without a waist tie. Inaccuracy drives my autistic self annoyed easily especially with hateful projections. )

Most recently, someone attempted to convince me to sell something that is adapted from about four cultures to help self sooth and remind myself to breathe. Within this conversation this man belittled me for my consideration of those who have cultural rights to each aspect of the tool. He would say a kind word laced with hate waiting on the other-side just as easily as a little kid would explain to a parent about the monster they just knew was under the bed. His speech sped up, pitch raised, it was clear his adrenaline had dumped. He then spouted off about his native blood and how white people took from him too, so it might as well continue as we are all one now. His sentiment a twisted version of the respect of the all I am familiar with. We can be one people and still respect individual rights and practices. We can respectfully partake without making gains. Thats where the threshold sits. He said the N word and was blocked.

Just two days ago, an internet friend of many years started in with the N word. She pretended to abide by my boundaries. Two more times later within thirty minutes and she was proclaiming to me that I need not be afraid, we had won. I told her only the hateful are afraid and blocked her…but isn’t that it? Fear the root of hate. Survival the root of tribalism and all internalized -isms? Even if it is, why are we in scarcity while someone accrues billions? It doesn’t make much sense to keep a world in hate and war due to a natural trauma reaction of the mind to avoid civilized/logical thinking. I mean unless you’re the one making m/billions.

Can we decide to override it as a society without those basics met? Are minds psychologically capable of overcoming need deficiency at a time of need for unity? Or is that the exact recipe for revolution: noticing our similar suffering and connecting because of empty bellies? All I know is, minorities together, including the working poor, massively outnumber those that are making unjust profits off us all. To overcome the injustice for us all, we have to see the value in each, which means releasing old pains connected to trauma minded black and white thinking. Thats where stereotypes live. Mechanisms of protection that over simplify reality on the basis of pain past. Judgements of entire groups over singular events or something passed ancestrally… whatever the case, fearing each other is in the way. We’ve lost sight of thriving in the name of surviving, but we can change that as a community connected and willing to be accountable for the real abuses we each face daily as members of the majority suffering.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑