Four Months

I’ve been deteriorating the last few days, though I didn’t know why. 

I was ok right? 

still reading fanfiction all day every 

Music every waking moment to drown out my sensory distress 

Today I thought, ‘I don’t know why things are getting bad again but they are getting bad again.’

Nothing bad has happened except/but don’t think about that. 


Then, in a rush I remembered, as if I could ever really forget. Today is the 25 th, almost exactly four months since my brother lost his nearly life long battle with addiction, despair, and self loathing. 


The tears were immediate and overwhelming 


This month has been the first month of my being ok-ish. Ok-ish being entirely subjective. This month has been the first month of being semi functional, of not feeling like I was actually dying emotionally *and* physically. 

The joys of mourning with chronic illness i guess. 

I’ve been wanting to write you all something beautiful, vulnerable, good. Sometimes late at night, when my body is so heavy with fatigue, beautiful words flow over and through me…and disappear into the abyss, unable to return. My body unable to comply with my needs, my desires. 

I thought i was ok-ish

I guess this is all I have right now.

It will have to be enough.


Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Holding Onto That One Last Thread

Oh Brother Dear, we sadly fear your presence we have lost


I live here now

I don’t know where here is

The night spirals from my fingertips 

sweet promises and regrets

I am the eye of the storm 

bereft and bloody 

broken open raw


out of sync with this universe 

it’s moving on without you 


no matter how I scream and tear my hair

no matter how


This room feels empty without you though you haven’t been around for awhile. The air is heavier now. it hurts to breathe. i occupy an impossible moment 


betrayed by my continuation

how does one define the edges of a lifetime? chubby baby hands, blue eyes, warm raspy chuckle


A little over a month ago my baby brother died. He died young and he didn’t have to. The system failed him, on multiple levels. Maybe we failed him too. 

that keeps me up at night sometimes
I had to sit with that first sentence for awhile, honestly. A little over a month ago, my baby brother died. 

I haven’t been able to write much, because I haven’t been able to think much. My spoon supply, such as it is, is going to parenting…and pretty much just parenting. 

I’m here, alive, coping. I don’t forsee ever seeing any of my blood family again, short of minor miracles. That’s been coming my whole life, they always made sure I knew I was unwelcome, burdensome. 


I have one paternal cousin who still speaks to me. He’s a sweet guy. I’m thankful for that human connection. He’s been a singularly positive influence on my life, though we live in different states and have much different lives. 

But we’re poor, my paternal relatives are to far away, probably wouldn’t really  understand my identity, and my maternal relatives and I have gone our separate ways. It was, I think mutually beneficial for everyone. 

So here I am, cut off from the people who knew him, my brother, best, and I’m coping. 

I mean, except I’m not really coping at all, I’m parenting and reading fanfiction. In the realms of self medication, fan fiction is almost entirely harmless and that’s good.

 I’m a parent and don’t have the luxury of the self destruction I was on the road to before children. Becoming a parent gave me focus, gave me a reason to strive for something better. I repay the gift they didn’t mean to give me, by maintaining that focus and reason to live…even when it starts feeling a little to nebulous and far away.

but I understand why I am currently hyper fixated on fanfiction. My brain is reading sooo many stories about anxious, sad queer boys because it’s an anxious sad queer boy, and these little happy endings just…alleviate the pain for a moment, as long as I stay submerged. like soothing music or soft fuzzy blankets. it’ an emotional stim. brain candy.. 

let me just stay here submerged in Emo Quinten Coldwater and Regal, Gorgeous, Bad ass magnus Bane. 

It’ll be fine. 


but as a coping mechanism it’s not so great for the concentration. though i don’t know what could possibly be better. I can be slightly checked out or i can be writhing in devastation. those are my current choices. no more. no less. This is the first time I have been able to write about this without falling apart. I’ll call that a good sign…of some sort.

Allistics accuse autistic people of being cold and indifferent in the way we mourn. That darn flat affect. 

In my experience the opposite is true though, we carry loss and hurt so heavily it overloads our whole system, like a fuse that needs flipping after a lightning storm.  

look away. look away. look away

I disentangle slightly so that I don’t burn out entirely.  

but that doesn’t mean i don’t feel it. 

i feel everything.

I’m still emotionally fragile even slightly disentangled, every strong emotional reaction turns into gut wrenching despair and then to more chronic pain flares. I forget sometimes why every single thing makes me feel like my heart has been ripped out. 

oh yeah, because it has been.  

I don’t know what mourning is like for allistic people. I don’t know what mourning looks like for other autistic people. 

This is what mourning looks like for me. 

I’m not there yet-wherever there is

and I don’t know when I will be

but I’m trying and I’m coping and I’ll be ok

more or less

in the meantime, anybody know any good fan fic? 

Love and Living in Flaresville

Love and Living in Flaresville

I recently had a revelation of sorts.

You see, I struggle, during flares with my self worth. Self Loathing slowly eats at my mental health until I am am emotional sobbing puddle of despair…especially during the long deep winter flares. 

My friends, many of whom are also disabled and/or chronically ill are always quick to assure me that my productivity doesn’t make or break my value which I totally agree with and yet was not helping the emotional hole in my heart space. 

But I think I figured that piece out. 

My mother was always very open about the fact that she had me in order to make sure she had someone to love her no matter what, to take care of her between lovers, and when she was old and alone. This is not a good reason to have a baby, and is certainly not a healthy thing to raise your child up telling them constantly. but tell me she did. She always made it abundantly clear that my reason for drawing breath, was to care for her, and by extension people like her. 

Loving her, loving people, caring for people was one of the only things I ever got positive reinforcement for as a young autistic trans person.  

My mother was a lot of things to me, she did a lot of things she shouldn’t have as a caregiver, but one thing she did, for good or ill, was make me very good at taking care of people. 

Or at least I was.  

*que personal crisis* 

The way that I was able to “earn” a place in peer groups as a young, autistic person who didn’t meet anyone’s gender performance expectations, was through caregiving. They were willing to tolerate my neurodiversity, only when I had performed that role sufficiently.…or so it seemed to me. 

Not every relationship I’ve ever had has been that dynamic of course. I’m certainly not a victim, and have made plenty of my own mistakes over the years. I spent years in a little soft boy weaponized sadness toxic entitlement smog. It did not look good on me. 

But it was enough of a pattern for my baby autistic brain to imprint on that mold, to develop expectations of myself as an especially effective caregiver. 

The trouble comes in over the last couple years, as I have increasingly become unable to take care of myself, much less anyone else. Every single spoon I have, and more than a few I do not have, go towards navigating a massive amount of pain, new symptoms, fatigue, executive dysfunction, severe depression, and did mention pain? As well as caring for my children, trying to work as much as possible so my family can hopefully some day not be in constant financial crisis, and hopefully not being an emotional drain to the people I love. 

Especially during flare season, a combination of autistic burnout, anxiety, fatigue, and shame related to my inability to reach out or properly or actively reciprocate social interaction on any level adds to my physical inability to leave the house making a deep isolation soup I have trouble escaping. 

I get caught in a feedback loop, when I so desperately need human companionship in which I don’t feel like I deserve to ask for the emotional labor and support of others, when I know my ability to reciprocate that emotional labor and support will be spotty at best for many months out of every year. How can I ask people to do for me, what I am probably incapable of doing for them, most times? 

The process of figuring out who it is appropriate for me to ask for emotional support and labor from can be days or even weeks long. Most of my friends are also disabled and/or chronically ill and are similarly struggling, especially in the winter months. I can’t put my never ending emotional suck on them. Then the educating people on aspects of my family’s experience can be moee draining than help so while I deeply appreciate the offer when I need it most I am unlikely to be able to reach out to an ally. Then many  of my friends who share my identities and would get my experience are also marginalized in ways I am not, I am not entitled to their emotional labor, they have heavy enough existence dealing with this oppressive shit storm world, they categorically do not need my despair added to that. 

even when people offer their support, if I don’t talk to that person regularly, it is nearly impossible for me to break routine or initiate a new routine to establish contact, or to ask for support that I am extremely likely to not be able to reciprocate unless they ask in turn..if I can at all. Then the shame spiral of not being able to do a simple thing, blaming myself for feeling isolated, when people have offered their support, then finally the negative self talk and self loathing. Feeling desperately emotional need, but absolutely no room or ability to ask for help.  

I was put on this earth to take care of people, and I know that is unhealthy, but relationships of any dynamic need to be reciprocal, which is something I am deeply unable to provide 6-10 months out of the year. 

I probably need to build new social templates but have been in autistic burn out for so long, battling deep fatigue, borrowing against far flung future spoons to get through days, that doing so seems impossible. 

Though I know I need to, I don’t know how to rebuild me from here. 

Hopefully this will be the first step, the planted seed that leads to blooms of self understanding, self acceptance…and dare I hope for self love? 

Winter Update

Winter Update

​The holiday season is deep upon us, and the solstice has just passed meaning, the sun and accompanying warmth are slowly on their way back. 

I try to remember that from the depths of my winter flare.

Memories of last year exist in a haze. But still I feel a need to quantify my experiences. 

Last year I was in a daze by this time, major brain fog, unavoidable nap attacks, sudden bouts of complete immobility, multiple days long migraines, and often extreme pain in my joints left me half conscious and very out of contact with the rest of the world. 

This year I have cut out most grains and dairy from my diet and started a food log to track what I eat and figure out which things I’m reacting to most. I am learning to try and stay calm and even since I have reactions to my own body’s adrenaline. I joke that I am the world’s most delicate hulk, I wouldn’t like it when I’m angry (or any other strong emotion for that matter)

I have also added kratom, turmeric, l-theanine, and quercetin, to my regular treatments. As well as getting a pill sorter so that I am more able to keep up with my otc antihistamines, long term antacids, vitamins, and supplements that help with my acute asthma, depression, anxiety, and MCAS. 

So this year my flare feels quite different, maybe it is the medicine, or maybe it is a coincidence, I don’t know.

This year there have been quite a lot more joint partial dislocation, or maybe I am just more aware of it happening. This year my brain fog has shifted from slower processing and confusion, to being extremely forgetful. I have difficulty building any short term memories, and seem to also have difficulty accessing longer term memories. I have incorporated tools, like my kindles and Evernote app, to help me reduce my frustration with my low level internal memory. 

My fatigue has also changed a bit, it’s less often that I get the sort of deep fatigue in which i feel like my body is going to dissolve, failing to maintain its form from lack of energy. Instead it is cold waves of fatigue that way me down and eat at my determination. I’ve learned that if i push in this state, I will end up in that first state. I try not to. 

My pain this year, even with pain control has gotten much higher, over all body pain, burning skin histamine reactions, subluxated joints, constant deep joint pain, and periodic headaches that nothing stops, all accumulate to a lot of painful misery. Pain so bad that my brain echolalias begging the universe to make it stop, that makes me cranky and impatient on the best of days. pain that seems to heighten my all ready finely tuned senses, until casual physical contact is painful. My clothes hurt me, my entire human interface has pain anywhere it interacts with this plane of existence, impossible to escape. 

Whether it is an individual symptom, or a part of the pain and fatigue, I don’t know for sure but  seemingly higher pain levels have resulted in a months long battle with deep immobilizing depression, despair, communication inability,  and intrusive thoughts. I am safe, but miserable, learning how to treat and stave that off so that it doesn’t swallow me whole. 

There are at least 2 more months until it warms up, possibly three depending on how this winter goes. I try not to be demoralized by that. I am feeling a little better for now. But in the winter, I can not count on that to last. The next illness, stressful life situation, storm, cold snap, or anything really, could have me sliding right back into flare land. 
But for now, I’m feeling a bit better. I am able to write a little. 

Today I am going to switch the rat babies to a larger cage and hopefully tomorrow I will have the strength to work on laundry sorting. One day at a time. One moment at a time if needs be. 

Thank you for bearing with me. i love you and appreciate you. 

Rest These Bones

Rest These Bones

​My heart feels like rotten potato salad. 

it’s leaking. weeping ichor

I know this is part of my flare cycle

all I can do is ride it out, remind myself that my brain is lying, that I am more than a useless burden (etc) 

If I try to push it, I will just end up back in the life eclipsing pain and fatigue flare. 

Back at the bottom of the lake 

with no energy to crawl out yet again

so I’m trying to ride it out, rest, and remind myself that I will probably get back to my higher ground. 

at some point

So as much as I want to make a to do list

and check things off

feel like I am catching up

Today I am going to rest as much as possible

catch up on some shows

remind my brain it’s lying

and hope tomorrow is a better day


My pain flares start in the base of my spine, in the secret spaces where my pelvis, hips, and spine meet. To many joints in one relatively small space I guess.

Then it spreads down my legs, through the muscle tissue there, to my knees, and also up over my mid back to my shoulders and neck. 

The next to be taken are my upper arms, wrists, ankles, and feet. 

My hands get weak and swell earlier but throb with pain last. My individual fingers and over all skin are usually the last part of my body to join the burning. 

A cold heat washes through my muscles in waves, feeling like the jolt of adrenaline you feel when you are scared or embarrassed, only instead of nervous energy, it only brings pain. At first it is only a faint, warm, wave and is one of the first signs of an impending flare beyond my daily pain. It inevitably grows with the flare until is a cold, hot, implacable wave of wet, muddy, fatigue dragging me down into the depths of myself. 

Eventually the burning pain and the cold, muddy, fatigue completely consume me, leaving me at best half conscious. Half conscious, incapable of moving, barely capable of thought, trapped in my experience of pain, looping. 

In this phase, it feels like the energy is being sucked out of me violently, like holding my cells together will become to much and that I might die from the fatigue. I am a cellphone with 3% battery left, struggling to even keep the screen on. 

You can’t die from fatigue can you? I try comforting myself…but it feels like I am dying so it drags on and on. 

With the fatigue comes an ever increasing weakness and lack of coordination, first i can’t open jars, and need my cane more often. As my body seems to slowly be transmorgifying to jello or gravy, I get more and more weak. I fall more often, typo more, eventually holding my device for more than a few moments or at all, becomes impossible. My hands are weak, swollen, and floppy, like two half dead fish. I can do nothing, only useing them to push away or possibly, together to flappily leverage things toward me. Mostly I lay impossibly still in the end, even when as conscious as possible during that time, watching tv and marshalling spoons for child care until my nesting partner gets home so that i can lay lost in fatigue, a Herculean effort. Impossible but achieved. 

My lungs get more and more reactive and weak right along with the rest of me. My lungs carry a burning, raw, stabbing pain, a thick congested wooly feeling, and a constant slight lack of oxygen. Inhalers, antihistamines, and nebulizers are constantly by my side, as easily accessible as possible.

The crying might be the worst part though, something going on in there changes my brain chemistry, with the flare comes despair, self loathing, disgust, abrupt surprise intense crying jags for “no reason” any time my body recoups enough to be capable of even making tears. In the depths of the flare I am often sobbing or even screaming internally…but entirely unable to move. My heart feels as if it is melting away, depression consumes me. 

“Did you have a nice nap?” I’m asked. 

 “no” I say, “that wasn’t a nap.” to brain fogged and fatigued to even explain what it really was. Relieved that for now at least, I can at least speak and move weakly, communicate with my family. 

Knowing full well that it will always be back. 

A Midwestern Ghost Story

A Midwestern Ghost Story

I am a ghost in this hospital. Everyone looks away, through me entirely, or shudders in disgust. The cold air wraps around around my spine, whispering sweet negativity. 

Hospitals make me uncomfortable. The same noticeably neurodivergent and obviously gender non-conforming or non passing traits that make me “weird”, awkward, and uncomfortable for random civilians, makes me automatically suspicious to many self proclaimed authority figures, usually including doctors and nurses. Their scowls and scrunched disapproving faces in turn make me feel more anxious and deeply, fundamentally, wrong. I pick, flap, flail, and vocalize nervously to cope, which makes me seem even more questionable, more suspect.  

I make myself as small as possible as I move through these halls, as unremarkable as possible. If given a choice between invisibility and open disgust I choose the former…not everyone is lucky enough to have a choice.

As an adult I have never had a doctor that didn’t obviously dislike me, not even the nerdy cis woman I talked to about Stargate Atlantis and Fringe for twenty minutes. I had thought that perhaps women doctors would be more receptive to my asking questions, to my me-ness, but that hasn’t proven true for me. 

My last GP gritted his teeth and sneered at me any time I asked a question about my own health care. The last time I saw him he “broke up with me” for irreconcilable differences. It was for the best undoubtedly. 

But how can I get good health care when my doctor loathes me? assumes I am drug seeking because my body language doesn’t meet their expectations? because I find eye contact with angry strangers nearly impossible? 

Well, I don’t, and I haven’t, to be totally honest. I just haven’t, and I am not the only one. IBPOC have an even steeper uphill battle to getting health care that actually helps them. They are fighting hundreds of years of dehumanizing and dismissive systemic racism, both generalized and specific to the field of medicine on top of judgement from any other marginalized aspects of their identity. Visibly disabled people, the mentally ill, immigrants, nonchristians, displaced people, those who are chemically dependent, among many others struggle with getting any health care, much less sufficient health care due specifically to the bias of health care providers. 

After a life time of bad experiences, even being in a hospital for visitation makes me feel alien and anxious, self doubting. It takes a moment to work up the bravery to speak to any of the employees. I’m always mildly shocked if they are actually helpful. 

This trip was surprisingly ok. Thank the fates for that little kindness. Next time I’m likely to not be that lucky, many of us in this country won’t be. 

Healcare should not be a privilege

living without chronic pain and illness should not be a privilege 

yet here we are in a world running, most harmfully, the way it was designed, and only really helping those who are both willing and able to play along in a deadly game.