I'm Not Okay. Took A Mental Health Day To Do My Part And Make Some Art About It. No Matter The Opposition,

growing up autistic / growing up gaslit

I.

this is the first lesson you learn: you are always wrong.

there is no electric hum buzzing through the air. there is no stinging bite to the sweetness of the mango. there is no bitter metallic tang to the water.

there is no cruelty in their laughter, no ambiguity in the instructions, no reason to be upset. there is no bitter aftertaste to your sweet tea, nothing scratchy about your blanket.

the lamps glow steadily. they do not falter.

II.

this is the second lesson you learn: you are never right.

you are childish, gullible, overly prone to tears. you are pedantic, combative, deliberately obtuse. you are lazy, unreliable, never on time.

you’re always making up excuses, rudely interrupting, stepping on people’s shoes. you’re always trying to get attention, never thinking about anyone else, selfish through and through.

it’s you that’s the problem. the lamps are fine.

III.

this is the third lesson you learn: you must always give in.

mother knows best. father knows best. doctor knows best. teacher knows best. this is the proper path. do not go astray.

listen to your elders, respect your betters, accept what’s given to you as your due. bow to the wisdom of experience, the education of the professional, the clarity of an external point of view.

what do you know about lamps, anyway?

how’s that house that raised you?

i’m proud of you for facing the days you really don’t want to face

they should invent something transformative and rewarding that happens inside my comfort zone

Everyone playing the "what kind of queer is MOST oppressed?" game is wasting their time on pointless bullshit, and, quite frankly, they're doing the feds' work for them.

Stand together or die together. They want to put us all in the same pit.

something about hanging plants on the wall

reaching for the light,

aching,

twisting to contort to expectations—

well—

what looks best for the living room?

yet these are plants, living, breathing,

wilting,

dying—

for the privilege of “looking good”

and

what is that bullshit standard anyways?

attractiveness? style? beauty?

white supremacy in action, again—

over a plant?!

but yes—

(most times it seems to be yes)

so instead, maybe—

what feels best for the plant?

what supports growth the most?

when is your willingness to look good

outweighing your ability to feel good?

when did you start pulling yourself away

from feeling the light

when that’s all you’ve ever wanted?

I wear the ring you gave me on the opposite hand

I get tattoos without you

but your memory haunts the ink

piercing

dark

it was a life lesson learned

a decision changed

a future imagined but scribbled out

I don’t think it was worth it,

actually

and I don’t think

you have any idea

how much you took from me—

no one does.

to admit that

is to ask

a harder question:

is

there

anything

left for me?

I promise you were not placed on this earth to try and shrink your body until you die.

does anyone know if you can get in trouble for feeling weird