An autistic survivor holds the ability to shred apart norms but often also holds fears of not being the correct voice
An autistic survivor of abuse seemingly stands on a pedestal about to fall into repression of feelings or being the needed honest one. An autistic survivor holds the ability to shred apart norms but often also holds fears of not being the correct voice. With our perceived awkwardness and the dismissals common to us, a person like me who has lived through abuse ponders what to do with the mess.
A TikTok of a speech by the activist Grace Tame came to me before I realized what I faced in high school was abuse. She described the brutality of sexual abuse from both a teacher and the systems we are told to trust. Whoever told us that reporting abuse could be a weight taken off? Tame spoke of one life being replaced with another, small to loud.
I knew reporting the verbal abuse of my teacher would not be handled with a quick response, helpful or dismissive. A school takes the complaint, carries it to the deans, then to the school board, and a teacher’s fate is decided. Some teachers in other parts of the country deal with this unfairly if they assign The Catcher in the Rye; I wish I had a teacher who would develop my possibilities instead of yelling at me from the dark auditorium seats during my dress rehearsal.
The constant chatter of the special interests that saved me peeked and then shuttled away
Autism waited on the bench as I suffered the abuse for those couple of months. The constant chatter of the special interests that saved me peeked and then shuttled away. Asking a girl in my English class if her wearing Crocs was ironic slipped into the “Awkward Laughter” file. The diagnosis was evaded until a year and a half later when the abuse resided in some incoherent alphabet soup in my history. It only mattered when I remembered why I sneak from friendships supposed to be crucial in my adolescence. But I guess that could now just be my autistic weirdness, right?
When the curious look into Tame’s story, her autism offers a new lens to her activism. She speaks at podiums, direct in her concerns. Sometimes, she jests at idiocy from sexists. I look at my hands quaking when sound and light zap at once. I think of my eyes that feel like clear nail polish drips onto them through every panic. I feel my throat and its hard work of pushing down much of what I could say. A body such as this can function like a debate between leaders, digging for clarity despite venom spewing.
Calling Grace Tame a “warrior” or a “voice” reads like a weighty refund. Yet this is where her control goes. A supporter such as myself watches on knowing choice. An autistic supporter such as myself knows that my hands, my eyes, and my throat have greater lives to them. They shake in overwhelm while the triggers in all forms run, but I realize my world is more than one patch of shaking. I love autism’s guidance towards my interests; I love its spark when it acts from fearlessness. Though I could never speak for Grace Tame’s attitudes towards what we share, she nails down autistic emboldening and how our traits act as a stance in some way.
I wish all sensory overloads were reminders of wideness being positive
Not speaking at protests or winning “… Of The Year” awards, I aim right now for more of myself. On days where I recall my abuse as that sixteen-year-old girl under the stage’s spotlight having tripped over one line, my words twist like rope to those unaware of where my mind has landed. I touch my thumb to each fingertip, a stim. I lose what I say because my popping heart requires more than my thoughts, a panic attack. Yet doom and overcoming are not the only two modes for a survivor. These ruminations arrive amid watching The Muppets once again, though never tainting it. They come when I send a text to a friend I finally have. Meet me on a sun-kissed street, I would say to the triggers. A stray cat rests on the nearby grass, children laugh at their chalk drawings, old friends jog. I wish all sensory overloads were reminders of wideness being positive.
The protest of pink-hatted women bleeds far from my office, where a client just yelled at me because a vet was not available at that time. No feminist slam poems here. So, I keep those women with me with chants about their survival. Triggers ranging from quick blame to a too-fast ceiling fan continue, and I have no power to shift these from happening. C-PTSD and autism form a committee through triggers, but I vote my role inside it. I force my scope to include Kermit singing “The Rainbow Connection” and baked potatoes as my lazy dinner. This is my world to widen.
A Grace Tame interview I just watched focused on her favorites of the moment, the music that shaped her and her future wedding dress, among other pleasures. Interviews for her can in fact go here now. Her eye contact flits when listing her dream mixtape. I recognize the wide eyes staring ahead, the lists of thousands speeding through one’s mind instead of just a fuming singular.
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