In response to the bell ringing that kids these days aren’t resilient the way their parents were growing up in the Wild West of the seventies and eighties suburban American neighborhoods and schools: I call bullshit.
We weren’t that resilient.
Those of us growing up in the seventies and eighties were not tilling Victory gardens and whittling useful things out of sticks that we found on the ground. I know. I was there.
I can only speak to my own experience, and trigger warning, I’m not prone to nostalgia.
Yes, we played outside with the neighborhood kids until the streetlights came on.
It’s true we didn’t have iPhones. We weren’t texting or addicted to screens.
We didn’t expect our teachers to give us A’s.
We drank from the garden hose when we were thirsty.
And it got pretty Lord of the Flies out there in the neighborhood and schoolyards before the streetlights came…
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CW: This is not a fat shaming post. This is a Melissa health post, because i am perishing.
I slept all day today, and had nothing but nice travel dreams where i was traveling, by airplane, to the East Coast, and in the latest dream before waking up at 4 PM, i was traveling to Bloomington Indiana, a place i did once visit back in July 1983.
I so wish i still weighed at least 175 lbs again, with no leg problems, and could get another car and drive again—-and even fly places to go see my FB friends. I don’t need to be reed thin, just at least back down to between 175-200 pounds. That would get me back to a better place physically- functionality wise, to where i could do all of those things again. I know it would help the lymphedema in my legs too.
I want to repeat again: I am not fat shaming by saying what i am saying. My body is shutting down. I am shutting down. I can no longer function like i need and want to because i weight about 350 lbs now, and i have bad back, knee, and hip problems, as well as the lymphedema on both legs—-AND the huge lymphedema ROCK on the inside of my left thigh.
The lymhedema was caused by me not being able to sleep laying down anymore, but sleeping for 8 years, from 2004 to 2012, on a badly broken down living room sofa that bore into my left leg and thigh, especially. I would sleep sitting up, with my feet on the floor, which is bad for leg circulation.
In addition, i have always been, and sill am addicted to junk food to help keep me calm because of this hellish street i live on, stuck day in and day out, inside this house, because i never feel well enough to get in the shower so i can get out and about and get my hair colored anymore.
Having so few people actually care about me in real life—-(i do have my mom, one nice sister, Connie, and my Facebook friends, but no in real life local friends or family support other than my mom and one nice sister)—-has worn me, and my body completely down.
In addition—i have to endure day in and out, unbearable loud hot rodding and thunder bass noise right in front of my house on a street where the speed limit is 25 MPH.
I never get to go anywhere anymore because of my physical circumstances. It is even now hard for me to keep doctor’s appointments. It is getting harder and harder for me to even want to get out of my soft comfortable life chair anymore.
I am depressed all the time now, and don’t have the will to live anymore, so i am praying daily that either God lets me win the lottery so i can escape this toxic neighborhood, or for God to please take me—-because i cannot bear the way things are any longer.
I am an Autistic adult and i feel trapped with no way out of these circumstances.
One afternoon in April, i was upset, so i wrote a series of Vaguebook posts, and because i write when i am upset……and i mainly write to educate the general public about what it is like to be a middle aged adult who is Autistic so people will understand, get us, and accept us, i want to compile my vaguebooks all into a blog post.
What is it that helps flowers to blossom and bloom to all their glory? It is not yelling at them to grow already, and standing over them and forcing their peddles to unfold when they aren’t ready to unfold. And to be callous and cold with them. They need patience, actual warmth and affection, to be slowly and lovingly cultivated, and they need water, sunshine, and food.
For me, it is not being harsh and critical of me. And cold and callous. For me, i grow when i know i am truly accepted and when i am okay to be me. When it is okay for me to say “I am Autistic.” When i know my feelings, both happy and sad, and the ones that are painful too, are truly validated.
all you can do is just go to your room all the time
An important read, because being Disabled and / or Autistic is not wrong.
The deeper I go into autistic culture and autistic rights activism, the more I find myself pulled to align my goals, my activism, and my identity with the broader disability rights community.
There’s a social media campaign going on right now to #SayTheWord – it was started by Lawrence Carter-Long, the Public Affairs Manager for the National Council on Disability, and is an active Twitter hashtag. The word, of course, is disabled.
The importance of this campaign is driven home to me over and over again as I see people performing ludicrous and painful contortions to avoid saying it. Reminder that when I make a criticism the way well-meaning people interact with disability, I am not attacking the people (parenthetical reminder that I was immersed in ableism myself not long ago), but inviting people to think about things in a different way.
Instead of saying disabled, nice people say things…
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Don’t reduce me to the puzzle piece
you find ugly and malign
And the part of me your narrow
typical mind can condone.
The puzzle piece I find ugly is the
ubiquitous blue design,
Alex Spourdalakis’ and Katie
McCarron’s mass produced
From its azure knobs and corners
drips blood only we can see
And I am not a mysterious
conundrum or tragic riddle to be
Set fire to the bigoted texts written
about children like me
And know we grow into adults with
internalized bigotry unresolved.
I am dismissed as if eye contact with
danger didn’t fill me with dread.
You think your degree gives you the
right to decide my identity?
Not that nor a family member nor a
psych class puts you inside my head.
How many letters must follow my
name before you will listen to me?