Monday, March 3, 2014

stand up for me


I'm not a little girl anymore
you cannot drag me on the floor
you cannot kick open the door
no, you can't hurt me anymore
and how dare you have the gall
to call me names yet still
when I'm already ill
whence I'm wounded by the lore
but what is it, at the core
which causes me to brood
which starves my brain of the food
it started long before
nearly at the beginning of my time on earth
my character was punched
and in a corner hunched
I sat there capped with a dunce
and told that I was bad
til it drove me raving mad
and I pseudo-fulfilled your prophecy
and I wandered oh so aimlessly
to prove
just who I really am
whence my right to be, was dismissed as sham
til I felt like a sham...
you shouted "how dare you ask
for a sandwich
how dare you be hungry
and have needs
to be fed, when you're bothering me so,
you don't have a right to have needs
not a right to be a child
not a right to ask please"
so I gave you my soul
til you threw me bread
or roses, if I was lucky
i'm was an exhausted marionette
even then
always saying "sorry"
for what I didn't do wrong
until what became my story
was a self-loathing spawn
whence I was told
I was so terrible
a bad egg
from a grand hen
til I felt just as rotten
and the rottenness spilt through me
as the milk that was spilt
was a heinous crime
til my heart was broken
so broken from the prime
when my sister left
when she ran away from home
to leave me in your hands
and the new brunt of your plans
to make a new cinderella hurt
to cover her in dried up dirt
after you built me up again
only to knock me down again
til my identity was very blurred
not knowing; am I good or bad?
my heart was tossed around in a frying pan
then from the frying pan, to the fire
whence it feels so incredibly dire
whence the background going unsaid
is of a million tears, that were now and then shed
but now, I've had enough
and my anger flows red
as I build my gate and attach a lock
as I vow now to truly
put up the block
that I so graciously ignored
when I tried to keep the peace
while continuing to hoard
whence the deepest pain was stored
and it was to be done away with
I can no longer live, with a myth
of unconditional love
when I know better
so I call on strength
from up above
to grant me the serenity
to set a long overdue boundary
that will finally set me free
and allow me to rebuild
for the hole in my heart to be filled
so I can stand up
for me

Rose Whitson-Guedes Au

Sunday, March 2, 2014

I'm an autistic woman, out of closet; and I feel persecuted.

I am an autistic savant, and I'm a woman. I'm feminine, and autistic. This apparently makes me evil.  This apparently makes me a woman with no feelings, to be feared, to be persecuted for the way I am. I am an artist, a writer, an activist, a friend. I'm considered a daredevil in todays' times; whence opening up to expose things not only I am dealing with as an autistic person, and as a person affected with complex health issues. I feel a sense of purpose in doing this; it is not for simple attention getting motives. I don't' know how much more clear I can make that, and yet still, what I'm doing tends to be seen in a perverted, or even just fearful light. I am a loving mother, and an autistic savant woman. I've opened up, "came out of the closet" and now; I often feel like a target in a Witch Hunt.
It was proven by my childhood footage that I am autistic. The more I learned about it, the more I knew what the truth was. So I sought out a thorough review, by an experienced neuro psychological professional. After careful examination, my truth was corroborated by scientific method. I was filled with a mix of joy, grief, and rage, to learn the truth I'd always known deep down in my soul.

I read at age 2. I lined up dolls, stuffies and cars too, but in eloquent configurations rather than plain lines. I played with them by design..and I did play too, in my own way. They were all part of a scripted scene, in a fantasy world I had derived from different books and movies I'd watch and read, but I mixed them all together and made it my own thing. This is still imagination, be it in a precedented, perseverating fashion.

I spoke in full sentences with cleverly mimicked tones, only to apply them in the correct context, in order to get my needs met. The neuropychologist watched these videos and noted this. I had mega sensory issues, and i still do. It made me quietly, girlishly curl up, and shut down... or shut out into my own world of fantasy. With unicorns, rainbows and friendly fairies that understood me. Yes, autistics can play pretend. Yes, autistics are creative.

I had meltdowns, when I was little they were subtle because my emotions were up in the sky, I could barely execute them until I was 7, then I started crying like a 2 year old. My mother would say "what happened to you, you were so perfect? now you're acting like a baby" one word: Pervasive Development.

I couldn't execute my emotions when I seemed stoic, and apparently "perfect. When nobody could tell whether I even liked my birthday gift, and behaved toward me as though they felt I was horrifically and unacceptably rude, as a result. How much of a Princess I must think I am; because I couldn't show my emotions so much, they were too overwhelming that they had to be blocked, hovering above my head. But I felt them. Very much so. I care very much about people, and would constantly express how I wanted to "give the people on the street gifts and food." So this is "no empathy??"

Sometimes I didn't know how to cry, because it hurt so much I had to block or freak out. My body would shut down on me, I would not be able to even go to the bathroom sometimes.
I was smart enough to stay hidden. I was smart enough to feel it wasn't safe to expose my troubles...or they'd get me. Somehow, I knew. At age two. At age two!!

I injured myself in the bathroom. In the bathroom and on the top field at school, when no one was looking, I bit my hands. I have scars to show for it. Some subtle, white flecks on my hands. When I really wanted to cry but felt blocked and couldn't, I'd stretch my eyelids open because all I wanted to do was cry! Even if it was induced by too much air irritating my eyeballs, i thought, perhaps...it could bring on a real cry and get this junk out of me!! It began to work. This is how the tantrums at age 7, started.

My intelligence masked my deficits. When I appear "scripted" and speak with my female voice and soft features, i'm seen as some sort of calculated little dark witch, rather than a human being. Because I'm hyper verbal; hyperlexic. Do they even know hyperlexia is a trait of high functioning autism, and autistic savant? Can they not understand an intelligent brain of different wiring trying to cope in a world inhospitable to them? Can they not commend, support, and have compassion; instead of judge and attack? One day maybe, one day...

I am persecuted because I can speak eloquently well, like some are with the math, words are the strength of many verbose autistics. There's a dictionary in our brain. All memorized, via savant working memory drawn upon by a special interest in the meaning of words. It doesn't mean we aren't' still socially different, and may miss certain nuances. Society doesn't understand this discrepancy at all.


I can mimic the scripts of how to use my voice tone....all the way to elaborate conversations. Yet my in person behaviour is childlike, girlish. I have gotten passed off as stupid, or frowned upon as if my behaviour and demeanour warrants I must not know what I'm talking about. Society cannot fathom this kind of discrepancy, either, clearly. More research needs to be done, and awareness propelled for people like me to get a fair chance.

I have an intellectual understanding of sociology, albeit not an inherent one....but it's strong despite. However, rather than a performance of effort, because I care to try... I can be seen as a criminal manipulator! Especially because of the way I can look and present, which as a woman, society pressured me to do, whence I took the cues and introspectively trained myself. I trained relentlessly throughout life, with many bumps, bruises and full blown falls along the way... until I was polished enough to not get hurt. Yet I still get hurt, now because apparently, I'm too polished yet internally struggling with being allowed to, and wanting to, just be ME.

Well, on top of being seen as a "witch" to be persecuted, I am actually pagan... so I guess this doesn't help. It's an earthy spirituality, and I respect all religions and nature. Ultimately, this isn't Salem. Ulimately, this isn't Medieval Europe. This is 2014. But they haven't changed it seems. They still jeer, heckle and bring forth the rope...but, they do it in a different way. In a way where they make you think you're doing it to yourself....


-Rose Whitson-Guedes Au

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Nowhere To Turn For Real Help


Ty Weightman was kept from the truth of having an Asperger Syndrome diagnosis at age 8. Even in the face of knowing today, it's an uphill battle to get any real help, as poor treatment and "mental illness" labels continue to upstage the truth; autistic reaction to poor treatments, inhospitable environment, and severe lack of understanding and compassion for any of it. Sadly, this is all too common, for most autistic people, to endure. Ty uses the word "persecuted." This is what many of us deal with, in a nutshell. Society and systems are dangerously un-evolved. Autistic persons are getting the brunt of the abuse, whence they develop mental health comorbids due to the above, and the real and right treatment is just not available or even made known. This causes debility and death on a daily basis, and it's just not necessary if people would open their eyes and their hearts! The closest we come to "help" at this time, is helping each other, to simply survive and keep at bay. It's not always possible whence chemical imbalance and neurological damage happens from the trauma. What can you do to help? Educate yourself. Get to know us. Understand who we really are. Have compassion, not judgement. What has happened to Ty and thousands of others can be prevented. It takes one person at a time, to share and learn. Share this story. Share this blog. If you or a family member have been victimized, please send me your testimonial story. 
Ty's Story:


In 2003, all hell broke loose in my life. I began to not sleep more and more, and started to act really irrational. I was always different, my entire life I was treated poorly for me being different. And I had "Freak-Outs" as my sister would discribe them throughout my life. My parents reactions to my "trantrums" as they discribed them would result in at times sever corporal punishment. Sometimes my sister would get into trouble trying to point out to my parents, that it is apparent that I do not act out on purpose, I just can't help myself.
 
I took off to Florida in 2004, the PTSD from my childhood, my parents harsh treatment in my differentness didn't help my condition. 19 days of insomia and mania, caused a roommate to call 911 on me, stating that she was in fear of her life and the life's of people around me. Which is kinda funny cause anyone who knows me knows I am not a violent person. But the police showed up and I was taken away inpatient to Winter Haven Mental Instutution.
 
In 2005, I came back to Washington State.
 
I've been since diagnosed with several Mental Illnesses (Bipolar Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, Social Anxiety Disorder, Over Compulsive Disorder)(Bulimia), ADHD, and about 5 years ago my sister told me that when I was younger, I was diagnosed as Asperger's. She said it in anger because I had a "Freak-out". She has since appologized to me, she told me that is was wrong for her to tell me like that, but it wasn't doing me any favors by keeping it a secret from me. My parents knew, they were told when I was 7 or 8 years old. I always felt there was a secret that they were in on, but I had no clue in the matter as to what it was. Things just has always been different for me. I didn't understand people, especially my peers. It seemed to me they enjoyed bulleying me. My sister always seemed to be on my side, she had never been really mean to me, she always tried to include me in her life.
 
I was persecuted a lot for not maintaining eye-contact with people, especially from my parents. I never quite understood, why this was such a big deal. I lost focus a lot, another one of my parents Pet-Peves with me.
 
I can't be online for very long, because I resently been put on suicide watch. A few days ago I placed myself in my car and closed the garage door. I just wanted the pain to go away. A fellow UU, sent me your link and told me to watch, read, and write you. I nearly didn't make it to my 39th birthday which is March 14th. I hope I will be able to go home soon. But right now I am not suppose to be on the PC. So I am writing this really late at night, my roommate has privilages, so I can sneak the PC late/early morning. I am really not well, but am fearful to talk to my counselor honestly because I want to go home. If I don't "play" by societies rules, they won't let me go home.

-Ty Weightman




I

Worse Than Hate

Thinking a bit about hate and discrimination and such... You know, hate is generally a misnomer. One hates things and people that have presented specific noxious experiences, such as bad Brussels sprouts, or the G.P. who convinced the psychiatrist to blacklist you, but it is impossible to hate someone with whom you have essentially had no personal interaction of any kind whatsoever. There is a negative emotion there that prompts a person to do things that are wrong to others, sometimes things that are outright evil, but it isn't hate, and in fact, to call it hate would be to ennoble and dignify it beyond what it deserves. That which is most often referred to as hatred is generally not actually hatred, but horrifically misdirected frustration, if not simple fear of what one knows very little about. It is interesting to note that where hatred seems most deeply rooted and sincere, the one that appears to hate has very little power indeed over his or her own life circumstances, in fact, hardly more than the group that they themselves oppress. Understandably frustrated by being deprived of resources, and means of obtaining the resources, they are unable to see the mechanism by which they and the group whom they oppress are both being deprived of what they have earned and what is theirs by human birthright, too. Unable to see who owns the arm that strikes them and shakes them down for what profit can be obtained from them, all they can do is feel the slap, over and over again. The sole consolation they are given is to have someone to blame, not the same tiny collection of individuals actually responsible for creating a situation capable of choking the life even out of those best equipped and determined to endure it, but someone who has been made small enough to tear to pieces, which they proceed to do. The pleasure gained this way is animalistic, and clearly serves as an outlet for much adrenalin and stress caused by the buildup of an otherwise useless flight-or-fight instinct. It even provides the instinctive reward of having gone hunting, painfully and graphically illustrated by the results of some examples of this, namely other human beings literally torn limb from limb, and savaged even long after the point where life was mercifully extinct, as if a meal could be made of the victim. In a confused haze, with the glow of satisfied instincts still lingering, what follows could be mistaken for relief and fulfillment, except that neither of these things has been provided in reality. By having deprived someone of the pleasures of living life, they have not extended their own, nor have they enriched themselves much beyond the conceivable proceeds of robbery. The circumstances that fuelled their frustration will remain unchanged, and will give rise to more of the same. Furthermore, this diabolically brutal and effective means of distracting a group that is poor by allowing it to be slightly privileged over another group that is also poor has the bonus of distracting two sets of the chronically swindled and cheated at the same time, since it is as hard to think clearly and abstractly about resisting wrongs when one is in terror and chronic fear for one's own life to a certain extent as it is when one is allowed to imagine that one already has freedom and power over one's life and the effective means of defending oneself from exploitation. It seems to be a deceptive strategy with an indefinite shelf life. What is clearly a certainty in any case is the likelihood that somewhere, someone is giggling maliciously over what 
goes on below.

-Tanja Guven