After doing a reading of a set of poems I'd written first as a journal entry and then decided I wanted to share, I received a lot of interest in this particular poem. A few people have asked if they could read it independently of myself. I'm just going to leave it here for anyone that wishes to read it; I assure you it's much better read aloud. Thank you so much for all of your love and support xx -- i’m falling in love with my therapist (hard) My mind is my home, he says. If I could control it, I’d have black marble countertops And an island in the kitchen. I’d wrap fairy lights gently around the white bannisters And hang pictures on every wall The windows would be open in any weather. I’d scrub it clean at least once a week I’d pay the rent on time and give the landlord Christmas gifts. You can’t control everything, he says, Which explains why I blame myself when something goes wrong. I apologise profusely when others damage my home.
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The Forgotten End of Autism
I spent last night in my room in peace. I went to bed around 11, watching a TV show and enjoying the silence of my house. My brother wasn't home for the first time in a while, and we were able to relax for a few hours. The night before, I went to bed at 11, frustrated as I'd just had an argument with my mum. We were both exhausted as, for the fifth time that day, we'd dealt with my 17-year-old brother having a meltdown over - I kid you not - the Teletubbies. There is no physical way to explain to someone who hasn't experienced autism what the emotional labour is like on a family. It challenges one beyond what they think they can cope with, because it forces us to take a look at life's fundamental question: what is the point? The issue I broach is one that is rarely expressed in mainstream media and politics - that autism is not and never has been one uniform block of distinction. The actuality is this: autistic people are no mor