Tag Archives: Autism

#Autism Positivity2015: Acceptance, Love, and Self-care

By Autistic Vegan

I’m a day late.  I guess that’s the point though, of self care.  I’m learning to not live my life according to other people’s standards.  Thankfully, the Autistic community, my community, accepts that, celebrates it even, so it’s ok to be a day late, and won’t be met with exasperation.  To me, acceptance is about doing things on my timeline, (which is generally slower than the norm).  It’s about doing things in my way.  Love.  Loving my unique perspective.  I often find my perspective varies from the crowd, is considered radical, and I’m getting better at expressing that varied opinion.  I’m recognizing that I’m not wrong just because my opinion is the minority.  I know she didn’t write the quote, by I first read this quote on Neurodivergent K’s blog, and I fell in love with it:

When the mob and the press and the whole world tell you to move, your job is to plant yourself like a tree beside the river of truth, and tell the whole world

“No, you move.”
 
So I’m learning to be more outspoken.  Self care.  Learning to take care of myself, my needs, my convictions.  That’s my autism positivity.  The gift the Autistic community has given me of recognizing and standing by your convictions regardless of the opinions of the majority, because the majority is often wrong.

Original Post:http://autisticvegan.blogspot.com/2015/05/autism-positivity-acceptance-love-and.html?m=1

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Because One Post Wasn’t Enough: Acceptance, Love and Self-care: #AutismPositivity2015

By Alexandra Forshaw

I fear my traitorous mind;
Prized asset, golden treasure
In which lurks a monster:
One I cannot hope to control.

Lying in wait it watches,
Senses when I am weak,
Releases its psychic poison
Infecting me with fear.

As I lie besieged by doubt,
Assailed by anxiety’s forces,
I begin to believe its lies:
That I am alone, unloved and broken.

All that I have, all that I am
Lies scattered: small trinkets
Dot the empty wasteland;
I lie in pieces in this desert.

Furnace heat of merciless sun
Makes the very air dance;
All else is stillness and silence.
Laid bare I cannot hide.

But…

In the midst of this ruin,
In the eye of the storm of fear
There is a mote, a tiny seed
Holding my essence in trust.

Though the ground is barren
Where the beast has raged
I plant this seed of hope,
Water it with my tears.

I spend the last of my strength
To protect and nurture this spark,
I give all of myself to it
And rise again, renewed.

The monster has vanished,
The burning sun become a fount
Out from which streams the warmth
Of healing love from friends.

The barren wastes turn green,
Meadows and woodlands host life
Amid which I sit at ease,
Healing in these peaceful arms.

Original Post: https://bjforshaw.wordpress.com/2015/05/16/because-one-post-wasnt-enough-acceptance-love-and-self-care-autismpositivity2015/

The Autism Positivity Project

The Autism Positivity Project

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Come Stim With Me (#AutismPositivity2015 Flashblog)

By Michael Scott Monje Jr

 #AutismPositivity2015I’ve been doing a lot of work lately, to keep everything flowing the way it needs to be and to ensure Autonomous Press launches with impeccable timing. Given that this year’s positivity flashblog is self-care themed, I figured no one would mind if I didn’t have a lot of words to be contributing.

So let’s do this with minimal speaking. Self-care means I’d like to invite you to come stim with me. Soak in the things I find to be calming. (But beware that the game these videos comes from has a photosensitivity warning.)
After working all week, this is what I have left for me:


Next, from my personal soundtrack for writing–this one is under “Mirror Project–Holly’s Theme”


From that same file, same book, “Lynn’s First Awakening”


Lynn waking up in an internet-accessible machine:


And Chapter 1’s real meaning:

Moving away from writing into pure being,


And you know I can’t do anything creative without referencing…



But before she dropped the money bag on the floor and died, she said “If you really love me, I’ll come back alive…”


So now that we’ve found a foundation…


And so the new folk movement brings us to this fusion:


And it wouldn’t be a moment inside my creativity without invoking something to remind us of the persistence of memory:


Take care of yourselves, and have a good evening. – Michael

Original Post: http://www.mmonjejr.com/2015/05/come-stim-with-me-autismpositivity2015.html

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Laughter is the all the things: Acceptance, Love and Self-care #AutismPositivity2015

By Bernice M. Olivas

Laughter is the all the things.

“There are perks to autism.”
My lunch companion is skeptical.
“Autism gives me time.”
They don’t understand and that’s okay because I’m happy to explain it.
“My sons are eight ten and they still hold my hand when I walk them to class. They don’t care what their friends think.”

Every parent I know laments the passage of time. They grow so fast, change so fast. They move out, move on. They go away at the tender ages of eleven or twelve; fourteen or fifteen if a parent is lucky. They go away—to their friends, their peers, their sports, their worlds where the parents are observers at best, interlopers at worst. They come back, eventually, and it’s beautiful. But they do leave us and we miss them. Autism brings with it the gift of time. They still grow, and change, go away, and come back but it all happens at softer, kinder pace. It’s languid, each step drawn out, every stage rich and full. My sons are eight and ten years olds and they still hold my hand.

They still play with me and play with my children, flappy, spinning, joyful laughter play, is self-love, self-care, and a gift.

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The Only Things I’m Positive About #AutismPositivity2015

By Kerima Çevik

#AutismPositivity2015My husband and I took a moment to watch our son asleep this morning. He was wrapped in a tangle of sheets, unwilling to release his firm grip on a tiny piece of plastic that looked to be a lego piece. His handsome face was peacefully inhaling and exhaling deeply and not quite snoring. His arm was up in a position that made it clear he did not so much drift off to sleep; rather, his body won the battle to rest and recuperate against his iron will to keep moving. Ever darkening peach fuzz above his lip does not detract from the innocence of our son’s face in sleep. These are the moments when I catch my breath and wonder how I was part of producing such a lovely human being. I have a difficult time understanding how people fail to see him as we do.

What a hellish year its been so far. So much we are trying to shield him from, so much hate, harm and pain. Surrounded by all the danger and uncertainty I was so sure our nation would outgrow, I can say the only things I feel positive about are that we love him, that autism is not an anthropomorphic demon “with” him, dogging his steps, waiting to trip him up, and that this will of iron he has had since infancy is actually becoming steel, forged in the  fire of these horrific adversities life keeps throwing in our paths. I’m positive I belong beside him, guarding his flank against the racist, ableist, ignorant, hateful and well intentioned enemies that stand between him and his rightful place in this world. I am positive he is not a burden. I am positive of his right to be part of any community he lives in.

Mustafa Bey

One of my favorite pictures of him reminds me he is growing up. People say he looks much older than 12. My giant younger brother was about this size at 12. Mu holds a resemblance to his paternal grandfather, a man who was tall and commanding, a maritime engineer. All those things about him
that intimidate the uneducated have never bothered me. I’m not sure why that is. I call him my Pan-Turkish American Pehlivan. I sing songs to him about John Henry and Kiziroğlu Mustafa Bey and tell him that those who were like him never gave up; they commanded respect and he should do the same. My concern continues to be that he should be allowed to participate in life as anyone would. Autism shouldn’t be something he’s “with”, like a vaudeville ventriloquist’s dummy in a suitcase that is carried with him, attached to an arm. Our son’s neurology is  a descriptor of who he is like any other adjective we use to try and define him.

He is American/Nonspeaking/Turkish/Hispanic/Black/Indigenous/Autistic/Obstinate/Charming. He is all that and yet more than the sum of all. He defies description.  He reflects and refracts each aspect of himself. That is who his is. Sometimes I see him pounding down the stairs they said he’d never climb without support or laughing, jumping wildly in the sunlight and laugh with the sheer joy he taught me to express fully.  I pity those who don’t see him as I do. Perhaps it is the same as gazing too long at the sun. Maybe they should learn to not look directly at him just as he, in deference to not seeing their souls’ secrets bared, does not look into their eyes. Realities can be overwhelming.

The hardest thing about being Mustafa’s mother is people around me projecting their own ableism on me and telling me how I should feel about him. I shouldn’t be happy because they wouldn’t be. I must accept that he is an unacceptably divergent son, because they cannot accept him. I must be near some breaking point because were they in my position they would be. They have no idea. They just assume they do. Their forcibly imposed conclusions are the most difficult thing to fight each day. The time consumed countering all that insistent negativity about nonspeaking autism could be better used just getting to know my budding teenaged son.

When a word or short sentence bubbles its way to his lips it is a sweet jewel because verbal speech is nearly impossible for him. I know. I’ve seen the scans of his brain. His voice, a deeper richer combination of a voice I inherited from my mother and her ancestors, the voice our daughter has in a slightly higher pitch, is heartbreakingly beautiful. If Mustafa ever sings it will be something to hear. But that doesn’t matter to me now. I just want him to be given the respect he deserves. He has inherited something I did not wish to give my children; I don’t mean an autism gene. I mean a legacy of being a marginalized human being in a negative world. Acceptance? Acceptance is not enough.

I am opening the eyes of my heart and telling the world, here is my beautiful neurodivergent son, my most precious gift to you.  You cannot simply accept him. Respect him. Allow him to be an equal member of society. Cease killing his peers and silencing them. As for loving him?

We have all love he needs.

Original Post: http://theautismwars.blogspot.ca/2015/05/the-only-things-im-positive-about.html

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“her S” Diary of a Mom: #AutismPositivity2015

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{Image is a photo of Brooke in our friend’s pool on Monday afternoon, just moments before the following conversation took place.} 

“When I was a baby, did you make me austistic?”

“No, sweetheart, God did that.”

“Why did God make me austistic?”

“I don’t know, love. He just did. I guess He knew that autism was part of the recipe of what would make you so awesome.”

“I’m glad I’m austistic.”

“Me too. Because I’m glad you’re you.”

~

The extra S is not a typo. This is how she says it. It is her identity. Her word. Her S.

This is an ongoing and currently oft-repeated conversation. There are slight variations to the script as she works her way through it bit by bit. Thankfully, there’s no hurry.

She often asks others if they are austistic too. I’m overwhelmingly grateful to have a life filled with people who say, or about whom we say, yes.

When she asked that question of our friend, J, our host at this gorgeous pool, she answered, “You know, Brooke, I’m not, but sometimes I wish I was so that I could remember things like you do.”

Best. Answer. Ever.

Her identity.

Her word.

Her S.

Original Post: https://adiaryofamom.wordpress.com/2014/08/13/her-s/

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Autistic Love: A contribution to this year’s Autism Positivity Flashblog #AutismPositivity2015

By Stims Stammers and Winks

The theme for this year’s Autism Positivity Flashblog is “Acceptance, Love and Self-Care”.

I would like to write an extended meditation on what the meaning of Autistic “Love” might be.

In the traditional set of meanings, love is something established by two people in mimicry of the love of the creator. Within the heteronormative couple form, love is about consistent reaction, attunement to the being of the other, locking eyes and arms in a supreme bond, love is supposed to be a dual connectivity, about sharing a feeling and a shared devotion.

The historical positioning of the Autistic as an idiot-savant countervails the supposed bicameral nature of the love chamber. Autism was originally defined as “morbid self-absorbtion” but it was defined as such during a time in which European thinkers had only recently hastily philosophically *created* the notion of independence and individuality, a concept that had not existed previously due to the overwhelming power of the family and the nation.

The suggestion of a self separate from the world is a very risky one. The self always incorporates representations of groups identified with, objects, details, pieces of imagery and devoted notions or ideas. “The self” if it is a thing, is perpetually porous, like a cell whose borders actively expand and contract, like the real borders of nations that cannot let everything in but also cannot let nothing in or out. The self operates by osmosis and by spilling out.

Autistic people are often defined by their interests. Indeed, the category of Autism has become popular because as a concept it allows people whose diagnosis implied (in our ableist society) that they could not have interests or enthusiasms, to have legitimated interests and enthusiasms. The savant model provided a basis for integration of psychiatrically and developmentally disabled people into society because of its claim that sometimes these “useless eaters” might have an interest or a desire, that could be useful to society. In short, twice-exceptionality and idiot-savantism as a sub-concepts within Autism integrated many mentally disabled people rediagnosed with Autism into able-society through suggesting that they could be “able” through their obsessions.

Autistic Love is two-staged: it is osmosis within the concept of the self and then it is doting concentration on the new self- limb.

Autistic love terrifies because it is a kind of monosexuality: it is looking into the loved as a section of the “I”. This is also why Autistic Love is fatal within a heteronormative ableist society: when another is incorporated into the self and becomes the subject of concentration for the various spasming fluids that make up that self, what is not happening is a connection to the greater socius that re-affirms that socius. Autistic love is regressive: it curdles the loved into the Autistic.

But Autistic love is also disruptive: the way we love, we offer all of ourselves to the other and therefore put ourselves at risk: we say everything and anything, we open our mouths and chatter until the truth comes out and we make our being with the other about expanding ourselves.

Autistic love is, in many ways, more about opening until nothing else can be opened.

Autistic love is a trusting love: it is an open love, when we can love you, we can tell you everything, often to our mutual detriment.

Autistic love is multi-hour obsession, it is from 9am until 3am, in repetition without stopping.

Sometimes, Autistic love is hard to read, other times it is overt: it is direct and it is not complicated.

Autistic love does not have to be through talking or nonverbal communication, it can be subtle.

Autistic love sometimes is between the self and a toy not a person, Autistic love does too much work and not enough listening.

Autistic love makes a habit out of the loved and refuses the capitalist flexibility demanded that would make love a small subsection, instead Autistic love takes on the form of the loved.

Original Post: http://stimstammersandwinks.blogspot.ca/2015/05/autistic-love-contribution-to-this.html

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