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istgimamess · 4 years

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“I don’t see him.” the young scientist voices; he’s a skinny thing—tall and lanky—with the demeanor of an excitable child. You follow the flick of his curious eyes over your shoulder, your gaze automatically meeting Kai’s through the glass. He’s well hidden—his gold and green complexion, the green leaves growing out of his shoulders, wrapping delicately around his arms and torso, the roots wrapped around his ankles, the dirt on his cheek—he blends into the dome around him, almost invisible to the human eye. If it weren’t for his laser-like focus on you, his golden irises catching in the light, you might’ve had a harder time locating him.

You clear your throat, breaking eye contact as quickly as you made it, “He’s there.” You open your mouth—ready to get this over with—when another voice cuts through, “I see him! Look, he’s right there.” the girl reaches forward, as if to touch the glass. Murmurs of shock and barely concealed excitement fill the tiny room and, suddenly, you’ve got a migraine.

“Woah! He’s an alien.” a much shorter, rounder intern exclaims.

“Kai—” you cut short, silently reprimanding yourself for the slip of tongue, “Subject K is a unique case, he’s not foreign to this planet. He was once human.”

“He was human?” the same intern questions, incredulously.

“Did you not read the case files you were presented with before todays introduction?” you can’t help but snap in reply, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. You’re a scientist, not a babysitter, and definitely not a teacher. How and why did you get stuck doing this? You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“Can he...hear us?” a quiet voice pulls you out of your thoughts, cutting through the building frustration. And suddenly you feel ashamed. You’re not typically a cold person; you were once a young, fresh graduate—a wet behind the ears intern—just like them. Over-excited, curious and unintentionally dumb at times. You take a deep breath, center yourself, before shaking your head. “The room is soundproof, military glass, but he can see you.”

“What if he gets out? What if he hurts someone?” the same meek voice questions. You can now see the owner. It’s a girl, she’s shorter than you, thin and obviously very nervous. Sweat gathers at the top of her lip.

“There is no reason to be scared. Subject K is a product of an experiment gone wrong.” you interject, hoping to calm the young girls nerves. “He who creates a poison, also has the cure. He who creates a virus, also has the antidote. He who creates chaos, also has the ability to create peace. Any problems created by the left hand of man, can also be solved with the right.” you trail off, finding yourself quoting your late professor—a magnificent scientist, a man you look up to.

“I don’t understand?” her tall, lanky companion stares at you, his head cocked to the right.

“For he who manifests anything, also has the ability to destroy it.” you whisper, suddenly overwhelmed with the meaning behind what your late professor was saying. You didn’t really understand it at the time, but now you do. “Is that what you’ll do? Destroy him?” a smaller male questions, taking a step forward towards the glass. And you suddenly feel extremely nauseous. The idea of anyone, your boss, the government, ordering the termination—the extermination—of Kai...

You shake your head in an attempt to abort the train of thought, heat gathering behind your eyes. “I don’t...I don’t know.” you croak, your throat burns.

“Anyways, shall we begin?” gripping the clipboard in your hands, you gesture to a series of X-rays directly opposite the viewing window. “The gut is the seat of all feeling. Polluting the gut not only cripples your immune system, but also destroys your sense of empathy, the ability to identify with other humans.” you keep your eyes steady on the group of interns you are speaking to—despite the consistent itch of Kai’s eyes lingering on your skin. “Bad bacteria in the gut creates neurological issues. For instance, through a series of tests, we’ve found that autism can be cured by detoxifying the bellies of young children.”

“Wait, so you’re saying that people who think that feelings come from the heart are wrong?” the shorter girl questions from the back of the room, her initial nerves completely forgotten about. There is a pause in writing, the sound of pen on paper dissipating.

“I’m saying that it’s scientifically proven that the gut is where you feel the loss of a loved one first. It's where you feel pain and a heavy bulk of your emotions. It's the central base of your entire immune system. If your gut is loaded with negative bacteria, it affects your mind. Yes, your heart is the seat of your conscience. But if your mind is corrupted, it affects your conscience all the same.” your voice is steady, almost monotone. The subject at hand coming second nature to you. In hindsight, this is probably why you were picked—you could teach this in your sleep.

“Think of the Solar system; the heart is the Sun. The gut is the Moon. The pineal gland is Neptune, and your brain and nervous system—your 5 senses—are Mercury. What affects the moon or sun affects the entire universe within. So, if you poison the gut—” you trail off, eyes connecting with Kai’s once again. “—it affects your entire nervous system, your sense of reasoning, your senses altogether. Which is what you can see clearly here with Subject K.” you gesture briefly to Kai, flicking your wrist in his direction and dropping your eyes away from his intense gaze.

“But I don’t understand the manifestation of that bacteria. Flowers? Plants? Vines? In the human body? Growing out of the nervous system? What did they do to him? What kind of experiment was this? Does it hurt him?” the taller intern balks, confusion written all over his face.

“You don’t have the clearance for the answers to half of those questions.” you reply, brazenly. Your eyes can’t help but fall down to Kai’s legs—the vines rooted into his skin—grown from the inside out. Dried blood and dirt caked to his shins, his shoulders.

“There are people who are destined to taste only the poison in things, any surprise is a painful surprise and any experience a new occasion for torture.” you clench your jaw, the same heat behind your eyes reappearing. “If someone were to say to me that such suffering has subjective reasons, related to the individual's particular makeup, I would then ask is there an objective criterion for evaluating suffering?” You look back at the group of interns, making eye contact with each one. “Who can say with precision that Subject K suffers more than you or I do? There is no objective standard because suffering cannot be measured according to the external stimulation or local irritation of the organism, but only as it is felt and reflected in consciousness.” It’s textbook and the science driven part of your brain can rationalize and justify any pain he might feel—for the better of humankind. However, your heart says other wise. The empathetic, emotion driven part of your brain can’t help but plead for lack of pain. For mercy. Your nausea returns.

It isn’t until the last intern has left the room, closing the door softly behind him, that you allow yourself to outwardly reflect what you are feeling inside: exhaustion, defeat, fear.

You curl into yourself, shoulders dropping, head hanging low; for a moment you forget who you are, where you’re at, who is watching you. A sigh escapes your lips before you’re even aware of what you’re doing. Coming back into yourself, you straighten. Your eyes trail back to Kai nervously, heart still thumping erratically in your chest. His golden eyes somehow look darker. As if he could truly hear you—no, it’s soundproof glass, there’s no way. You shake your head once again, trying to rid yourself of any doubts and turn to exit the room.

“You are not coming in today?” his voice carries, a low baritone, as if he was right there beside you. You freeze. Slowly turning around, your wide eyes catch his. “No, I won’t.” your eyes trail back to the door, your nerves picking up at the thought of someone walking by and hearing your conversation; a conversation you weren’t supposed to participate in.

“Why? You always come in.” he takes a step forward, the part of his body once hidden in plain sight coming into full view. You instinctively take a step back, your body reacting as if there is no glass separating you.

“You know why...last time...last time you touched me. You’re not supposed to do that. You… you whispered things in my ear, things I never would’ve expected to affect me the way they did.” you suddenly find yourself exasperated. “You’re a walking, talking ecosystem and yet I’m the one like a leaf fluttering in the wind—when you zig, I zag. You talk and I jump. You walk and I turn into a blithering idiot. I admit it, when I find myself near you…” you didn’t have the courage to finish the sentence. You weren’t suppose to talk to him, to let him touch you. You couldn’t let yourself get attached, and yet here you were. With a sudden lump in your throat, you added: “I don’t want to hope, and I certainly don’t want to delude myself. Damn it, the thought of deluding myself terrifies me!”

“I think I know what your problem is.” he was right in front of the glass now, the palm of his hand pressed up against it. His eyes radiating life, his expression incredibly deprived—like he was the plant and you were the water he so desperately needed. Just out of reach. “And what would that be?” you swallow at the sudden proximity, you hadn’t seen him approach so swiftly. He offered a sly smile, his golden eyes piercing you in place. “You’re hopelessly in love with me.”

“Absolutely not.” you disagree wholeheartedly, a part of you panicked at the thought, “If anything, you’re the one in love with me!” You don’t know why you say it, maybe to try and one-up him. Kai has never shown any direct interest in you personally, other than that one time—if anything he seems quite indifferent around you. His foreign stare following you closely around the room when you’re working.

“I am.” his confession almost knocks you off your feet, he spoke like it was obvious. “You've driven me crazy. You've caused me considerable trouble and I've contemplated ending your life twice since I've known you." his warm breath hits the glass, sending a shiver down your spine. The danger behind his words, the implication, sends your heart straight into your throat. “But you’ve slipped under my skin, invaded my blood and seized my heart.” “That sounds more like a poison than a person,” was all you could say. His words had both shocked and scared you. “Exactly,” he replied, as if it was apparent. “You have poisoned me.” 🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿🌿

This has been sitting in my drafts for the past 7 months, and I don’t even remember why and for who I was writing this for! I’m like 93% positive this was a request, in which case I AM SOOOO SORRY OMFG I’M A CRAP PERSON! SHAME ON MY FAMILY, SHAME ON MY COW!! PLEASE FORGIVE ME WHOEVER REQUESTED THIS!!! GOD, I SUCK!!

#also I’m so sorry this is kinda crap #like my moodboards are satisfactory but wow #all these commas and run on sentences #and the overall plot wtf bro #lmfaoooo yikes #drabble #moodboard #exo #exo kai #exo jongin #kim jongin #kim kai #exo drabble #exo moodboard #jongin #kai #once again if you’re the one who wanted this from me...#have mercy

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doctorstrangeaskblog · 5 years

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One thing I’ve noticed about haters is that they basically dedicate a lot of time just to spread hate, making their target’s fans sad, they often want to impose their opinion, they often misinterpret the facts, make up facts or even exaggerate on interpretation of facts, and that’s not the problem, the problem is that they want to IMPOSE their thought on people, prevent them from having fun with what they like, as if the whole world had to hate what they hate, and this is wrong, because it attacks the other’s right to like something. People have the right to hate stuff, but they cannot harm anyone else’s right with their actions (and arguments), because that way we fall into intolerance, and not just racism, sexism or homophobia, but also social exclusion against personal tastes and opinions. They also sort of invade spaces that were supposed to be fun, such as tags on Tumblr and other social media with hateful, negative and even fake posts. A good example was people blaming Benedict for Doctor Strange whitewashing, while the character in question was the Ancient One and not Stephen per se, and then they start the “Doctor Strange should be Asian” movement, with so much superficiality, because we know we can’t just change the characters’ nationality and be like “see? We’re inclusive”, because that’s just so lame. People who suffer with exclusion feel every day the problem can’t be solved with simple replacement, but with the development of good, well built characters, good stories, with cultural inclusion and all the focus the character deserves, etc. Anyway, it’s not a simple matter, and suddenly haters were blaming the entire racism of the cinema on Benedict (?) while the guy has a big importance when it comes to inclusion, donations, charity, pacifism and a lot of relevant points I won’t list here because just google it.

Anyway, haters end up carrying misinformed people into hating people who actually are doing good things out there, with great projects and charity initiatives etc. (Keanu, Capaldi, Benedict, Hiddleston...). Also, whenever a hater comes to discuss about why the person or character you admire is the worst being in the world, they often get aggressive when you start pointing out logical arguments, they end up getting emotional and coming for the personal side and forcing some interpretations (example, a lot of doctors, actors, psychologists etc. study objects, animals and people so they can work and improve their profession, like, doctors study people with disabilities, from incapacitating ones to very light ones so they can understand the matter and work more efficiently, etc, I’ve seen people turn Benedict into a monster for observing people with autism, because he more than once had to play a role in which the character had autism. If we think about it and keep acting with such hateful attitude, we’ll end up agreeing with censorship, and autistic people wouldn’t either be characters in movies or we wouldn’t get actors working on such roles, meaning the characterization would be way more limited etc. anyway, it would be bad for culture and critique in general, there would be less representation, because even if autistic authors were called, it would make it harder in occasions where that wouldn’t be possible, movies would end up exploring that subject less, etc.), this was an example, but project this into wider areas of cinema and society in general, using your personal opinion to judge people and consider them the ultimate evil, to want to make the whole world hate that person and harming anyone who disagrees with the haters, that’s really bad!

I used some haters speech about Benedict as examples here because that’s what I’ve seen (and been attacked with) the most, because my blog is a Doctor Strange blog, anyway, but I’m talking about all the kind of haters. But understand a thing, being a hater is not the same as disliking something! Everyone has the right to dislike stuff, and people normally just stop there. People dislike something, people avoid that thing, if asked, they say they don’t like it and that’s it! People normally don’t spend hours making toxic posts about what they hate or spend hours arguing with strangers about how they should hate something! People tend to spend their time with things they like (or things they have to do), so if a hater comes to you and keeps babbling, just say you’re not interested or ignore or end the conversation, because normally these people aren’t well intentioned! Haters normally can’t be convinced, there will ALWAYS be a reason to justify their hating, while the truth probably is that they identified with a group and feel important there. Also, haters tend to spread high expectations about people, and that’s just toxic, we can’t judge someone’s entire life by something they said or did, people commit mistakes and that’s why LAW exists, if someone commits a crime, it’s up to the system to judge them, not people! When people assume that role and start writing stuff, a lot of fake news come out, and a lot of people actually believe it, and everything becomes a big hate toxic ball that hurts tons of people who had nothing to do with anything.

We do have to criticize actions we consider evil or wrong, as well as we have to think about society and about cinema and racism etc. but we can do that with logical conversation, checking the facts in sources we can trust, we don’t have to become haters and hurt others to defend what we believe and trust every tabloid website in order to sustain our arguments, and I’m not even talking about extreme things such as racism and homophobia, I’m talking about something way more “silly” and superficial such as fandom hating, celebrity hating, ship hating etc.

To point out how it’s not normal to be a hater, let’s imagine a situation: there’s an actress or singer (etc) you like who said something really bad on TV, live, everyone saw and it’s impossible to claim it’s fake. You kind of used to like that person’s content before, but what she said really let you down, you don’t like her anymore and you’re sad. What’s your natural reaction? The reaction most people would have? Well, unfollow that person, stop reading their posts, stop listening to their music, stop recommending that person to friends, stop buying their stuff and little by little, that person would have a smaller and smaller space in your life, until you simply forget about that celebrity (they become irrelevant to you), you just avoid their stuff, you don’t even notice them anymore, you have other interests now and that’s it, things barely changed for you, you’re just indifferent. Now, what does a hater does? They create a page (or fill their social page) of stuff with hate against their target, they spend hours reading about how terrible that person is, they talk to that person’s fans to tell them they have to stop liking that celebrity, they invade all the tags of series, songs, movies (anything) the celebrity is in and spam it with negative things, such as “it’s a terrible singer” or “they should have cast another actor”, anyway, anything really negative that would induce the fans to either quit having fun or start hating the celebrity as well, and that’s just soooo sad and toxic, because spamming a safe, fun environment like that can be considered imposing and even aggressive depending of the content they’re posting, that’s why social media websites often ban accounts that spam tags or other users.

Anyway, haters who spread fake news or aggressive thoughts or accusations often forget they actually could be sued by the celebrity/singer/actor/writer they’re hating on, that’s where personal opinion differs from being a little authoritarian offensive aggressive person. I can totally say “I don’t like that singer because they did X” or because “their song is bad” or “I don’t like their style”, however, we cannot accuse people of stuff they didn’t do, things they didn’t say or even write they thought something or said something they didn’t, because then we’re invading their space, and they have the legal argument to sue you. Normally celebrities don’t lose their time suing small silly haters on social media, however, if a hater writes something offensive about them, including false accusations, they totally CAN sue the hater, or report them so their account gets closed anyway. Haters often forget that some of their actions are criminal, cyber bullying is crime, false accusations and humiliations can be interpreted as injury, and that can be serious, specially if the person being offended is going a hard phase or suffers from psychiatric disorders, the consequences could be way worse for who’s suffering the stalking.

Something that’s very common is Benedict haters taking pics of him and making photoshops making fun of his appearance (they FIND) and making fun of his name. Benedict kind of seems to be okay with that during interviews, considering a lot of his fans also do that, but still, imagine people taking pics of you, making an offensive edit and spreading it in the tags about you or tags about the things you do and like, HOLY CRAP THAT WOULD BE HELL, I WOULD HATE THAT! I WOULD SUE! And not only the celebrity has to endure that as well as all the fans have to scroll past the sooo many hateful posts which are contributing to NOTHING at all. The only ones happy with all that are the little noisy hater communities, who keep spreading all the offensive things, being rude to people and satisfying their ego, because they often feel way superior to the people they hate (and the fans, and anyone else because they feel they have the right to impose their thoughts). Hate tags do exist, and fans normally won’t visit them because they don’t want to read hate, but even so, haters get expansive and spread all their hate to healthy tags as well, and that becomes toxic. That’s why hate posts and spams are really close in many Guidelines of social media, and such posts CAN BE REPORTED, because they kind of break the “behave online, respect people and don’t harm other people” guideline.

In conclusion, if you’re a victim of a hater(s), don’t quit what you like, just report and block the haters. If it turns into stalking, keep reporting, call the police if you feel threatened, cyber bullying is CRIME, and spamming people is considered a bad attitude on most social media. Preserve your well being! Don’t lose your time discussing with fanatic haters, they won’t listen to you. (If someone hates an actor/singer etc. because they are misinformed, they tend to be like “really? I didn’t know it was a lie. I’ll check it out” when you first tell them /or comment on how the information they’re sharing is fake. Misinformed people normally don’t want to impose their thought, normally they’re just confused or lost, and most of them won’t attack you).

If you’re a hater, please, stop that and if you feel you need, go search psychiatric help, because what you’re doing probably is hurting someone, and hate doesn’t make good at all, not to you, not to anyone. You’re free to have your personal group where you hate on stuff together, of course, but try to be careful to not hurt people or to be toxic to others. Some stuff you hate mean the world to other people, so respect their view just like they respect yours.

Just reminding this text isn’t about extreme things such as racism, homophobia, sexism etc. this text isn’t about that. (Wanting to kill someone because of their gender or color isn’t accepted in our society, it’s crime, and I’m not talking about this here.).

That’s it. Stay away from haters, they will try to make you feel bad for not listening to them , they will accuse you of being authoritarian for blocking them, but no, you don’t have to listen to them, you don’t have to spend you time listening to their hate, you have the right to preserve yourself and ignore them, that’s why the function “block and report” exist and you have the right to use them.

#about haters #doctor strange #benedict cumberbatch #benedict #movies

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aro-ace-andi-mack · 5 years

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I wrote a fic based off of this post. Jonah Beck is autistic, don't even try to change my mind.

This is also based off my own story of self-diagnosis, which is 100% valid, especially since there are many barriers to getting an official diagnosis (money, fear of discrimination, etc). It felt like Jonah would likely go through a similar experience based on his circumstances.

I already posted this on my main @regrettable-username, but since this is officially my AM sideblog I figured it belonged here. It’s just a short oneshot, and it’s also attached below the break on this post if you want to read it that way!

“Hey, Cyrus, wait up a sec!”

Cyrus turned around to see who was calling out. Rushing out behind him was Jonah Beck, who didn’t even bother to zip up his backpack when the final bell rang. Cyrus reached down to pick up a paper that had fallen out.

“Thanks,” Jonah said out of breath, taking the paper from him. “My head just isn’t really in the right place today.”

“Are you okay?” Cyrus asked. He noticed that the last few days Jonah hadn’t been talking as much when they all hung out as a group, and he seemed to be fidgeting a lot more too.

“Actually, can we talk?” Jonah responded. “Not here?"

“Yeah, of course,” Cyrus said. “The Spoon? I have some allowance left for this week, and we can split some baby taters.”

“I’m not that hungry right now. Wanna just walk around for a bit?”

So the two of them headed down the sidewalk, vaguely in the direction of their houses, but in no particular rush. It took a minute before Jonah said anything.

“Cyrus, you know a lot about psychology and stuff. Have you ever heard anything about…self diagnosis?” Jonah asked quietly.

“Um, I guess it depends on the particular case. But my parents are professionals, so I only know about what’s in the DSM.”

“You can actually access the DSM online for free,” Jonah said. “But it’s sort of difficult to understand. And all the other websites, I don’t know, I was just always told that you shouldn’t believe something unless an expert told you about it.”

Cyrus stopped on the sidewalk, turning to face his friend.

“Jonah, what’s going on?”

Jonah suddenly shifted his eyes to the ground. There was a long pause, and he took a few deep breaths.

“I think I’m…autistic.”

Jonah quickly started walking again. Cyrus stayed for a moment to let the information sink in, then ran after his friend.

“Wait! Jonah!” Cyrus called, until he caught up to him.

“Jonah, I just need more information,” Cyrus said. “Why do you think you’re autistic?”

“I don’t—just, right now, I’ve been looking at this for a while. Ever since my panic attack at your shiva, I started looking things up. I wanted to know why I was having them and how to stop them from getting worse. And when I was looking through everything, I found this Youtube video about autism. I don’t know why I clicked it, but I did. And everything lined up. I like repetition. I’m a picky eater. I always feel like I’m mimicking people. I’m better texting than I am at talking. The first time I met Andi, I wouldn’t even have recognized her if she wasn’t wearing her duct tape shoes. Apparently that's face-blindness. And whenever I’m in any kind of social situation, I have no idea what I’m doing,” Jonah said, his voice getting tired.

“Really? But you’re Jonah Beck, you’re one of the coolest guys in the entire school,” Cyrus said.

“I am Jonah Beck, but everything that I say to people feels like a different version of me. And I make up all these scripts in my head without even realizing it. And even though I know tons of people, and I can have conversations with tons of people, you guys are the first real friends I’ve had since elementary school,” Jonah said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to doubt you,” Cyrus said.

“It’s okay. I’ve been doubting myself a lot the past few weeks,” Jonah replied.

“Is there anything else I should know about?”

“I think I might have some sensory issues. I know those are a common trait in autistic people, but I can’t think of anything specific for me. Except maybe the food thing. I was so overwhelmed when I saw that table at your shiva,” Jonah said.

“Taste is a sense. Or maybe it’s texture and smell too.”

“I just wish it was more exact. Like, I know it’s supposed to be a spectrum, but I feel like a fraud admitting this to you. And yet, it feels right.” Cyrus nodded. “That’s okay,” he said, “you don’t need to have it all figured out. Have you looked into getting a diagnosis?”

“I want to, more than anything. Even if I don’t have autism I have something. I want to know what it is. And I want to get help with my panic attacks. But I can’t afford it,” Jonah said.

“Do you have health insurance? I can see if my parents cover it.”

“No! If you tell them, then they’ll just talk to my parents about it. Even if we can afford a diagnosis, we can’t afford any therapy. I don’t want them to worry about me, they have enough to worry about,” Jonah said.

“Alright. This is your thing, and I believe you. Just let me know what I can do,” Cyrus said.

“Thanks, Cyrus,” Jonah replied. “You’re a great friend.”

Jonah pulled Cyrus into a bro hug, but Cyrus quickly pulled back.

“Wait, I know some autistic people don’t like to be touched. Is this okay?”

“Cyrus, if I initiate something, it’s fine. But thanks for asking,” Jonah said, smiling.

“Just making sure,” Cyrus said. “Wait, where are we?” Looking around, there were only the same rows of houses that all looked like each other, and the street names didn’t seem familiar at all.

“We got distracted and walked too far, didn’t we?” Jonah asked, already knowing the answer.

“Looks like it. Are you any good with directions?” Cyrus asked.

“Nope.”

"Guess we’ll figure it out as we go along,” Cyrus said.

Jonah smiled. Cyrus was right. As they started walking back, there was only one emotion running through Jonah’s head: relief. He may not know where he was headed, but for once in his life he knew enough about himself to feel grounded. And that was all he ever really wanted.

#andi mack #jonah beck #autistic jonah beck #cyrus goodman

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silver-spider-art · 6 years

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Okay... so I had horrible writer's block and couldn’t work on the other projects I had going so I decided to make this self-indulgent AU that no one asked for. All because I had a really good idea for Rhys and the other story is a Tim story. I’m going to actually try and finish the whole thing before posting it to AO3 for once, but I thought I’d put a teaser up? Maybe if someone is interested in being a sounding block for ideas hmu. I love talking this stuff out with fellow fans. ^^;;

It's going to be a modern AU (slightly future tech), domestic, assassins/spies, transgender coming out story, autistic characters (POV who doesn’t know he’s autistic yet), fake marriage, pinning, slow burn, awkward flirting, secrets and betrayals, faked deaths, misunderstanding... basically just all the shit I love combined with a stupidly personal exploration of my own identity issues. I’m by no means an expert but the aspects relating to autism and transmasculinity are based on my own experiences and research. I say this because they both will play major roles in later plot points. I have everything but the ending plotted out.

This will eventually include Rhack (fake marriage), Rhysothy (pinning), Rhysha (pinning), Okay Dad Jack, Trans!Tim, Trans!Rhys, Atlas!Rhys, Dark!Rhys, autistic teenage Angel, side characters or cameos from most the rest of Tales, BL1, BL2, and the PreSequel

Anyway... for your interest:

a teaser that is 4k words >_>

tw for death, blood, and dubious morals

featuring Rhys, Zer0, and Sasha

(the title comes from The Village by Wrabel)

unbetaed, edited while tired

Written In Blood

Ch 0.5 (there's something wrong with)

Rhys really did love his work on days like these. It certainly wasn't what his parents had wanted for him when they'd dreamed up the future plans for their rosy-cheeked child. Hell, it wasn't even what he'd wanted for himself when he'd gone off to college to get his double major in business and computer science. Back then, fresh-faced and full of hope and ambition, Rhys had dreamed of owning his own company. He’d practiced inspiring speeches into the mirror and designed business cards for his future company, dreaming of tech mobiles or ambitious startups in Silicon Valley. So full of boundless ambition and idealistic dreams. Even as the reality of it had set in, unpaid internships and a soul-crushing entry position in one of the big five, he’d still longed for more. That one day, if he worked hard enough, he’d be the one making decisions in the huge cushy corner office with a view over the entire city instead of filing meaningless paperwork… or getting his boss coffee… or fending off lewd sexual advances…

But life tended to take strange turns. Back in those days, this had been one of the companies he’d applied to. In another life, he could be on his way to one of the many cubicles right now. Funny, how life goes.

Leaning back against the elevator wall, Rhys inspected himself in the mirrored surface, smoothing back a few stray strands of auburn hair that had escaped the expensive product holding it all into styled perfection. Sharp and dangerous, if he said so himself. And he did. Rhys didn’t care what Yvette said, he looked cool. His charcoal suit fit like a glove, all long lines and tailored seams, making his already long legs even longer. Heeled boots pushed him just over six feet and frankly made his ass look great. Carefully he adjusted his skinny tie (which was also very in style, thank you very much Yvette), focusing on maneuvering his prosthetic arm through the sensors attached to his chest and shoulder. The best money could buy and it had been worth every penny. None of the other arms he'd ever owned could come close to matching its fine motor control and while some were put off by the obvious robotical nature of it, Rhys reveled in it. It was more than human. A symbol of how he was rising above the limitations of his own body. Function and beauty in one. Exactly the aesthetic he was striving for. Unlike his left eye which was entirely cosmetic. A vanity purchase his *supposed* best friends still mocked him for. The iris of the prosthetic eye was inhumanly blue made tiny sapphires set in a gold ring. It twinkled and sparkled under the harsh fluorescent light as Rhys smoothed down his suit jacket, eyeing the elevators numbered lights. As the doors opened, he was moving before they’d even stopped, sliding out into the group waiting to descend.

Keeping a sneer etched into his face, Rhys passed men and women in corporate approved orange, blues, and greys who peeked nervously up at him as he strode past their cubicles. A raised eyebrow and his clearly too important for this building wardrobe sent them hurriedly back to work, trying their best to avoid his further attention. No one wanted to make eye contact for fear he was the boss's boss or some other unknown overlord. Rhys really did feel he had the look of it, with the Maliwan tie clip and crisp orange waistcoat. He’d never minded Maliwan’s colors, he would have fit in well here… in another life. But never one of them, he overlooked the terrified office drones with a frown, eye scanning the room for his goal. He was made for more than that unappreciated drudgery in too loud and overcrowded spaces.

It had been quite the wakeup call during his first internship out of college, to discover just how grey the morality of the corporate world really was. He knew the giant megacorps didn’t value human life, not when there was money to be made, and Rhys had wanted that money. He really had. But it had been something else entirely to realize that competition amongst his fellow workers not only included manipulation, bribery, embezzlement, and social backstabbing… but literal backstabbing as well. Anything went… as long as you increased the quarterly profit margin and met your deadline (and didn’t get caught). Rhys’s moral might have been loose, but that was a step further than he could handle. When his internship had ended, he hadn’t sought employment.

How funny, the way things could change so quickly.

Weaving his way through the sea of cubicles, Rhys neared the corner office. He couldn’t afford to linger long. The security clearance badge pinned to his vest had easily passed a cursory inspection and his hacking program had gotten him added to the list of visitors for the day, but the longer he stayed the greater the chance he’d been seen through. Pausing at the water cooler he rolled up the sleeve of his jacket to fetch the lock picks stored in his arm's hidden compartment, barely able to contain the smug grin that fell over his features. He'd beeped, of course, when he'd passed through the metal detector so many floors below but wouldn't he, with that obvious metal arm. He'd laughed and flirted with the guard while they'd hand scanned him with the wand, with them apologizing but, "rules are rules, you know?" Rhys sympathized with them in easy comradery, showing off his technological wonder of an arm for their amazement before being waved on through. Really, it was all too easy sometimes. Maliwan should be ashamed of themselves.

Letting his eye wander the room to make sure his path was clear, all that remained between him and files worth a very cushy paycheck was one locked door. If everything had gone to plan, Mr. Vertis would be tied up downstairs with Sasha for another hour at least, leaving Rhys plenty of time to get through whatever paltry security protocols where in place. Sliding in close to the door and blocking the lock with his body, he kept his shoulders relaxed. Nothing to be alarmed about, nothing out of the ordinary. He hoped if he chanted it in his head loud enough, somehow all the eyes in the room would remain at their computers. He strained to listen for any approaching footsteps over the click-clack of typing all around him. As he worked his picks into the lock, he felt more than heard, his phone go off, vibrating against his leg. Cursing under his breath, Rhys focused on twisting the lock open with deft movements, all was still within Mr. Vertis’s darkened office so whatever issue Sasha ran into could wait until he wasn't in the open. God, he hoped they hadn't miscalculated the mark's tastes. He still recalled all too vividly the time he'd been flat out rejected by a previous mark for being a twink. As much as Rhys had been relieved to stop flirting with the asshole, the mistake had cost them over five grand as they’d scrambled to improvise.

~*~*~

As the lock finally clicked open, Rhys slid gratefully into the darkened office. His sigh of relief, however, was cut abruptly short by the knife suddenly pressed against his throat. Behind him, he heard the door seal once more, blocking out prying eyes… and escape.

"Uninvited guest, you just set off my trap card. Your death approaches.”

The cooling body slumped over the desk with the dark stain seeping ominously into the carpet should have been enough to quell Rhys’s fool mouth, but he *knew* that voice. Or at least the trademark speech pattern tinged with a robotic warble.

"Oh- ooh my god," Rhys whispered, his heart pounded loudly in his ears, "I... um..." he fought to keep still as his body went to war with itself. Fear dropping out his stomach even as he felt his face heat, "I just- I just want to say, I think you’re really cool."

That was probably the least professional thing he could do in this given situation... but Zer0 was a *legend*. The mysterious assassin, known only as a number, lived and breathed aesthetic. It was anyone’s guess if Zer0 actually was Japanese, but the assassin certainly borrowed heavily from the culture, wielding a chokutō inspired sword and speaking in haiku. According to rumor and fan site gossip (which Rhys in no way followed at all), Zer0 was skilled in complicated origami and could write kanji. Even Zer0's gender was hotly debated by fans. Everything about the person beside him, Rhys admired.

But truthfully, right now, he really wished the assassin hadn’t snuck up on his blind side. It was making getting a good read on the killer quite difficult. The blade shifted, making Rhys’s breath catch. As quick as his reflexes had gotten over the past years, there was no way he could pull out the hidden knife from his prosthetic and turn before Zer0 opened veins. It had barely touched him but the finely honed edge simple exuded sharpness and death. This is why Rhys avoided combat in general. Being one-eyed was a fatal disadvantage in situations like this. Actually, there wasn't ever a good time to lack depth perception. But there was a time and place for cursing his body and this really wasn't it. Not when it felt like the blade might nick his throat with every shallow breath.

“Praise won’t stay my blade, bathed in blood is just as good. Fool to be a fan.”

"Fan? Oh god, no" Rhys squeaked, cursing his vocal cords for their utter betrayal. He forced laugh that sounded too harsh. He wasn’t an obsessed fan… it was… professional interest, "I just admire your work is all, your craftsmanship. I mean, everyone in the business knows of Zero," his laugh pitched up, was that blood running down his chest or sweat? His hand trembled, the flesh betraying him in a way that the metal never did. His mouth joined the betrayal as he babbled, words flowing out without filter, "Not that I’m even close to being in your league.”

He must sound like a panicked idiot. Which... he was. He was going to embarrass himself *and* die. Rhys wasn't entirely sure which one was worse. And Zer0 hadn't said anything or moved. Was he just going to stand there? This was lasting too long. His shirt was already sticking to him with what Rhys truly hoped was just sweat... though that was bad enough. And the walls. The walls were too thin, Rhys could hear the oblivious idiots on the other side of the wall still typing away on their keyboards, the sound burrowing its way into his skull as he strained to get a read on the assassin.

“I mean-" Rhys blurted, "I’m just here for the computer. No mind to me if the guy is dead right? I mean… my client won’t really be happy… but it doesn’t bother me,” he quickly assured, unable to stop the stream of words from leaving his mouth, “Ha ha, I’ll just hope he pays me in full before reading the new, right? Have to roll with the punches in this business,” Rhys’s awkward laugh trailed off as he tried to catch a glimpse past his own nose of the assassin that held his life in judgment. His phone vibrated against his thigh like he didn’t already know that the plan had crashed and burned horribly.

The blade at his throat lowed an inch and Rhys sucked in a greedy lungful of air, turning his head enough to finally glimpse the near featureless black helmet that covered Zer0’s face. A red [ . . . ] glowed faintly within the dark mask, changing into [ ? ] as Rhys watched.

"Such a gilded thief, shadows could never hide you, you are not common."

“Thank you? But I’m not a thief,” what was he supposed to say to something like that. The robotic pitch made it that much harder for him to tell if the tone was sarcastic or accusatory or simply observational. Rhys moved to cross his arms over his chest, brows furrowed, but the shimmer of light flashing off the dark blade as it was flicked back up, aborted the motion leaving Rhys’s arms hanging uncomfortable outstretched and decidedly uncool looking.

Uncertain if it would actually help his case, he filled the potent silence regardless, “I’m an assassin. Like you? I mean, obviously not as awesome as you are. And I don’t just do assassinations… but…” his left hand gave a nervous twitch as he resisted the urge to tug at his hair. He finished lamely, “…yeah… I steal stuff… sometimes,” or most of the time.

The blade swished through the air and clicked back into its sheath leaving Rhys’s legs feeling like they were made of jello. Sagging, Rhys hurried to put distance between himself and the dangerous assassin before him.

"Has anyone told, it’s a fool who runs his mouth. Prattling on and on, benefit to me alone. I claim the victory here."

He really didn't need Zer0 to tell him that. Rhys was painfully aware of his flaws. If he wasn't already, he had Fi and Sash to point them out regularly as reminders. He scowled in what wasn't a pout no matter what anyone said. He still felt off kilter. If anything, being free from the blade only made it worse, the adrenaline leaving his limbs shaking with nothing to do. Rhys carded his fingers through his hair, the gelled locks breaking apart under his fingers, but the simple repetitive motion did more to calm him than anything else could.

"I shall have your name, if trust is broken after, I shall hunt you down."

Damn this was still going sideways but he couldn't think fast enough to work out any other options. Scowl deepening, he complied, “Rhys Oliver, of Atlas.”

The [ ! ] that appeared on the assassin’s mask filled Rhys with a modicum of smug satisfaction. Five years ago Atlas was all but a footnote in history. Yet now Rhys, with the help of his friends, had raised it like the proverbial phoenix. Slowly but surely, the name Atlas was becoming relevant again. Though… maybe admitting to being from what could be seen as a rival organization wasn’t the *best* move Rhys could have made in this moment. If Fiona was here she would have smooth-talked her way out of revealing so much, she was always better at improving than Rhys was. Or she’d have gotten shot at already. That was nearly equally likely some days.

“I have heard of this, its corpse thought rotten away. Yet you claim it yours?”

“Atlas was never dead,” Rhys huffed defending his tiny operation, “We’re small right now but growing,” did he just volunteer too much? Ugh, he wished he had Yvette on a radio line but they hadn’t been able to get the headset past the security checkpoint. He felt naked without his support line. Her calm reassurance and direction in his ear.

Zer0 tipped his head, only serving to remind Rhys how much taller the lanky assassin was comparatively. Idly he wondered what was under that suit… Rhys bit his lip, his mind trailing back the myriad of speculation he’d read on that subject. Sucking in a sharp breath, he snapped his eyes back up, feeling his face heat. This was so not the place. Real spies never bought their way out of death by offering sexual favors. Or at least Rhys was fairly certain that was the case. He wasn’t going to risk his neck offering. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, a protective barrier to his own wild imagination. Which hurt more than it should… that could cause issues if they did fight. But at least his hand was nearer to his weapon now.

“Atlas is reborn, this I must see for myself. You’ll introduce me?”

“What? Oh, I mean, yeah, sure. Anytime,” Rhys stammered. This was so not good. He was acting like a blushing teenager. Maybe it was actually a good thing no one had eyes on him. Sasha would never let him live this down.

“An intriguing talk but time presses ever on, I shall leave you now.”

Zer0 turned toward the large window behind the desk, a sheer drop down 53 stories, and glanced back only briefly. [ <3 ] lit up on the helmet as Zer0 gave Rhys a cheery, “Goodbye.” The assassin’s suit seemed to shimmer, an active camo making the edges harder to distinguish in the dark. Taking a half step forward, Rhys could still track Zer0’s movement as the assassin pushed open the window and dove out. Gripping the edge and peering down was enough to seize Rhys’s stomach into knots. Too high. He squeezed his eyes shut and staggered back like the fucking armature that he apparently was. He was never going to be as cool as someone like Zer0. It was hopeless. Just a dork dressing up and pretending to be James Bond.

Running his left hand, Rhys sighed heavily. When that didn’t work, slapping his own cheek, Rhys berated himself, “Focus, you still have a job to do, dum dum.”

~*~*~

With a great deal of distaste, he nudged the cooling body aside. That was certainly unfortunate. Fi would have her work cut out for her, but with luck, the data might be even more valuable to the right buyer because of the inevitable shift in power dynamics. If they acted fast enough. They might even get more than originally offered.

Careful as he tried, Rhys couldn’t get to the computer terminal without stepping in the blood. The carpet squished wetly around the slick soles of his leather boots. He wasn’t dressed for bodily fluids today. It was going to stain. Or worse seep into his socks. He was not walking around with wet socks. It was bad enough his shirt was binding up and clinging to him with drying sweat making just standing unbearably uncomfortable. He took a deep breath through his mouth, trying to ignore the ripening scent, and plugged in his flash drive to activate rhys_winz.exe. While the hacking program did its thing, he browsed through the unsecured files for important keywords, copying anything that looked promising. He could sort through it all at leisure later when he wasn’t hovering over a smelly corpse. Preferably with a cup of coffee or some ice cream. No, definitely ice cream. Today deserved ice cream.

God, the smell really was unpleasant already. This is why he refused jobs that required handing bodies after the fact. Speaking of which, he took it all back. He hated this job. This wasn’t supposed to *be* a messy mission. Yet because no one in all the city had worse luck than he did, here he was, standing in blood and the download *still* wasn’t done. Rhys was sure even the corpse would agree that Rhys’s luck was worse. The dead guy didn’t have to deal with his own stink.

His endless list of complaints stalled as the popup informed him of the download’s success. Slotting the drive back into the watertight storage in his arm, Rhys was left with only one pressing problem… bloody footprints. His bloody footprints. He hated that there was really only one solution. Standing at the door, he held his bloody leather boots in hand. Real leather, mind you. He’d had to import them! Real leather was so rare nowadays. And even if they hadn’t been god awful expensive, he couldn’t just leave them at the crime scene either.

Rhys walked out of the office distinctly less cool than he’d entered. Face beet red, he prayed no one questioned the garbage bag clutched in his fist… or his brightly colored fish socks now on display. God, how many people were *in* this damn building? Every set of eyes crawled over his skin but he refused to meet their questioning gazes. It was probably all in his head anyway. Either that or security was going to be waiting with an armed escort when he got off at ground level. He jabbed the elevator button with prejudice, shoulders tense.

~*~*~

Fuck. His phone. He’d forgotten all about it after the Zer0 debacle. He pulled out the disposable burner, opening up the deluge of texts he’d gotten from an unsaved number.

>> greet & meet failed >> still no luck, be safe!! >> getting odd looks, have 2 bail >> where r u? >> Hey dork, u alive??? >> if u r making me worry for nothing I’m going 2 kick ur ass >> if ur dead im taking ur pc >> don’t be dead, I dont know ur password

Cradling his bagged boots to his chest, Rhys chewed his lower lip, chuckling under his breath. I’d been just over three years now since he’d first run into Fiona and Sasha but now he couldn’t picture his life without them in it. They could be brash and rude… but they really did care. In their own way. He liked to imagine it was what having a sibling was like. Yvette seemed to think so and Rhys took her word for it seeing as both he and Vaughn were only children. But Sasha, Rhys was especially fond of her. Fond was likely underselling the soft feeling that curled in his chest when he thought of her, but Sahsa had made it abundantly clear that she wasn't interested in anything serious. Which… which was fine. Good even. It meant that Rhys didn’t have to worry about any awkward explanations or reveals later down the road. Just friends was fine. They clicked and she was fun to work with even though she terrified him at times.

One handed, he typed out a quick reply. Left thumb moving with practiced ease.

<< not dead, call off the funeral << done & done but messy << so ready to bail

He watched the eclipses dance as the other side of the conversation typed. Sasha must have been waiting for his reply. With luck, she’d already fetched the car.

>> tnx 4 the heart attack dork!! >> outside

Never trusting their messages not to be intercepted, they always avoided anything incriminating or too descriptive. You could never be too safe, after all, but he had to laugh that their secret agent spy code was just vague text speak and knowing each other well enough to read between the lines. It really dispelled the glamorous spy mythos. Real life had far more bloody shoes and aching ribs than cocktails and fast cars.

~*~*~

As it turned out, clutching a trash bag and brooding in an elevator didn’t gain as many strange looks as he’d feared. A woman in a crisp suit gave a snorting laugh as she entered the elevator with him, though Rhys wasn’t sure if it was his face or his socks that drew her humor. And that had been the most notable reaction. Most simply turned a blind eye to him. The purposeful sort or ignoring that likely meant they were filing away future blackmail (what little good that would do them) but it served Rhys well enough. Apparently leaving a head office in an embarrassing state wasn’t all that surprising. All the more reason to be glad he’d missed out on such exciting corporate affairs.

It was a struggle to remember to walk as he exited the elevator, pulling away from the business men and women. Security was going to be a whole new issue. They *would* open the bag. Then they’d see the blood. Then there would be questions he couldn’t flirt his way past. With a heavy heart and cursing his completely shit luck, he turned toward the ground level food court. Selecting a very full trash can he stuffed his bagged boots deep into the mess of greasy burger wrappers and paper cups. Rhys said a brief farewell to his boots, parted from this world too soon. His closet would be all that much emptier without them. The world that much colder. He blinked back a tear.

~*~*~

“Nice socks,” the guard’s barely held back smirk was beyond punchable. They were the same two guards as when he’d entered the security checkpoint what felt like ages ago. The other leaning casually back on their shared desk.

Holding his arms up, Rhys breathed through his nose. He was almost out, “Thanks.”

The other one had the audacity to wink, “Maybe if you’re naughty next time we can have a cavity search.”

What even was that? Was that supposed to be a pickup line? His head frazzled from the careful plan falling apart, Rhys was too tired to piece out what the hell was going on. He scrambled for some semblance of a script and hoped the flirty executive role still worked sans boots, “Next time, cowboy.”

It seemed to work. At the very least they laughed and released him. He couldn’t be bothered to care more than that he was leaving. All that much closer to his own room and chocolate cookie dough ice cream. After he cleared the obstacle that was his concerned friends… he sagged, staring down at his toes as he exited onto the city street. His socks really were ruined at this point. There was going to be no salvaging them from the sidewalk dirt, not when he could feel the grit from the office building still clinging to them. The purple and red fish mocked him as he glowered.

“I gotta say, that’s quite the fashion statement you got going there, dork,” a punch to his fleshy arm signaled Sasha’s arrival.

Her words mocked, but he knew her well enough to understand that she really cared. It was unlike any of the friendships Rhys had previously, but it felt stronger for it. Besides, he often felt sarcasm was greatly underappreciated and Sasha always seemed to get when he was joking. Unlike Fi. She was just scary mean sometimes.

“Ha ha,” Rhys rolled his eye, “Come on, I’m starving.”

“Uh, huh. Don’t pout, it couldn’t have been *that* bad,” Sasha pointed out.

He was in one piece so she was right on the account. But he wasn’t going to admit that, “I’m not pouting.”

“So is that why you could land aircraft on your bottom lip then?” her laugh was utterly fake, though Rhys doubted anyone who didn’t know her would be able to tell. It’d taken him long enough to learn the difference.

She steered him easily through the crowd and into the twists of side streets to their getaway car. Casual as could be. Just two friends giving each other shit. Rhys followed without thought, it was so much easier to navigate when someone else led and he could follow her anywhere.

“I hate you,” he didn’t.

~*~*~

#rhys the company man #zer0 the assassin #tales from the borderlands #fanfiction #my writing #wip #sasha the kid sister #borderlands

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abbynormaled · 4 years

Text

The existential crises of difference, privilege, and forks

My wife and I visited Thailand many years ago, shortly after we got married. Her parents lived there, part of the U.S. Embassy staff, and so we were able to stay for 3 weeks and see far more of the country than most.

Bangkok was amazing: so full of people, and smells, and new food, and elephants. It was fabulous. Everything a young person might want in their first trip out of the country.

After a long day at Chatuchak, Bangkok’s enormous weekend market, we were overwhelmed by it all. We were exhausted, not just physically, but psychically. We stopped on the way back to eat and recharge.

At a KFC.

Now, I’m not one to be timid in eating, especially when I get a chance to travel. But we had had too much by that point. Our system couldn’t take any more novelty. KFC was exactly what we needed — a refreshing taste of the familiar — and by the time we were done savoring the Colonel’s 7 herbs & spices, we had the internal wherewithal to continue on exploring and enjoying the rest of the day

This is the fork theory of difference, which is the opposite of having privilege.

You may already be familiar with Spoon Theory: the idea that people with chronic illnesses have a finite amount of energy to do the daily things. Sure, everyone has a finite amount of energy, but for people suffering from chronic pain, mental distress, or physiologically-induced fatigue, it’s so much more.

Even simple acts, such as folding the laundry, take up extra effort, or spoons. Had to go grocery shopping in person? That’s 2 spoons.

Part of the value of this metaphor is that (too often) a friend of the person will try to encourage them to get out, to do something. “It’s just one evening of drinks.” What the friend doesn’t know is how many spoons that person already expended during the day on just ordinary things.

It’s helpful for most people, those who don’t have to deal with these very literal pains and stressors, to understand how exhausting it is just being.

Those of us who don’t experience the pain and fatigue of chronic illness don’t worry about spending spoons on the little things in the same way.

We get to keep that energy and use it for other things in our lives: social interactions, moving ahead in our career, financial planning, helping kids with homework, etc.

Having extra resources, like physical and psychic energy, to expend on moving forward and getting ahead is (in at least one respect) the essence of privilege.

Autism and exhaustion

My experience with not having enough energy to use the laundromat had me thinking about the ways in which a version of the spoon theory could help me (and others) understand the small but accretative energy costs that come with being autistic in an NT world (especially when one works to “fit in” as is the case in many undiagnosed autistic women and girls).

I feel it is important to point out that autism is not a disease or disability in itself — if that assertion confuses you, please Google neurodiversity.

Let me share a passage from my novel-in-progress about what it feels like to be autistic:

- - - - - -

When they think about an autistic person, most NT’s (that’s neurotypicals, or non-autistics) think about people who get over-stimulated easily, who don’t like to be touched, and who say socially inappropriate things without realizing it. And that is true for a lot of people on the spectrum. But it is a spectrum, and just like the light spectrum there are all different hues of autism spectrum (AS) and some are more difficult to perceive than others.

Think of it this way: the “typical” autistic person (as portrayed in the media) generally has trouble understanding social norms and behaviors (like unspoken rules, nonverbal communication, and similar). Those social interactions might be like hearing someone sing a song in a foreign language: you can participate in the singing, but you’re not really sure what’s going on.

For me, and I’m what they used to call an Aspie (short for Asperger’s), it’s not nearly that severe. It’s more like hearing a song in your language but the music is really loud or distorted or it’s Bob Dylan and you can’t make out all the words. You get the basic idea of what’s going on in the song most of the time from other context clues (like the tempo and whatnot), but the specific details can be lost on you. And sometimes those context clues aren’t accurate, and you end up looking like a fool because you thought “Gangster’s Paradise” was an inspirational song.

I’ve learned over the years to do the equivalent of looking the lyrics up on the Internet, which is to say that I’ve learned to act neurotypical very well.

In fact, most people have no idea I’m not an NT. The few people I’ve told about my autism are surprised (some even wanted to argue that I don’t act autistic enough to qualify). The truth is that I’m very smart, I have a great imagination and strong language skills, and I enjoy having fun like the next person. Yes, I prefer quieter activities (loud ones are tolerable, but wear me out). Yes, I sometimes don’t behave as expected in stressful or unusual situations. But I do enjoy being touched for the most part — except when someone attractive that I’m not comfortable around yet touches me, in which case I enjoy the physical part of it but get stressed out about how I’m supposed to react.

So, being on the spectrum doesn’t hurt or anything, but it is stressful and tiring from all the work you have to do to fit in. It’s as though every encounter with another person is a puzzle: you can enjoy puzzles, but having to do them ALL THE TIME gets exhausting. It does help when you have the same kinds of interactions again and again, because you know the pattern.

- - - - - -

Solving the puzzle that is neurotypical social interactions over and over and over again leads to emotional and physical exhaustion: autism fatigue.

From Neurology Advisor:

Although compensating for their difficulties may help people with ASD connect with others, get jobs, and successfully navigate social situations, accumulating research suggests it can also lead to exhaustion, burnout, anxiety, and depression.

Forks

Forks are a way to account for the amount of social energy an autistic person has to expend throughout the day. As I mentioned at the outset, this really works the same way as spoons, but I thought another utensil was appropriate because:

Spoons are about physical energy. Forks are about psychic energy.

The spoon theory is currently used to describe the difficulty in dealing with disabilities (and I don’t want to appropriate), and

Many autistic people may co-present with a disability, making it difficult for them to cope, as they juggle both spoons and forks.

The basic concept is this: an autistic person has a finite amount of energy (emotional, psychic, energetic, whatever) at the start of a day for working out the social puzzles. Even with activities they love and enjoy, it takes energy.

Social interactions take effort.

The energy a person has is their number of “forks.” There’s only a certain number of them to start with, and different interactions use up different numbers of forks.

Greeting coworkers you’re familiar with at a job you’re used to may only use 1 fork.

Returning an item at the store takes several forks.

Networking events where lots of people are hugging (but not everyone) will probably use up all your forks.

Even activities that you love use up forks. I am enthusiastically absorbed by improv: I love to perform it, to practice it, to teach it, to coach it. But it uses forks. Longer performances use more forks, and classes even more still. A beginner class, which is one of my favorite things in the world, will wipe me flat out.

Once your forks are gone, your ability to “do people things” drops to zero. It’s not that, given an extreme need an autistic person can’t manage to say hello, but it does require pretty significant draw of willpower.

When you’re low on forks, even using the laundromat can be too much.

The forks will come back, with time and an environment where the autistic person can recharge, but in the meantime it’s vital to be aware that we’re not going to act “normally” most likely.

Some of my personal characteristics that manifest when I’m out of forks include:

a flat affect: no emotion in my voice or face

Silence in a conversation

Becoming easily distracted by random tangents from a conversation (this is my normal brain behavior, and it takes effort for me to follow conversations linearly)

Easily annoyed or put out when I haven’t communicated clearly.

Because autistic people engage in non-normative social behavior — especially when they’re out of forks — it’s easy to classify autism as a disability.

It’s not a disability. It’s a lack of privilege from being outside the cultural expectation that people think and behave IN THIS WAY, and not any other.

It’s the conflict between neurotypical and autistic expectations of normative behavior that causes much of the “dysfunction.” To be sure, there are many people further along the spectrum who face additional hurdles and difficulties, but it’s important to understand that the root issue is this friction between what’s considered normative and where autistic people are.

Setting the table: Beyond Autism

This “foreigner fatigue” — being exhausted by the constant work of moving in a world made for different people — extends to other marginalized groups.

For me, a breakthrough occurred in my coming out as transgender. I went from “being” a white, cis-het male to a trans woman. And because I changed my presentation so suddenly (thanks, autistic mind!), the differences were pretty stark.

Where before I would pop down to the local Food Lion to pick up an item or two for dinner, I now have to balance competing interests:

On the one hand, the Food Lion makes me nervous for my safety. I get constant glares and people muttering under their breath, and the parking lot is dark.

On the other hand, the nearest grocery store that I feel comfortable in is 7 miles further away.

In and of itself, it’s a relatively small, not overwhelming choice to have to make.

Once.

But these kinds of choices don’t just happen every once in a while. They’re constant. Am I in a restaurant where I feel comfortable using the bathroom? If not, how long will it before before I can find one? When sending out proposals to corporate clients to do improv training, do I pay to have someone accompany me when I know the audience will be a group of all male sales people? If I get into a traffic accident, should I stay in my car with the doors locked until the police arrive?

I realize this kind of thinking isn’t news to anyone who isn’t a cis-het white man. But bear with me a moment.

The worry about safety was something I was expecting. The exhaustion was not.

On top of the exhaustion was the simple opportunity costs: every one of these choices preempted something else I could be doing: finishing up work, coming up with new ideas for the theater, spending time with my kids, etc.

I had lost those opportunities by virtue of no longer operating within the bounds of the normative expectations. I had lost privilege.

A Way to Think About Privilege

This new way of thinking about privilege gave me insight into how to respond to people who reject privilege because they “also work hard” and “have setbacks”. But one very basic way to understand privilege is to see it as having time opportunity.

While young girls are learning how to dress just so, in order to walk the fine line between too masculine (butch, which could get you beaten up) and too sexual (which could get your rapist acquitted), young boys are learning how to replace an alternator.

While young black boys are learning how to dress and move and behave inside almost any retail store so as to not get accused of shoplifting, young white boys are learning financial literacy.

While professional women are expending time and energy on trying to be heard in the office without being “aggressive,” their male counterparts are making moves to get ahead.

I think you get it.

Opportunity costs driven by the effort required to exist within the normative expectations of a white, heterosexual, patriarchal culture mean extra work to keep up. And more fatigue.

Forks that get used up.

And, yes, everyone has setbacks, obstacles, and problems. But when you’re already using your forks just to exist, it’s that much harder to be resilient. Much less to get ahead.

That some groups don’t have to expend forks as part of being who they are is privilege.

Intersectionality

But for many people, forks get used up in multiple ways simultaneously. This is intersectionality.

Any parent of more than one child will probably tell you that having your second child is more than twice as much work as having one. In addition to the regular care and feeding of the second child, you now have the compounding work of dealing with the interactions between the two.

In much the same way, anyone who has to deal with multiple areas of being “foreign” to the normative expectations has compounding difficulty in maintaining their supply of forks.

Fewer forks = fewer opportunities.

Mine is a simple example. As an autistic person, I have to expend energy to be seen as a neurotypical (and, in case you’re wondering why I do, try getting a job or landing a contract or making friends when you don’t follow social rules). As a transgender person, I have to expend energy to stay safe, to deal with my kid’s school’s 1990′s mentality about what having 2 parents looks like, etc.

As an autistic transgender person, I am now also having to learn a whole new set of social customs, expectations, cues, responses, and more in order to “fit in” as a woman, not to mention the difficulty of engaging with people who treat me poorly, refuse to recognize my validity, and more.

It’s little wonder I’m exhausted all the time.

Now think about the incredible amount of work that it takes for a Black, poor, transgender woman to make her way, and you can see how ridiculous the notion of “just work harder” and “make better choices” is. Good choices are easier when you’re not fatigued out of your mind all the time, and working harder is only possible when you have time and space to do so.

Making Space, Making Forks

You hear people talk all the time about how we’re all going through something, whether it’s visible or invisible. And the biggest thing we can do for each other is to make space, so that it’s easier for us all to get around the way that works best for us.

And yet there’s so much anger and pushback against doing the little things to create space. That it’s too much work to recognize that there is no such thing as the EXEMPLARY, TYPICAL HUMAN, one who has no touch of chronic disease, or ADHD, or autism, or BPD, or depression, or anxiety, or isn’t a white, cis-het male. Ultimately, making space isn’t that hard. All it takes is a moment of consideration and listening. Most accommodations aren’t hard to implement.

For example, some things you can do to make space for autistic people (at least, those like me) include:

Leaving a bit of extra time in conversations for the autistic person to chime in. We often feel stressed when encouraged to “jump in.”

Don’t force an autistic person to address your feelings immediately when something has happened. This can be as simple as a spilling a drink on them, or having said something that hurts their feelings. They’re focused on processing the immediate issue first, internally. They’ll need a moment (or several) before they can address you.

Surprise social situations can be very stressful. Be thoughtful before peer-pressuring an autistic person to do something, even “fun” things like dancing or sharing a story with the group. Help them feel welcome to do so, leave space, and they’ll interact when they’re ready.

Don’t ask autistic people to “read between the lines.” If you have an expectation of them, be as explicit as possible.

Communicating complex ideas can be difficult, especially emotions and feelings, and we often feel angry (at ourselves) and frustrated when we’re not understood. Sometimes we “clam up” – which means that we’re running through the conversation in our head over and over again to try and figure out what went “wrong”.

Several of us went out to a bar after a recent show and some very lovely audience members were there, and they were enjoying as several improvisers would tell a made-up story about the couple. They then turned to me and said, “Now you, Abby.” I demurred. I was worn out from the day and then the show. I love improv, including performing it, but it does come with a cost in forks. And I was now out of them.

Thankfully, a beautiful friend understood what was going on for me and made a very simple deflection on my behalf. By saying with grace and humor, “We’ve already heard several versions of what didn’t happen, I think it’s time you told us what did!” she effectively shielded me from having to use up my last fork explaining why I was too tired.

It meant so much to me, and I was able to enjoy the rest of the evening.

A Fork-gone Conclusion

The more space we have to interact as ourselves — that is, not conforming to one very specific, very arbitrary understanding of normative behavior — the more forks we can hold on to, and the more energy we have to be in and a part of the world, our communities, and our families.

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autistic-bee-blog · 7 years

Text

**trigger warning for self harm, suicide, mentions of emotional abuse***

There aren’t many posts (that I’ve seen) that talk about what happens when you are Autistic and people label you gifted, or a savant, or a prodigy, or any other terms similar to those. So, I’m going to talk about it, but here’s a quick disclaimer:

I wholeheartedly believe that IQ is inaccurate and discriminates against those who are not verbal, do not come from a background which provides typical academic education (i.e., those who live in poverty), and those whose skills lie outside of the bounds of spatial, verbal, auditory processing, and written comprehension. I also believe that labels such as savant, gifted, and prodigy are often used in an elitist manner to say that “these Autistics are okay because they can do ___ and have contributed heavily to society in a manner deemed profitable and/or productive"or are otherwise misapplied by outsiders to discredit those who are on the spectrum but are verbal or deemed of higher intelligence. That being said, this is an account of my personal experiences and beliefs and these viewpoints do not ring true for everyone.

So. My original diagnosis was Aspergers Syndrome, which is the exact same thing as Autism, the only difference in criteria is that those diagnosed with Aspergers Servers and not Autism were verbal before age three. This diagnosis was later re classified as Autism spectrum disorder after the publication of the DSM-V.

As a child, I spoke very early on. I mean, I was speaking full sentences by the time I was two. One of the things I remember is my fascination with colors. I memorized all of the crayola crayon names, and when I went to daycare as a little toddler we would all go over colors. But when the lady pointed out colors and all of the other kids would say "red” or “blue,” I’d say “burnt sienna” or “turquoise” or something more specific for each hue. I LOVED colors, and coloring, even if I did do it outside of the lines.

My parents noticed Autistic traits very early on with me as well. I didn’t socialize with other children, I played off by myself. I cried and screamed when certain smells, tastes, or clothing entered my environment. I had horrible meltdowns where I would become a danger to myself: I’d pull out my hair, or bang my head on a wall, or claw at myself. I had echolalia as well; teachers and kids would get mad at me because I kept making cat noises or repeating things over and over. I had such a hard time holding pencils and writing that I had to get special permission to type my assignments. I actually could not read until second grade, because i couldn’t put sounds with letters on a page. So all of these things led my parents to taking me to several psychologists and specialists, after which I received my diagnosis.

When I got older, academics became more important. I was a very curious child, and I loved to learn. My interests were strange for my age, I was fascinated by microbiology and diseases and insects and animals. I learned names of bacteria and their different strains, I watched videos on different species of spiders, I learned about diseases and medical conditions, which I memorized. I was prone to infodumping on unsuspecting strangers (my favorite story about that is a cashier in Publix who offered me hand sanitizer while my mom was paying for groceries. I looked at her very gravely, and starting warning her about the dangers of stapholoccocus and streptoloccocus, and how important it is to wash your hands and clean open wounds. My mom finally told me that that was enough, but the cashier thought it was the neatest thing ever. Fun fact: she went on to become best friends with my mother, and they keep in touch to this day.)

In third grade, people started to notice that I was ahead of other kids my age in acedemics. I was given my first IQ test, just to see where I was. I didn’t know it was an IQ test at the time, but I took it. I found out the results years later: at age nine, I had an IQ of 136.

Everyone labelled me gifted, prodigy, etc. It felt nice, encouraging even, to an Autistic kid who kept getting picked on or slammed around and ostracized by the other students. But it started a cycle that I didn’t recognize until many years later.

When I got to high school, I was awarded all sorts of things relating to standardized test scores and academic achievement. They gave me another IQ test at 16, and by that time my IQ was 146.

With all of this however, I still faced difficulties related to my Autism, amplified by ignorant teachers and school officials. I can’t drive, and I had a very hard time in math and science because of my spatial and visual processing disability, and I had a hard time writing and copying from the board because of my impaired fine motor skills along with the aforementioned disability. I also had (still have) problems talking aloud to other students or teachers, due to severe anxiety, and also following verbal directions (which got me into several less than savory situations regarding my commitment to class and my supposed lack of self advocacy. Ironically, I had an IEP which required teachers, by federal law, to comply with accommodations, including printing all directions and assignments and clarifying these things with me after class. Every time they broke that law, it was blamed on my lack of advocacy, or initiative. Even when I called for meetings, or spoke up for myself, or informed teachers repeatedly of my IEP and disability. Several teachers flat out refused to follow it and said that it was just a disciplinary issue. Others asked what would happen to me in college, in “the real world,” to which my mother retorted that I would always need some level of assistance and that they should be ashamed for trying to frighten her kid like that, like everyone was just going to abandon me in adulthood.)

I had severe problems with self esteem and self worth. I always accused people of lying when they said I was special or smart. My main issue though, was that i felt like if I wasn’t deemed smart or gifted, that I would just be broken and everyone would toss me aside and hurt me, at least, more than they already had in the past. I grew up thinking that I was obligated to redeem myself, to “make up” for being Autistic. I thought that “gifted” was the only worthwhile thing about me.

My mental health worsened too. I had started cutting and burning myself in middle school, it got worse as I got older. I starved myself in high school. I had tried to kill myself twice by the time I turned 16, and was rushed to the ER after a violent meltdown which resulted in a deep wound on my arm that required 7 stitches.

All of this could be traced back to feeling like I was, well, a piece of shit. And to the emotional abuse I endured at the hands of teachers, and the things kids did to me to mess with me, the things people whispered about me, the way they looked at me, the way my parents looked at each other. The ignorance and cruelty of people around me. Their unwillingness to listen to me, to accommodate me. Their willingness to turn away in the midst of hatred and prejudice. I began to hate them.

On bad days, I want to give up trying to explain all of this and Autism and just resign myself to the fact that nobody will ever accept and accomodate me the way I am, much less love me. I say I should just accept that I’ll probably always be at the mercy of other people, I’ll probably be abused all over again. I tell myself I’m better than them anyway, that I’m gifted and they aren’t. I try and fail to believe that lie. Those days…I try to just hide in my house and stay silent.

But the worst part of all of this, was that whenever I tried to talk about any I’d it, about “gifted” being used to ignore an obvious disability, I’d get dismissed as high functioning, or I’d be reprimanded for being ungrateful for my talents.

I got labelled gifted, and suddenly it didn’t feel like a compliment anymore, but a threat. A disavowal. Shackles of an obligation to be normal, but also smart enough to be beneficial to society, to make up for all the things they have to deal with to accommodate me.

Now, I think that “gifted” is such a flat way of looking at things. I think that it only serves to label someone high functioning, so the people in charge can ignore any of their inaccessibility or ignorance when confronted by the person being hurt by it. I think that gifted is too often used as a measure of value, and is too often misaligned with merit. What about creativity? Dedication? Perseverance? Kindness? Open-mindedness? The most important qualities have no ruler to measure by.

I think “gifted” can go die in a hole. I’m not gifted. I’m ME. I’m curious, I’m dedicated, I’m strongwilled, I’m defiant, I’m kind, I’m compassionate, and I’m Autistic. And I make no apologies.

#actually autistic #ableism

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