By Cynthia Kim
Behavior is communication.
This has become a catchphrase in the autism community. And for good reason. It’s certainly true.
A child runs from a store and experts assure the frustrated parent that behavior is communication.
A parent asks for advice about why their recently diagnosed child bursts into tears at bathtime and experienced parents nod in sympathy. “Behavior is communication,” they say.
A child refuses to eat anything but raw carrots and pancakes and the child’s occupational therapist isn’t the least bit surprised. Behavior is communication.
A child flaps at a wind-up toy that’s stopped moving and the experts . . . somberly intone that the child doesn’t know how to communicate . . . that he isn’t aware of the adults around him and is “trapped in his own world”, unable to share his joy with others.
An adult walks away…
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In these times of ‘Autism Speaks’s’ disgraceful messaging, tortureful ‘behavoural therapy’ methods, investigations in ‘how to prevent a part of human kind from living’ and money raising organizations, making a market out of our neurology, treating humans as objects, it is hard at some days to make a positive statement as an autistic person.
In my personal case, -things should start with being personal-, there is a benefit, that makes me see the beauty above, even in the darkest depths.
It’s a collection.
An archive of what I call ‘the little enlightening’, which forms a constant ‘well of life’.
Nobody can take that from me.
I have my renunciations, but I still feel privileged.
My ark is a manifested source in the nature of things.
And no matter what,
human societies can’t take the most tiny moth away, no matter how many forrests they will burn or how much torture they’ll bring to me.
I won’t save the moths, the daisies and seashells for me alone.
I will keep them for my tormentors too.
Maybe once, there will come a time, when their descendants need the remembrance of all the creatures their fathers and mothers have wiped away.
I don’t need no researcher to show me the figment of my genes.
I can see them.
I can feel them.
They aren’t stale.
They are physical, changeable and vital.
And they have their own memories.
And they aren’t just genes.
They will preserve the golden core of life essence.
They are our communication.
as we all keep this in us and pass it from being to being,
we no longer need to fear.
Until the day we will be extinguished from this earth, there will always be conciousness and awareness enough.
What remains for all of us to do,
is to learn.
This awkward message was brought to you by Asperger Autism. 😉
“Everything is okay, Beth”, they tell her.
“Look at all the things you’ve got!”, they tell her.
Beth is a 24 years old Kanner autistic woman, who loves coffee, Michael Jackson and painting flowers all day. She works in an art and handcrafting studio for disabled people and likes it a lot.
But when the clock turns 3 pm, her face gets a different expression. She says: “I’m gonna miss you.”
“I’m gonna come see you again, Beth.”, I answer.
“But I am always alone.”
I know. I am autistic myself. There can be great people around you, they’ll always try to support a disability instead of you, the autistic. They get, that you have needs that differ from their own. And those are so exhausting and impossible to cover up. So they’d forget about understanding them.
But they’d never get the point to support you, like a friend, a daughter, or a partner and let you experience the same understanding. Because thinking in different patterns and using the heart to listen, ain’t an option.
Their exhaustion places on top of the communications agenda they note for you.
And so you’ll be left with those halfly hearted words.
“But it’s not true; you’re not alone.”
“But your xyz loves you!”
No. They don’t love me. They love me in their minds. They love me in a fairytale.
But the love you experience in your everyday life is a privilege, I will never get.
And so Beth comes to work, starting to cry.
“My mom has so much things to do,
my mom can’t help me either.”
Her mom has so much things to do since years. She did not visit the studio in between a time period of two years.
She came to see two exhibitions of her daughter, telling the people stupid nonsense about autism (don’t know the heck where she catched it…Autism Speaks?). The rest of the time she spends to sooth Beth’s anger about sitting home alone every single afternoon, stimming time away, and it turns to depression.
Will they ever understand?
Let’s face the truth, they will always see disablity and forget about getting to know the person, learning, talking to you…
They will stop explaining things, once they failed.
They will touch you like a piece of wood and wonder about your stimming or your overload over and over again.
They will stop interacting with you.
They will make you live the curse of a loveless life,
until the day they might get special needs.
But wait…I am wrong! I don’t have a loveless life.
Ironically it’s Beth who gives me the feeling of true love and support. For some little moments in a long life time, I finally feel completely seen and taken and loved as and for the person I am.
She does not need to say “I love you.” She does.
And that’s what makes her a part of my life.
Parents, friends, partners…they passed me running in anxcious cry for help.
Now I grew up without them.
Now I let them run.