On community that cannot serve itself

Welcome to Fidgets and Fries!

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If you’d like to honor my writings with a monetary contribution, thank you. If you already have, thank you. Your support allows me to invest in my writing in a way I hadn’t thought possible as well as pay for my son’s communication lessons. And if you are still an unpaid subscriber, thank you. Cause in a world where everyone wants their eyes on their work, you still chose to put your gaze on mine.

This newsletter rests at the intersection of the unserious ramblings of a woman full of buttered rice and dad jokes and the somewhat sophisticated stories and essays of someone who knows just enough “smart” words to sound super intelligent and insightful.

What will today’s newsletter be? Hmm…

The very first story I wrote was about a young girl who could channel her inner consciousness and project it outside her body. Like a ghost of herself. She could then watch herself through this reflection of herself and sometimes, it spoke back to her. I was probably 8 or 9 when I wrote this. This story about a girl who watched herself through the eyes of her own “ghost.” While she did sometimes speak with her reflection, it’s primary purpose was to watch over her. To guide her. To inform her. To share with her all that she’s learned. When she disconnects from her “ghost,” and reconnects with the rest of the world, she learns she now knows more about herself and this world than she knew before. 

She dropped off into herself, to pull herself from herself, to watch herself, and learn about herself. 

I found the notebook that contained this story a few years ago. And when I read it, I cried. This was a story about me. This little girl who lived within the vacant spaces of her mind allowing herself to be comforted by the reflection of herself, was me. I knew I was different and I was trying to make sense of it. Through stories. Through tales I was trying to understand the person that I was growing into. Notebook after notebook after notebook...full of stories that knew what I denied when I got older. Tears. I cried into each and every notebook. My tears made the ink bleed and I could no longer read my 8 year old self knowing far more than my adult self ever knew. Perhaps it was for the best. 

I was brave then. I knew then what I’m trying to understand now. I shared these stories and I lit up at the recitation of them. I was filled with curiosity, courage, hope. I spun tales as much as I spun myself. 

And then I stepped outside. 

I left my world to try to live in theirs. And I got lost. I couldn’t find my way back to myself and when I lost the trail, I had to find my footing here. Where I learned there wasn’t room for minds like mine. No sympathy for behaviors like these. No space for the different.   

I didn’t grow as a writer because I love to write, this pen started as a trauma response. This pen is necessary therapy. Notebooks hold images I can’t let stay in my head. I didn’t write because it was fun, I wrote because I had to. I have moments where I sit with these notebooks and I am trying to figure out who I am in this diagnosis. I am still trying to understand Autism. In my late 30s. 

I didn’t know I was Autistic until I was 18, but I knew I was different. Tell your child their diagnosis as early and as often as you can. Let them feel your love for them no matter what. Help them navigate this world as they are. Encourage them to be who they are in this world and let them know it’s okay that they visit theirs. 

I was diagnosed during a time when people only whispered about something being wrong with someone. It was never really out in the open. There were no Autism group meetings. No Autism Moms. No Neurodiversity. It was just me...a diagnosis I couldn’t understand, and honestly didn’t want. Alone. 

So I hid that part of myself within myself and dresser drawers. Covering that diagnostic report with clothes I would never wear because...sensory issues. How about that, right? 

Alone and carrying this mystery I wanted nothing to do with. Until life forced me to confront that part of myself I kept hidden from the world. That part I kept hidden from myself. 

My son was diagnosed as Autistic at 17 months. To say I spiraled would be an understatement. I crashed. I survived the burn, but I don’t know how. 

How could I know myself if I didn’t know myself? How could I not know myself? Do we ever really know the person we are? We are in a constant state of reinvention. A constant state of discovery. Always growing. Always learning. Always shedding old skin for new. 

But see, this is new Tiff. New Tiff knows this now, old Tiff didn’t understand that it was okay she didn’t know who she was. She didn’t know that exploring oneself was possible. She didn’t give herself the chance to know who she was. She didn’t give herself a chance to grow into herself. 

She stayed still. Frozen. Static. She experienced small moments of wanting. Wanting to know what this meant for her. Wanting to know what Autism was. Wanting to know why she felt the way she felt. Wanting to know if there were others like her. 

But she shut those moments down as quickly as they came. She could not know those things. She could not be those things. She was a product of her experiences, and her experience tells her that her life will be easier if no one knew what she carried. 

Life will force you to face what you don’t want to. You can put it off. For a moment. For a day. For years. And it will force you to sit in all that you hide. You can decide to let it swallow you whole. Or find your way through. 

I let Autism do both. Took me over...and eventually I found my way through. But this took years. And I did this on my own. My family assisted with my healing. They are responsible for the shifts in my thinking. I experienced more moments of wanting. I wanted to be as free as my children appeared to be in their skin. Free as I felt they were in their Autism. 

But I had no one outside of my little family. No community. No groups. No social media. No one. 

Community is so important to me because I come from a time when I was navigating this diagnosis alone. There was no sense of community. No concept of belonging. No place for me. When you have no home, you start to think about all you would love in one. All those things that would make it safe and warm and loving for you. Those pretty things live within you. And I began to crave that connection. I wanted to connect with others. 

I accepted whatever looked like community, knowing it wasn’t really community. I became a broken shell of myself. Just going through the motions. But still experiencing moments of want. That’s what made me realize I wasn’t home yet. This wasn’t home. Something was still missing. 

And that was every other part of myself that made me the beautiful being that I am. That’s what was missing. I existed within a community that only knew part of who I was. Home is safe because it houses all that you are. The Autism/Autistic community is not home. And it is not safe. 

This community was just as broken as I was. Just as fractured. How could it serve me if it couldn’t even serve itself?