Tea, Schedules, and Chaos

Notes from an Autistic life-in-progress

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? Hmmm…

Note: I cuss. I swear. I use curse words. Not all the time, not really in real life, but definitely in print. This one has cuss words. Swear words. Curse words. I use them because I don’t really use them in life outside of the screen, because I want to, because I can, and because I am grown enough to do so. Could I have articulated my thoughts without the cussing, swearing, cursing? No. They serve a purpose and that purpose is, I wanted them there.

If that’s cool with you, continue on. If not, ya gotta get ya ass on up outta this one. This ain’t a piece riddled with no-no words, but I have been within the online space for years now and you’d be surprised at the amount of people who have told me:

1. You’re a mother. (Bleh, and? That’s not ALL I am.)

2. You have an audience that is influenced by you. (What I eat don’t make them shit. They understand they don’t have to cuss because I do.)

3. Cussing is an indicator of low intelligence. (Wrong, but I also ain’t arguing this point because I do not possess the intelligence to do so.)

4. My autistic son/daughter would never use cuss words. (I never understand exactly why they tell me this other than to throw a bit of shade at my diagnosis by pointing out that because I do cuss that somehow invalidated my diagnosis. I honestly do not care with their autistic son/daughter does. They ain’t me.)

5. You write children’s books. (personal fave. As if writing for children made me a child myself. Weird.)

   

At the start of each morning, I tell myself the same thing, “fuck, this tea is disgusting.” Yet, every single day, I will wash out a new mug, put some water into the teapot, and make more tea.

Lemon tea only. The other flavors are astoundingly worse. I must add honey cause I feel fancy, but mostly, I need to make this stuff go past my tongue.

I figured I needed a morning routine to get my day going. Something I could stick to that would help me stick to a schedule that would allow me to maximize the amount of hours I have within each day. And I know I have shared about the culture of busy we are living within. That whole, “how much can we produce in as little time as possible” mindset. Y’know, rest until you’re dead thing. Oh, I am still very much Team Capitalism Has Fucked Us Up, but Tiffany needs a fucking schedule. Not just for getting things done, but also for staying on top of those moments of rest and caring for my own needs. Basically, the schedule needs a schedule within the schedule.

I spent about two weeks coming up with one I felt was doable. It included time for me to build my business, homeschool these heathens, care for our home, tend to my own needs, cook, workout, appointments, run errands, and get some damn sun.

I put everything into that schedule, except bathroom breaks, which I was damn tempted to put in there, if I am being honest. However, I felt if I (just me…don’t take this on as gospel for yourself) needed to schedule toilet times, I was in a bit more trouble than I thought. But hey, if it turns out my ass needs some toilet stickers for my planner, then so be it…so be it.

So, this is why I drink disgusting ass tea first thing in the morning. I open the windows, let the sun stab the dark of the room, put on a “house dress,” cozy socks, sit on my bed, crisscross applesauce, my speaker turned onto some nature sounds, and crack open a book.

This is what those well-rounded folk do, right? I ain’t trying to be like anyone else, but this just seemed to be something I could easily do every morning.

Except the tea. That one is a struggle at times. Honey helps. I do keep some water handy as well. I’m trying that whole “stay hydrated” thing. So far, so good. The tea is partly for the routine and partly for my throat. I am a mouth breather y’all. I know it. I got sleep apnea, machine and all. Also, having allergies don’t help none either, so my throat is out here fighting for its life.

The tea helps.

It’s just not the most appealing thing. I only do it once per day, so knowing that if I get through this mug I ain’t gotta see a teabag until the following day has me feeling alright.

I wrote about being forty the other day on social media. I have been spending a lot of time thinking about what this age and decade means for me. What it means for my family. My oldest is an adult, my youngest ain’t too far behind him, my mama is at the age and stage of her disability that she lives with us know and I am taking care of her. I don’t have much within my 401K. I really didn’t start making my own money until about two years ago. And last year was my first that I paid taxes. I have no life insurance. I didn’t have any life goals outside of: I don’t really want to buy a house.

I turned 40 and it felt like everything hit me at once. All those things I didn’t do or prepare for, I suddenly feel the pressure to get done. For some reason, this feels like the last decade of my life I have that I will be capable enough to prepare well enough for my future. And if that sentence didn’t read right to you, my apologies, cause it really ain’t something I can rewrite cause it still comes out the same way each time.

I know, I am probably being dramatic about my 40s being the last years I can get my life together, but honestly, I think treating it like it is, is what is helping me stay on track. I suppose being dramatic and extra AF has its perks.

This week I was supposed to write about the progress my son was making with all the changes we added to his routine and diet, etc. I didn’t keep the best notes the past two weeks. I have been so busy trying to figure out how to be an adult that I didn’t work on that update. I promise I will get it together. Just won’t be this week.

Nah, that update is definitely going to have to come next week, sorry friends. The fog of what I am supposed to be doing keeps mixing with what I should plan to do, and they both end up losing to “go watch some ear wax cleaning videos.”

I am a mess.

One that I am trying to get on top of. I don’t know I am afforded the luxury of rest nor the privilege of a brain that allows itself to do so when there is time to pause. I am always told that “rest is resistance” and yet, this mind will not let me know this kind of fight. It is always loud with images, flashing all over the place. Silent in that I don’t carry an inner voice, but symbols and pictures clutter the space up there. Busy. And busy is loud. Rooms and doors and walls filled with things I must interpret. It’s always overflowing. Always overrun. I can never clear the mess, but I can sometimes manage to be present throughout the day if I could take one pile and put it within another room. For another day, of course. This isn’t ideal, but it’s what I have to work with.

Rest doesn’t clear this head of mine. It’s doesn’t offer renewal. Or energy. It doesn’t fight back. My body can cease to move. But that just make this brain louder.

I don’t often find peace within rest. I do not recognize the fight it wages against systems and institutions that cause harm, chaos, and destruction.

And so, I do not connect with the activist’s mantra of rest as resistance if it has to do with the act of physically sitting my ass down and literally…resting.

Pauses within this work of mine that allow me to sit within the joy of my family bring peace. I find our smiles to serve as armor for the harm thrown our way, or daggers to the dangerous assumptions cast on us. We are living messages for the world within we live and while that can be incredibly exhausting, I find that maintaining as much control over that message as possible is one thing that keeps me involved within advocacy. I can choose to just exist as I am, allow my children to do the same, and surround ourselves with what will pull joy from our bodies. And so, I do. That is my rest. That is my fight. And that is the only time I find that I can connect with resistance looking like rest.

Cause I gotta keep moving. I will rest when I am sleep.

I couldn’t even tell you where I was going with this. I wanted to write something this week that mimicked the way my mind often works. Chaotic and all over the place. I wanted the opportunity to give light to these ramblings. I guess I am saying that rest ain’t always restful. It ain’t a balm. Oftentimes, it’s just another battlefield.

Meh, I don’t know. I’m just gonna let whatever this is, happen.

Tea – the reluctant ritual, the grounding act, the mouth-breathing survival tool.

Schedules – the framework I keep trying to build for a life that resists being structured.

Chaos – the truth of my brain, my days, and the world I’m navigating.

Tea, Schedules, and Chaos.

If y’all know of any good tea out there, let me know.