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Tuesday, 12 September 2017

Escape Velocity

Escape Velocity

By
Alexander Gordon Jahans


So I’m stuck in a mental orbit, a mental orbit that is decaying slowly and held together by the relief of other long term problems being abated. My family tries to help but they fail to understand because their thought process is so far from mine at best. If I am going to get out of this I need to be the one to do it. Drugs may keep me living, keep the orbit maintained but they are not a solution for me. I am not biologically depressed, I’m logically fucked.

I don’t lie. I don’t like lying. I am different. I think differently and I have to try so hard to even approach what the majority consider normal. No wonder I had no fucking clue about what would be offensive to trans people, neurotypicals struggle with that.

I have spent three years now running from a question I already know the answer to. How do I get out of this shithole I am in? Answer: Either I bash my head against the brick wall of capitalism or I kill myself and I am not bashing my head against the brick wall of capitalism when that’s a whole lot of aggravation for a whole lot of failure. Death seems like the logical pragmatic answer and honestly this orbit has felt more like a goodbye tour. I’m not hanging on until the move is sorted because that’s the cure but because then this big fucking albatross about my family’s neck will be over and I can take the cure because I’ll have given them a shot, died at a less inconvenient time...

Yeah, that’s grim. You can’t talk about that. I mean I don’t want to die. I like living, under the right circumstances. It’s just capitalism’s a bitch and I don’t belong. A cold equation. Except I may now have a third way.

You see a lot has happened to me. Part of the reason I cocked things up so very badly with that fucking fanfic was that I was lost and reaching out to a community I thought would understand and be able to offer support. That’s why their words cut so deep. They made quite clear that I was a dangerous element not fit to interact with their community and I felt kind of instinctually, in a way I have never felt before as an autistic person, that since I tried to reach out to the trans community because this Kallman’s Syndrome had so knocked me then kind of implicitly that was the problem there as well.

It’s the same reason things with my father have been so much worse these last three years. I mean lets face it my dad is an angry shite hole of a person and he always will be because the fucker refuses to seek help but nothing he did was anything different. Oh he had a stupid rant about how I was pathetic and a selfish waste. Big woop. Git did worse things when I was a kid. Except I’m sitting here with this fucked up body and a drastically affected social life because that the man who calls himself my father fucked up his one cocking job.

Sorry, the anger is still there.

I had everything at the end of university and now I have nothing. I am a broken wreck surviving on meds and injections. This isn’t right. This isn’t good. I am tired and in pain and I’m still grieving for the life I could have fucking had had my parents cared less about phantom fears, the washing up and who was to blame and more about doing the fucking job of raising their kids. If they had listened to me earlier, if they had noticed earlier.

This isn’t as simple as a cold equation. This was event after event hammering home that death would be a mercy. That it would be a morally good thing if I died.

Except I didn’t want to die and so I entered this mental orbit and as I have fallen the circumstances justifying the myth of the cold equation have changed. Problems that affected me have begun to be solved, problems that affected the world have been recognised. Things are different now. There is hope. More importantly the very fact of my continued survival suggests that I can survive and if I can survive I can live. I went back to Nine World’s Geek Fest and I was home and my friends were there to meet me and not only was I not shunned for my sins, they saw progress towards, well being less of a sexist dick.

At the same time I have been finding the person I used to be. It isn’t perfect. Like trying on a suit that doesn’t quite fit anymore but it has been helpful. You see as an autistic person, as me at my place on the various spectrums, I adapt, I kind of mould myself to fit my environment and the people I’m with. Except there is kick back. An essential version of me will bolt like a horse, rejecting adaptations that don’t sit right.

I have reminded myself of the survivalism, the normality seekingness and morality of my past and I have felt myself tempted by a metaphorical darkside. That I could say fuck it. That I could give into the power. That I could lie, could let myself be so self interested, greedy and confident. That being this timid self loathing wreck is to a certain extent a choice. It is choosing to display my honest feelings and thoughts.

At the same time I have written and written and found myself trying to be better than I am. Failing certainly but still trying and making small progress. Cutting out problematic scenes, rewriting, editing and perhaps most importantly, no longer needing to write out of distraction but instead actively following plans. I could be so much more, be so much better. I can’t not be a cis white male with a cis white male’s perspective but I can consciously included other characters and give them interesting storylines. Ultimately so what if I can’t write a trans, black or female perspective accurately, when a robotic shark is angry with them what matters is their ability to deal with the danger.

So here’s the irony of ironies. The third way is so called in my writing because it is survival through being exploited as opposed to the domination of the first way and the second way, what normal people do. I have felt torn between survival through the darkside, of wearing the fancy suits, lying and playing the great game of capitalism, or the nobility and morality of accepting that the struggle is not something I want and that I don’t deserve to exist. My third way is my second way. To do what normal people do. To exist in shades of grey.

I mean if there is one thing I have learned for certain it is that nature and nurture both fucked me up so I shall play Frankenstein to my own monstrousness. I will create the new version of myself, not the whims of fate or the idiocy of neurotypicals. I will be socially progressive, confident and dominant. I’m done being the victim of fate and shiteholes.