Compost #11: Internalized Ableism
The Perks of Being a Wildflower
I had an autism assessment last week.
(…Yes, I have self-identified as autistic for several years now. But I’ve never had a proper assessment. In today’s world of impossible insurance coverage and outrageous out-of-pocket testing fees, self-diagnosis is the only viable option for many folks.)
The assessment didn’t go well. I cried more than I spoke. I’m nervous that I didn’t “pass” the test because I’m not verbally articulate.
I’ve carried a heavy load of internalized ableism since high school, believing I should be able to communicate like everyone else. Instead of well-constructed sentences, my assessor received choppy half-answers and a snotty tissue-filled trash bin.
One of the first questions was, “What are your special interests, Kelsi?”
“Writing. Words. Poetry. I have been collecting words for as long as I can remember,” was all I could manage to say between hyperventilations.
Now that I’ve had a few days to process the question, my true answer sounds something like this:
Writing is a ritual of returning home to myself.
I go out into a world of endless stimuli, overwhelm, pain, strange social rules, and expectations. I awkwardly play the part until I am exhausted beyond measure.
And then I return home to myself. Writing helps me metabolize at my own pace. Poetry has always been my hyperfixation of choice because it puts words to overwhelming experiences that I couldn’t articulate in the moment.
Writing is my lifeline, my safe place. If I go too long without writing, I crumble.
The day after my assessment, there was a conversation about autism and vaccines at work. Thanks to the spread of propagandized eugenicist ableist horseshit, there is a mainstream belief that an autism diagnosis makes someone a sad story.
I sat at my desk, said nothing to avoid crying, and absorbed this hate speech until my neck got red and blotchy. My internalized ableism bubbled just beneath the surface for the rest of the day.
To soothe my boiling insides, I rewatched one of my all-time favorite movies—The Perks of Being a Wallflower—when I got home.
The main character, Charlie, is a shy, painfully awkward, hyper-empathetic, SSRI-taking high school freshman who leans on writing to help him cope with life. He, too, goes out into the world and feels overwhelmed. He, too, is an observer with a giant heart.
At the end of the movie, Charlie has a psychotic break, ends up in the hospital, and has this conversation with his doctor:
Charlie: I want to stop seeing things.
How do I stop seeing it?
Doctor: Seeing what, Charlie?
Charlie: There is so much pain.
And I don’t know how to not notice it.
Doctor: What’s hurting you?
Charlie: No, it’s not me.
It’s them. It’s everyone.
It never stops.
Do you understand?
I understand, Charlie. I feel and see things on a deeper level than anyone I have ever met. I, too, see pain everywhere, in everyone. I don’t know how to not notice it, either.
During my assessment, The Perks of Being a Wallflower came up when I was asked about my go-to comfort movie. But instead of Wallflower, I accidentally said Wildflower.
The Perks of Being a Wildflower.
Writing. Words. Poetry. I have been collecting words for as long as I can remember.
Wildflowering has been code for my autism all along. Blooming and flourishing in unexpected places is an ongoing practice of composting my internalized ableism.
I won’t get the assessment results back for several weeks. Until then, I can rest easy knowing that my fertilization process is an infinite garden of perks.
“There are moments when you know you’re not a sad story. You are alive, and you stand up and see the lights on the buildings and everything that makes you wonder. And you’re listening to that song and that drive with the people you love most in this world. And in this moment, I swear, we are infinite.” -Charlie
I might not be a verbally articulate Wildflower, but when I sit down to write, I know I am not a sad story. Finding and collecting words to express my experiences is how I stay alive. It’s how I return home to myself, how I stand up, see the lights, and reignite wonder.
Yes, the world is filled with endless stimuli, overwhelm, pain, strange social rules, and expectations. But it’s also filled with auroras, sad prose, and long drives with the dog I love most in this world.
And in those moments, I swear, The Perks of Being a Wildflower are infinite.
🌱 Internalized Ableism Compost Equation:
Carbon (believing I should be more articulate) + nitrogen (sad story, mainstream propagandized eugenicist horseshit) + water (tears) + oxygen (deep cleansing breaths) + the art of decay = a nutrient-rich product used to fertilize wildflower soil
🌷Affirmation: I am not a sad story. The Perks of Being a Wildflower are infinite.
🌼 Journal Prompts: What have you been taught to believe about autism? Have you internalized mainstream ableist propaganda? Can you list five perks of the autistic folks in your life?
🪻Related bonus essays:
