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I ask a question, and people hear…more than a question.
“Just showed that you can write a magical world brimming with complex, label-defying characters and still be a trans-exclusionary feminist disappointment.”
They’re one of the most vital tools in my arsenal for navigating human behavior, to explore my feelings about the parts of life that most confuse me. Books help me feel a bit more connected to a world that often is hard to make sense of. Books are patient with me. They don’t laugh at me instead of with me. They don’t ask why I’m “always” frowning, or why I can’t sit still. Books welcome me—weirdness and all—and take me exactly as I am.
“Don’t worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry for itself,”
I can be someone who surmounts obstacles without it meaning there’s something fundamentally lacking in my makeup.
One of the things I admire about Ren is that he chooses his words wisely, that he believes in the power and responsibility of language.
People use the term “meltdown” cavalierly, but in reference to autism, it’s a very specific thing. When faced with sensory overload, meltdowns sometimes looks like an adult having a tantrum or catatonically shutting down. It’s the body and mind doing whatever they can to put the overwhelming input to a stop—an emotional surge protector, the mental switch when an overflow of information trips the mind’s circuit breaker. Meltdown is a survival instinct.
Wouldn’t anyone do what I did when the opportunity presented itself? Being thanked for doing the decent thing feels weird.
