AWG is an online support group for late-identified autistic women and all other members of marginalized genders. The meeting format is designed to reduce the sensory, social, and executive function burdens that normally come with socializing. Our members are clinically-diagnosed, self-diagnosed, and questioning. AWG is volunteer-led and not associated with any other umbrella organization or company.

Please consider joining us on Zoom. Our member profile is inclusive. Meetings are always free and no registration is required. Members share by speaking or typing. We also have many members who come just to listen. You never have to turn on you mic or camera if you don't want to. You don't have to come to every meeting, or stay the whole meeting, in order to be a full member. Disclosure of diagnosis/gender identity is welcome but never required for participation. 

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I hope you enjoy AWG Shares Magazine. And please do join us in a meeting sometime if you can.

          Annie Mydla

          Founder and facilitator, AWG

Dearest Community,

          This love letter is from a practice I began about seven years ago and is the only one I’ve recently written. 

          These letters are meant to be received orally, read as if spoken to you, from you. I’m sorry that I’m not yet offering a way to read them.

          They can be a lot. They don’t shy away from pain, grief, or trauma. They meet what’s real and true without flinching or softening. And they exude love and care. They delight in you.

          Please take whatever feels good to you, and leave the rest. 

          My heart,

                    Stacey 

            When I realize this it makes my chest clench. I feel uncomfortably warm and all too aware of my body and its presence. I look back at screenshots of texts and messages that I sent. I can see right through them, the thinly veiled attempt to seem attractive and interesting. A plea I hoped came across as cool and funny that secretly masked a deep longing to be wanted, to be included, to be liked.    

          That desire still resides within me, buried somewhere deeply within my heart, tucked away but easily stirred awake by the world around me.    

          I think I want people to feel for me as intensely as I feel for them. I want to be a part of a group, I want to be a first choice, I want to be a necessity.    

          I want to be the person you think of when inviting people to a party, and I want to be the person you call when you’re falling apart.    

          I wonder if someone will ever need me as much as I seem to need others. Will I ever be an unshakable pillar in someone else’s life, something that holds them up and grounds them to this world?    

          When you live through suicidal tendencies you become familiar with the question, “why am I here?” Or “who really needs me?” There have been times when the only thing that kept me tethered to this earth was the thought that my intentional death would be harmful to others. When your life loses a sense of internal value you begin to look for it outside of yourself.    

          I think I’ve done this for a while. I look around me for reasons to live, grasping for affirmation and withering under any form of criticism. My sense of self-worth becomes scattered and directionless, like a cloud of dust thrown into the air. So light it is carried by the breeze, moving quickly with the wind and falling swiftly back down to settle on the ground once more.    

          This dust, easily kicked up by any passing traveler, clouds my vision. I become lost in who I think others would like me to be most. I stop making choices for myself and try to squeeze myself into the mold I believe someone else has made for me.   

          Of course, I don’t fit, and I begin to sink back to the earth. The frenzy of my brief flight is now coming to an end as I can no longer keep up the facade I have worked so hard to maintain. I no longer have the energy to hold up the mask, and I fall victim to the voice of comparison in my head.    

          This voice only serves to disorient me further, and I become so confused that I begin to detach myself from reality.    

          I stop replying to texts and decline phone calls, lacking the energy to give coherent answers or agreeable responses. I am tired, but even more I am hurt.    

          Hurt because no one seems to recognize that I am wearing a mask at all. I seem to have left myself behind somewhere, running towards others' approval like a kid sprinting after an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.    

          But now my ice cream has melted, and my hands are sticky, and the sugar has made me feel sick to my stomach in the heat.   

          My belly churns and I begin to wonder if it was worth it to run after the ice cream truck at all. Was the ice cream even that good, or had I just dreamed up an idea of how lovely it would taste as it melted on my tongue?   

          Well now here I am, my hands sticky from the proverbial melted strawberry ice cream. I’m more tired than I was before, and now my mouth is filled with a sugary, fake strawberry flavor. It leaves me feeling gross and further away from who I actually want to be.   

          So what’s next?    

          For now, I’m going to go inside and wash my hands. I’m going to turn on the tap and allow the cool water to calm me as I remember that I am home. I am safe inside a cool house and my fingers are no longer sticking to each other from the syrupy glue that once was the strawberry ice cream. My hands are clean and I know exactly where I’m going.    

          I’m going to my room.    

          I’m going to sit down on my floor and spread out all my Barbies and I’m going to build my own world. In this microcosm I make all the decisions. I pick the clothes, I decorate the houses, and I plan the days. I create my own stories and I let them play out, not looking to any other person for answers but rather building the narrative with my own choices   

          So the next time I hear the chiming song of an ice cream truck in the distance and feel the pull to chase after the temporarily sweet approval of someone else I’m going to remember the world I’ve built, and I’m going to sit back down and play with my Barbies again, confident in the world I’m building and the story I’m telling.  

          I have recently started to take medication. If you had told me 3 or 4 years ago that this would happen, I would have probably laughed. I was, and still am, very critical of psychiatry as an institution, and the many ways in which it is part of a bigger socio-economic system that I disagree with.   

          At the time, I believed that everyone can find inner balance and their place in the world, by being in touch with their true nature, and nature in general. I saw psychiatry as a paradoxical contribution to the very problems it was trying to solve: problematizing the individual, to avoid healing the collective, shaming instead of encouraging. I thought that most “mental illnesses” could absolutely be “cured” with the right diet, exercise, sleep, life changes, unconditional love, and connection. And I thought that a lot of what is pathologized is in fact a healthy reaction to a society that normalizes violence, and compresses the natural rhythms of life. I thought the pills were a conveniently profitable shortcut that ultimately made you forget things that could have propelled your growth. And that some people are different and misunderstood, and the line between sanity and madness is inevitably a political issue, driven by collective beliefs about what's supposed to be possible or “normal”. As Krishnamurti said,“It is no measure of health to be well-adjusted to a sick society”.   

          I actually still believe all of these things. But I also feel really lucky now to live in a time and place where medication exists and is accessible. It is a privilege that many don't have. I have come to realize that beyond all the critical issues with psychiatry, sometimes a chemical imbalance actually does exist. And that sometimes, a person can actually be born with a brain that is just not entirely on their side, or develop that from a virus or microplastics or whatever, or just become really unable to get back on their feet after too much happened. That's where I have learnt to draw the line between spiritual and chemical. After all, the brain is an organ. It’s okay to take a pill if that gives you a chance to do, be and feel what you otherwise may never be able to.   

          Personally, I went for the pills with the least side and withdrawal effects. I want to depend on them as least as possible, and have the freedom to stop whenever. I think what gave me the final kick to start was hearing a healthy neurotypical person describe how their brain works (in this series of videos) – how it feels, what it does. It made me realize just how easy things could be. I have been at war with my brain all my life (or it with me?) Some things, it just doesn't really do on its own. Other things, it does great. It's like a scale tipped too much on one side.   

          I now see medication as a crutch for the brain. You don't use crutches if you can find ways to walk without, but you do use them if walking hurts you so much that you end up crying every day, or falling down at every step. You may even learn to walk on your hands to compensate…but living against your own brain is exhausting, and it ultimately wears you out. Everyone deserves to have access to the best version of themselves.

Trigger warning: Painful overwhelm, distress of an autistic woman pre-identification, and violence and bigotry against neurodivergent people

          Rustling. 

          Scraping. 

          Metal creaking. 

          Low voices. 

          Damp air. 

          Half-light. 

          Crushed by living bodies.   

          Felt good.   

          Spilling from the back of her neck to the top of her skull, down behind the forehead, and into her eye sockets, her brain was screaming.   

          But the immobility was good. The cool of the jail cell was good.   

          The manager knew there wouldn’t be any more customer service calls for her that day. No more difficult emails to difficult people. That was good.   

          Not good was that she didn’t know what to do. But really, she couldn’t do anything. And that part was actually super good. Because for anything she did do—no matter what it might be—her brain would be there, looking over her shoulder and screaming.   

          And she’d never been too good at multitasking.   

          Beating on riot cops, she thought. At least it’s an afternoon off. Thanks, Ramona. Thanks, you f***ing neurofraud, for getting yourself abducted.   

          Concrete floors are flat and cool. Maybe this was good for her back. The bodies around her were whispering, shifting, scratching itches, coughing. When she breathed, she could feel the others breathing. She might be able to doze off again. It would be like sleeping in a lung.   

          But as per f***ing always, the adverse voice in her head wouldn’t let her enjoy it.   

          Sorry, what the f***? it said. Open your eyes. You are in f***ing jail. What if your parents find out. What about your job. Did you hurt somebody? What if you’re going to prison? And f*** me, sleeping in a f***ing lung?   

          F*** off, she thought, but it was too late. The creaks, cracks, and whispers around her got louder as the doze energy floated away. Her armpit hurt. She craned her neck for a look. It was someone’s left penny loafer. Squinting, she saw her right arm running up the inseam of that same person’s leopard-print leggings.   

          Sh**! She plucked her arm back and relaxed her neck.   

          The ceiling was light blue. The fluorescent lights were off, thank god. The brainscream went on and on. The manager was back in the mob bottlenecked at the double doors of the customer service department. Taking the officer’s gun out of its holster. Having it snatched away.   

          Bang. That face when Client Accounts hits a cop with a swivel chair. Lol.   

          But wait. Wait wait wait.  

          The manager's eyes opened wider and she craned her neck again. Focused on the penny loafer. On the leopard-print legging. 

          Then she sat up.   

          Client Accounts!  

          Client Accounts looked dead, but don’t be dramatic, she must just be sleeping. The manager stared at her chest until she saw it move. But wait. Wait! said the adverse voice. Think about this. If you wake her up, she’ll sit up, and probably get someone else up, and soon they’ll all be up. Do you really want thirty moving people all around you in this cell?   

          It didn’t f***ing matter, though, because bang! Clang! Now everything was blinding f***ing white. Fifteen adults sat up at once, elbowing the other fifteen. Clang! Groans, swears, a giggle, coughs, and three cops at the cell door hitting the bars with baton butts.   

          The manager’s field of vision was all legs. Denim… khaki… khaki… corduroy!... denim... shorts? Can’t be one of ours… khaki…   

          But no leopard-print.   

          A thigh smacked her in the face as a sneaker crushed her hand. Hey! She face-butted whoever it was in the hamstring. They stumbled away. A belt buckle caught her in the forehead. F***! She grabbed it and let its momentum lift her to her feet.   

          Her line of sight was now collars and shoulders. The manager stood on her tip toes. Even hanging on to the moving shoulders for leverage, she couldn’t see much.   

          Wait. There she was. Client Accounts. All the way over near the wall. How had she gotten over there? She was cupping her palm over her eye. Had she been elbowed? Did go through all that just to get away from… hey! thought the manager. That b**** works for me!   

          Shut up, stupid, said the adverse voice. Client Accounts was asleep. She didn’t even know you were there. She must have gotten dragged to the wall in some weird current of bodies. You’re always so paranoid.   

          But then the field of collarbones and necks parted for just a second. The manager saw Client Accounts staring her way. Client Accounts flinched. 

          Their eyes had met.   

          The wall of shoulders closed. 

          Opened.   

          The manager thought about what she knew. 

          She knew Client Accounts was a hero who had smashed a riot cop with a swivel chair in defense of a fellow employee. Social Media, aka Ramona Oakley. Client Accounts had done this even though Ramona was a neurofraud who, claiming to be autistic, demanded special treatment for completely normal problems that everyone has. Ultimately triggering a government raid! 

          As for the chair smash, it had happened while she, the manager, was clinging to another riot cop's belt, trying to bite through Kevlar and stealing his gun. By accident. But still.

          A chair smasher and a Kevlar biter. Two such similar people should like each other, the manager knew. For example, it always happened in the movies.

          So it was hard to make sense of what her eyes were telling her when, as the sea of necks parted, Client Accounts wasn't waving at her, smiling at her, or calling her over. 

         

          Client Accounts was facing the wall.