the dilemma of trauma

 

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One week of excruciating physical pain. Stress reaction. A serious one. I was caught by surprise this time, I didn’t expect my body to react so viciously.

I was physically assaulted last Sunday. By someone I know. The person has admitted to me it was a psychotic episode. I am psychologically and emotionally intact, but my physical body has reacted fiercely from the traumatic shock.

Last Sunday, I attended a theatre performance. I was standing outside the theatre, in a basement lobby teeming with chattering voices bouncing off pristine white walls, waiting for the show to begin, when a pre-show drama literally exploded in my face. Continue reading

layers

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Tumultuous ocean, churning depths. Underneath pomp, ceremonious circus, lies dark churning death. Extirpating the soul inside writhing grief, bursting through blessed gratitude too copiously applied. Such ponderous agony, ‘neath layer upon layer of colourful luxury.

Executive dysfunction is a very real phenomenon – not to be scoffed at. The veneer of steadfastness belies gritted teeth, foaming nausea, weeping silently, hapless, atop mighty pedestal. Who sets the heights, lengths, and breadths for performativity? The Autistic in a constant state of unstable flux – crushed, tossed, fluffed, buoyed, then crammed into discomforting contortions – seeks determinedly for clemency of space, breathing in every small fleeting moment, as if a last and final breath.

Too much struggle brings chaos to sensory reception – hyper senses become all the more acute, but yet bizarre in rhythmic jaggedness. The brain seems to switch off some signals, while others hurtle along as if out of control. A multi-dimensional existence, so markedly conflicting, it is a wonder that there are not far more collisions and collapses.

Demons screaming at the door, thinly veiled agony that nobody sees, nor ought they to be cognisant of in case of unknown, volatile consequences.

troll and roll

 

 

 

Social media is an amazing thing, really. Dissemination of information – false and true and somewhere in between – quicker than you can say your own name. It’s a great space for many people with disabilities to connect, sans the traditional barriers. Yet, it’s also a grand circus for explosive and nasty battles where humans exhibit their common human DNA, regardless of superficial differences. Continue reading

monachopsis

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Wriggling… awkward shifting, shuffling… navigating frothy nausea… think, dank fog…

How to craft Clement Space inside a constantly assaultive alienation? Minuscule foci. Small things. Split-second moments. Carpe diem! Each tiny aperture is a precious molecule.

Lucy.

Home-cooked nosh.

Friendship.

Music.

Art.

Goodness.

Kindness.

Droplets of mercy and grace notes of consideration, respect and gentleness. These all are Clement Spaces, in the midst of monachopsis.

crush

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I can literally hear it, the crunching, fragments rubbing against one another, breaking, jostling, resisting until they break yet again into smaller and smaller composites. The soul is an amazing, elastic creature, yet so fragile in its dichotomous existence. Crushed, overridden, derided, mocked, flung from one extreme to another, the dissonant chromaticism so excruciating, a wordless silent scream issues forth, travelling through time and space into the vast nothingness, pain with an ominous fermata riding mercilessly atop. Continue reading

cockroach

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Autism Awareness Month is going to sweep over us again, like a nauseating sludge – engulfing, choking, terrorising.

Awareness? Just like the cockroach in the room that one becomes aware of, that’s as far as it goes, this ‘awareness’ exercise. And autistic persons are being treated accordingly.

Parents, Siblings, Teachers, Peers, Autism Organisations… the list goes on… and round and round in dizzying concentric circles…

You write books detailing my vulnerabilities, my meltdowns, telling the world how terribly inept I am, using my dirt and mess as stark contrasting juxtaposition to your shining, glittery ‘suffering’. You can be you, this is you, this is how you deal with things, this is how you talk, this is how you react, this is just what is, so take it or leave it, but I cannot be me, because you are feeding me, housing me, and so you own my existence.

You kill me, it is murder, but because I am autistic, you become a hero instead, and the media is in a pity-party frenzy, not for me, but for you.

Do I even realise how stressed you are, having to care for my every need? Oh yes, I do. I am aware of much more than you care to even know about me. But what I think and how I feel are not at all important to you.

When autistic people protest, you tell us: Stop the drama!

When I try to explain myself to you, you tell me: Stop arguing!

When autistic people ask to be paid for work done, you tell us: Stop making demands, we ought to be grateful that you are going to great lengths to organise events on our behalf!

When I try to share my hopes and dreams, you mock me: Stop being ridiculous! You can’t even take care of yourself, what are you talking about?

Is my voice so broken? Are my words so devoid of sense? Is my Beingness so utterly despicable or laughable that you must use puzzle pieces to symbolise me? Or are you just not wanting to know my thoughts, not interested at all in who I am, because YOU are all there is and I simply should not exist? Without you, I am nothing. I cannot tie my own shoelaces. I cannot earn enough money to feed myself. Or… I cannot even feed myself. So I have nothing valuable to say. It is Autism Awareness Month, and you are making all the awareness on my behalf.

Cockroach in the Room. I am already much aware that you are aware of me. Awareness is a behemoth – overwhelming, overpowering, tyrannical – no room for negotiation, not even gentle co-existence. The Autistic is persona non grata. Deemed useless, hapless in the swirling vortex of Awareness.

Bring out the cockroach spray. Get the brooms ready.

We do not need more awareness, really, do we? We already are your filthy little cockroaches in the pristine normative room. And you are swatting and spraying at us every single day anyway. Let’s just do away with the pretext, shall we? Scrap Autism Awareness Month. We’ve been aware of your awareness for a very long time already.

syncopation

 

 

Sensory syncopation. Buzzing dissonance. Muted vowels. Overwhelming consonants. All this and more, gyrating – determined and unceasing – in the thrilling, vexing and amazing sensory ecology of Hong Kong.

I haven’t been back in 6 years, not since my Haptic Autistry and Haptic HugShrug exhibitions. It was lovely to be back, on old familiar soil, yet with so much vibrant newness yet to explore.

Three lectures/talks, two public and one private, and a great many old friends to catch up with, kept my days buzzing with activity.

 

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A new adventure awaited in Sham Shui Po – gritty, old, traditional and crammed – where I would stay for the entire trip, in a windowless bedroom above the sensory theatre of wet markets, dim sum stalls, cooked and raw food shops side by side, vegetables and fruit, and … fish. I landed smack in the middle of unfamiliarity. It was a deliberate decision, I wanted to experience somewhere different from my old memories of my life in Hong Kong – and I got what I asked for. Picturesque, and I am glad for my nifty Fujifilm X100T, but the olfactory ambience was confronting, to say the least. The smell of pork – raw, uncooked pork – literally envelopes your entire being, pervading the air all the way up into my dark little AirBnB bedroom. Then there was fish, rotting vegetable, overflowing sewers, and human bodies seething with perspiration wrapped in unwashed clothes – thematic elements weaving in and out of the tapestry, as the basso continuo of pork pounded on and on.

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Elderly lady selling fish and vegetables

One picture carved into my mind, leaving me engulfed in a heavy, thick and excruciating wave of sadness and haplessness, is that of an old lady, bent double, sitting on a small stool, selling fish and assorted vegetables, just in front of the strong smelling butchery at the corner. Her catch differed every day, sometimes there were larger fish, other days small ones, even turtles and frogs (for consumption) and dribs and drabs of wilted vegetables and fruits – whatever she could get to sell, I suppose? There is rubbish strewn around the filthy wet street, and there she is, sitting there patiently waiting for customers. I wanted to give her some money, but was afraid she would be offended, and what good would my few dollars do for her anyway? She was there every morning, and I, a stranger and ‘alien’ to this ecosphere, felt a choking sadness, an anguished torment each time I walked by. Hapless. I can still taste the air, hear the soundscape echoing in my head, and see the spunky, brave yet forlorn image of this lady in my mind. Poverty is crushing to witness, and my heart breaks even more because she is so terribly old and frail.
Continue reading

heart

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It’s Valentine’s Day again. Social media is of course flooded with all kinds of related memes, posts, comments and messages. Too much of it is sappy, and just irrelevant to this Autistic Bunny. But the circus is unavoidable, unless one lives in a hole under a rock (not a bad thing, really, apart from the lack of modern sanitation). So… here are my own thoughts for the day… Continue reading

anxiety at the BIG Anxiety

Big anxiety at The BIG Anxiety Festival!

Some of this narrative was introduced in my previous post, about Food Markers, but this ramble here is a kind of variation on the theme, from a different angle.

This 2017 working trip has been fraught with dramatic ups and downs, and here’s my as-brief-as-possible review of the Grand Experience, months afterwards. Beware, ye grammar-sticklers, I do move rapidly between tenses, because I am unfolding the unfolding as I am experiencing it, in the now, in the then, and in the next. And that, too, is my Autistic Bunny Authentic Experience-ing. Continue reading