That mid-autumn date we made,

You promised,

But you did not keep.

I would bring you lanterns,

Fill your room with light.

I would sing you songs,

Little childish ditties.

Wait for me, I said,

And you nodded.

When I returned,

You were gone


I’ve missed you ever since.




Betrayal is a deadweight in the gut. Tastes like mixture of rancid milk and filth riddled mud. Smells like vomitus after a rowdy night. Not your own. That of someone else. Sickly sticky, viscous, slimy mottled slush all over your beautiful brand new silk scarf. And lingering on and on, churning chaos in the delicate ecology of your mind.


A little sparrow is trapped inside a corner in a large human-purposed shopping mall. It flies around looking for a way out, but to no avail.

My senses connect with the bird in its distress and anxiety, I feel a tingling in my scalp, shortness of breath and tightness in muscles around ribcage. Nausea creeps in before I know it. The taste of my orange juice at the back of my throat has turned into a vile, sickly yet sharp dry metallic-sour taste, like acid burning the sensitive mucosa around my throat. Dryness is setting in and I must remind myself to swallow and breathe deeply.

The poor bird. My mind is working out ways to capture the bird and take it outside. But I do not have a shawl or towel with me, and it is flying too frantically anyway.

The room is tossing and turning in concentric circles around me, and the soundscape of human voices and piped pseudo-jazz music is slowly distorting in my brain into a muffled, slow-motion eerie kaleidoscope of dark purple colours and rancid vomitus.

And the hapless bird continues to fly, round and round, across, up and down.

The humans inhabiting the space, dotted around the room at small square tables, are all too engrossed in either their mobile phones or social chatter. Not a single person averse their gaze to look at the sparrow, not a single expression of concern. They share no empathic resonance with this sorry, desperate creature.

Soon, it will become too exhausted and maybe even crushed by the impact of smashing against windows, and will just fall to the ground and die. A slow, anxious, fear-filled death.

Just a sparrow? Not to me.

A small entity exuding overwhelming pain, confusion and wretchedly forlorn fear. Screaming fear, even. Fluttering. Flapping. Smashing. Falling. Rising. Da capo. Until there is strength no more. Not a twitter. No time and mental space to cry out. Just white hot futile determination. And then, there is silence and life is spent.

My heart feels squeezed tightly like a wrinkled old orange.

Heavy with sadness.

Overwhelmed by elemental empathy.


(Shop staff have become aware of the sparrow. Let’s hope something can be done to help the poor creature.)

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

food markers

Food can be multi sensorial markers for a journey, tangible physical tabs that help one chronicle the meandering and navigating along the way. Here are my food markers for this trip, a somewhat odd blend of agony and joy, despair and exhilaration all rolled into one jumbled mass.

After arriving at my place of abode, already down with some kind of nasty infection, feverish and in a brain fog, I set about trying to find some nourishment for my weary body. I didn’t manage to get far, due to the sorry state I was in, and settled for a hot dog and an orange juice from the pie and hot dog stand across the road, by the wharf. A sunny day, there were the usual seagulls and pigeons stalking all and any humans sitting at the benches eating. One man brought his little French Bulldog for some sunshine. It was difficult chewing down on the hotdog, my jaw slightly swollen and stiff, but I was quite determined to achieve the feat. The orange juice tasted like soap and plastic though, pretty vile, hence that was abandoned after a few swigs. I so hate to waste. Continue reading


  1. the action of disconnecting or separating or the state of being disconnected.

Shared stories from neurodivergent people differ in hue, colour, strokes and intricate detail about their experiences of the state of mind-body disconnect that is “dissociation”. But all bear one similarity – that it happens because of pain, too much pain for the mind to bear, like a meltdown from sensory overload, though in this case the sense is excruciating pain, pure and unfiltered.

I wrote this Ode to Dissociation for all those who know it and are living it, the brave who have no choice but to be. This is not about death, really, it is about living in unending hell. That is what people who experience dissociation tell me. I think they must be right.


Depart from me, tender soul, your presence is not wanted. Inside tumultuous raging sea, this vulnerability attracts destruction, and annihilation becomes an inevitability.

Leave this terrifying arena, you have not the grit and boldness for the gory fight, you are but a diaphanous delicate entity, and the pounding hoofs of bulls are crushing you beneath.

Empty the soul, stand outside, dissociate from the incessant kicking of steel-capped boots, turn away if you can, do not watch, as this shell becomes limp and wearied, as it withers away.

Depart from me, tender soul, your presence is a burden that hastens annihilation. In death, we shall yet remain alive. This is an ancient trick, a grand sorcery of the mind, for survival of the fittest!



Drain. The physical object. That little channel ushering its contents into the nether regions of our consciousness. The act of it. That actual movement, going, flowing, evacuating, emptying. And being drained. Emptied, while still alive, until there is no more. At which point does it translate into actuality? How long can the human soul endure? Continue reading

coming home

Dear Lucy,

Mumma’s coming home.

I know you’ve missed me. I missed you terribly too.

I am so sorry, my dearest love.

I will work ever harder, I promise, to provide a better life for you and me.

Thank you for your unquestioning patience, quiet endurance, and silent forbearance. I am devastated at having caused you pain.

I am coming home. In just a few hours, I will be with you again.

All my love and gratitude,

Mum Continue reading



Change can and does happen. Hope is not always just a frilly fantasy. Sometimes, even after one has given up and walked away, change unfolds.

Many years ago, I walked away from a connection with an ‘autism mom’. She wasn’t the typical, aggressive mom-crusader that you see in online mom-forums. She was always private about her woes, but nevertheless, at the time, so full of her own grief and struggle that she was unwilling to hear whatever I had to say.

Our paths crossed again recently. Her autistic son is an adult now. The struggles have been fierce, tumultuous, and the future is still shaky and uncertain. Yet, I see an acceptance, and embracing of her child, and a fierce loyalty and determination to support him, that I never saw before. Continue reading