Breaking up with a parent

I think I’m about to cut all contact with one of my parents. The other one I don’t have much contact with, and I rarely talk to my siblings either. It’s scary to take such a big step but I’ve been trying to find a way to communicate with this parent and so far I’ve failed. She hurts me and I’ve put up with a lot of ableistic abuse for the sake of my child but now she has done something unacceptable that hurt my child and that’s it. I have to do something more drastic than trying to talk. I can not risk her doing something like this again, and considering the fact that she doesn’t seem to think she did anything wrong, the risk is high. I want to elaborate on this but my head is too foggy at the moment. At some point I want to write more about what I mean with ableistic abuse, but right now I recommend this piece from Kink Praxis for those of you who wants to read more about emotional abuse (the post I’m linking to isn’t about sex but a lot of the posts on Kink Praxis is, just so you know where you’re going).

Like it’s not enough to battle my social insurance agency and a lot of healthcare stuff that’s about to happen, I now have to deal with this. On the positive side is that me and my partner are really supportive to one another.

My relationship status

Sometimes I write stuff about my love life that may seem confusing. As a matter of fact, it is confusing even to me. My relationships to other people are complicated. All of them (except for the relationship to my kid). I will probably never spell out exactly what kind of relationship I have with the one I call my partner, because I can’t. I know what I have, but just like most things regarding identity and sexuality it doesn’t match the relationship logics that I have a language for.

At some point I hope I can write a bit more about how I feel about relationships to other people. How hard I often find it to make the clear distinction between romantic love and friendship love. But right now, I need to rest. I’ve had an emotionally intense weekend and my head is boiling.


Liz. You’re visiting me in my dreams again. The battle against my social insurance agency works as a reminder of what life was like the last time I had to fight this fight, and at that time you were a part of my life. It was wonderful and absolutely dreadful.

The sensations of your hair against my hands, your smell, your skin. I remember the electricity that went through me when we kissed in the stairs on a cold December night. Life was blue and sparkling, deep frozen and burning like combustion…. it all comes back. Sore joints, pounding from inflammatory responses. Cravings to touch you that had to be suppressed. Your text messages on the screen of my phone, always filling me with joy and frustration. The spell you put me under when you talked, your voice so smooth and soothing. Last night I woke up from a dream filled with tears and kisses, a combination that makes me feel excruciatingly vulnerable. A combination I have never allowed with anybody else.

The only thought I could think was that I had to get well enough go back to work, then I would have the mental space to tell you how I felt. I never did. This time I’m fighting the fight without the hope of you.

What gaslighting does

My social insurance agency is trying to find a way to not pay me anymore. Yesterday when I ended the phone call that informed me about this, I started crying. I felt like my thoughts and feelings were being thrown around inside me, impossible to grasp. Within five minutes, I had relived a lot of the fear and shame that I’ve experienced during the last six years. I guess this is what post-traumatic stress does, it sends me back to a number of very frightening  situations without any notice.

Besides from worry about my financial situation, there is an equally horrible thing about this. I have to face all the times when doctors, physiotherapist, nurses, occupational therapists and psychologists made my symptoms worse with their assessments and treatments. Permanently worse. I have to face all those times when they were telling me that I interpreted myself and the world wrong. When they told me that what I was experiencing didn’t really happen. I have to face the fact that all that iatrogenic harm that I’m now living with the consequences of – it didn’t happen according to the people who should bear responsibility for it.

When I had calmed down a bit, I thought about this post about gaslighting. Because I think that one of the reasons for why being ill and disabled and going through a number of assessments and treatments has hurt me so much, is that I’ve been gaslighted all my life. As an undiagnosed autistic, people have constantly been telling me that I’m not experienceing what I’m experiencing. A quote from the post phrases this very eloquently:

Being an undiagnosed autistic can feel like the whole world is gaslighting you. From being told not to be silly, the lights aren’t hurting you, to being shouted at to pull yourself together, when you’re slipping into meltdown, you’re being told every day that your lived experience isn’t real.

This feels very important to understand in order to cope with what’s happening. It is very hard for me to deal with this kind of scrutiny that the insurance agency will put me under, because it makes old wounds start bleeding again. I still don’t know how I will get through this, but I know that reading about other autistic people’s experiences of gaslighting is helping me.

The intersection of sexual orientation and being an autistic woman: The normalizing project

Content Warning: The following text includes internalized ableism.


I want to tell you a story. It’s about an autistic girl growing up without a diagnosis or any other word to accurately describe herself. By the time she’s five, she’s well aware of that she isn’t like girls are supposed to be. She’s loud when she’s happy, she can’t control her impulses and interrupts people and she responds to unfairness with a great load of emotions. She’s kind of a pain in the ass to stressed teachers who tell kids lies in order to make them obey.

As she grows up, our girl’s life tends go from one extreme to the other. One day her teachers are praising her for being so smart, the next day she scores zero on her math test. Somehow she manages to get kind of good grades, despite struggling so hard to just attend classes in school. By the time she’s thirteen, she sees herself as arrogant and unintelligent.

On top of this, she has become aware that her sexuality doesn’t seem to follow the logic it’s supposed to. She has a secret crush on another girl in school, but she has a hard time knowing if she’s bisexual or a lesbian. The whole concept is kind of hard to relate to. It’s kind of hard to understand her friends too, to be honest. She doesn’t like most of them, the only reason she spends so much time with her friends is because her parents has told her to. Our girl really wants to belong and some of her friends are actually nice, but most of the other people in her school are annoying.

When our girl is fourteen, she hardly goes to school anymore. She’s too tired in the morning, too overwhelmed to be able to stay in school the few times she actually manages to drag herself there. She’s depressed because something is wrong with her but she has no clue what it is. She’s just wrong. She’s just a bad person. This escalated abscence leads to a phonecall to her parents. When they find out that she’s not going to school, they are angry. Since she doesn’t have an obvious problem with drugs or bad parents or anything else that counts as a real reason for needing help, she’s being told to get herself together. This lazy attitude has to stop.

Our girl pulls herself together. In order to force herself to school, she has to stop being this generally kind of faulty person who obviously can’t do anything right. Her life turns into the project: To Become Normal. She writes lists on what to say and how to act. One of her friends, a guy that she actually likes to have as a friend, becomes her boyfriend. Not because she’s in love with him, but because she has to push all the weird things about herself away. She attends school as much as possible, hangs out with her boyfriend and a few other friends, does most of her homework, and plays the part as the normal girl. In fact, she plays it so well that she suddenly becomes popular. It lasts for a year, then she can’t keep it up anymore.

The interesting thing about this story, is that the pattern will continue. This was the first fifteen years of my life and the following fifteen years followed the same pattern. I try to play the part as normal, fail after a while and collapse. Every time I try to pull myself together, I end up in a relationship with a cisman for while. After a couple of months I can’t do it anymore, end the relationship, engage in different kind of queer arrangements, mostly with women while still trying to make my life work, collapse, starts dating a cisman and repeat.

I’m not saying that I’ve never really wanted any of the cismen, because I was very much in love with one of them. I’m just noticing that the idea of a traditional relationship with a cisman seems to be a part of my desperate claim to pull myself together every time I have collapsed. It has been a part of trying to become normal, again and again.