Is My Body Really Mine?

Content: This post mentions a shaving accident, scars and bruises



A mark on side of my neck. A carer who applies schampoo in my hair.

There’s nowhere to hide.

I’m I crossing a line? Am I supposed to be ashamed? Am I supposed to hide? I don’t know how to do this.

Last night we kissed, me and my partner. It got intense, it was charged with desire. It was about us but it left a mark and now I need to relate this to who I am with my carer.

Is my body mine? My body that so easily get imprints and marks. A body that is more of a landscape with tracks that tell stories about the things that took place on it and with it. I don’t mind my scars, I even enjoy them. My scars, marks and bruises are all me. They tell me that this is me. They tell me that I once was the girl with no impulse control who fell off my bike from a competition that got out of hand. That I tried to do femininity without understanding how and accidently ┬ácut wholes on the front of my lower legs while trying to shave them. They tell me about the surgeries and the pregnancy that gave me my kid. They tell my that the hypermobility was always there, even when nobody understood it.

My scars validate me.

Still, now I’m here with marks on the back and side of my neck and on the edge of my lower lip from kissing that got intense. This morning my carer saw it when she applied schampoo in my hair. Am I allowed to need care and feel desire?

Am I allowed to having to such disparate parts of me meet?

Is my body really mine to do what I want with, even when this means that my sexuality is portrayed and made visible for my carer?

What if integrity isn’t just to have the opportunity to say no, but also being allowed to say yes without punishment?

Thriving and not getting anywhere (Trauma Journal)

I used to think that thriving meant feeling good. It seems like I was wrong. I am thriving, but I’m also having so many bad moments.

I’m sad. I’m deplatformed. I’m scared. I’m thriving. I’m melting.

Being autistic has a huge impact on everything. I’ve realized that I process emotions very differently from how I’m expected to. I don’t want to be alone but I distance myself from people because I don’t know what to say and I can’t risk feeling even more ashamed. I’ve realized that I’m masking more than I previously thought, because masking has become my default way of being.

I am so sad and so scared but every day when my partner and kid come home, I hide it because I don’t know what else to do. It’s a reflex and it is about more than hiding feelings. I put on a face of dealing with things, of thinking in certain ways etc. I talk to my partner about what I’m thinking but not about the most difficult things. Because how would I explain something that I don’t have any words for? How would I explain the fear and grief? And how on earth do I explain that I feel robbed of myself?

During my bad moments, I’m so ambivalent. I have a really, really embarrasing wish that I’ve never confessed to anyone. I will probably never do so either, because shame is everywhere and everything that is me.

I’m thriving in the sense of evolving, because going no contact with my mom has shed a lot of light on things and it is leading to good things. But I’m feeling horrible and I’m still totally unable to receive comfort, even though I wish I could.


Dear Life,

I’m here. I’m actually still alive. I still have really bad moments (a lot of them), but during the last year I’ve also started to thrive again. I didn’t think that was going to happen.

But it did.

I’m slowly starting to dare feeling hope again. To dare wishing for more than survival so I can give my kid a good life. It’s quite fragile and I’m knocked to the ground on a regular basis. But I’m here.

My steps are very small, but I’m actually trying to not shut people out. I’m by no means nearly as good as I wish to be when it comes to this, but sometimes I manage to talk about some of the things that are hurting.

I’ve fallen very deeply in love with my partner again. It’s hard, because being in love means being vulnerable, but it also means a deep sense of connection. It’s wonderful.

I’m still nowhere near done with processing the trauma of the emotional abuse from the person I once called my mom. Maybe one day I will be able to get professional help with that. However, I’m not under her spell anymore. She doesn’t own my feelings and it means that the process of healing as an autistic person is going forward.

Dear Love,

There is so much of you in my life. The love for my kid, my partner and my friends. The love I feel for all the people fighting for making the world a better place.

Dear Life,

I’m crying now. I don’t cry very often anymore, but now I am. I’m crying because of the hope I dare feel, because it makes me so vulnerable that I can almost not carry it.

Behind My Back

I reached out to you, I asked you for a straight forward conversation. I offered to explain. Still, you went behind my back. You talked to somebody else, without understanding the consequences.

You admitted to being misinformed, and that you really don’t have a clue about how this works, but you still blame me for overreacting.

I’m disabled, and therefore not trustworthy. My kid is disabled, and therefore, we are not trustworhty. I’m not even worth honesty and straightforward communication. I’m not even deserving of the benefit of the doubt.

Your actions can seriously harm my kid, but you don’t apologize or try to do better. You act like I’m the one to blame.

Today is a day with more emotions than I can carry. I can’t anymore. I just can’t. I will have to go on but the hope of a better life I had a few weeks ago is gone.


You stole my life (trauma journal)

Content: abuse, mentioning of rapist


You stole my identity.

You stole me from myself.

You are similar to a rapist. Because even if you don’t took sex, you treated me and my child like things that you owned. When we said “no”, you took what you wanted anyway.

You even admitted that you don’t ask because you know that I will say no. You admitted that you don’t respect me.

This language isn’t mine, and therefore my words feel hollow. But I still can’t journal in the language that is mine, because I don’t own my story yet.

I’m trying to mourn the life that you stole from me, but I still can’t. The barrier between me and my emotions is still too solid.

One day it won’t be. One day I will scream out loud about what you did. One day, I won’t protect you anymore.