Tag: #AutismAcceptance

The Chiaroscuro Anthology 19/19

No apology, no quarter
By Lee-Anne Ford

You say it came from nowhere.
A lightning strike, an accident, a fluke.
But tell me—
Where did my hair come from, skin, eyes?
Did my voice, hands, blood, bones, arrive by chance?
Mother, look to yourself, I’m half of your DNA.
Father, that’s you too. I’m half of your DNA.
My hair colour, my eyes,
My skin tone, MY AUTISM.
It is in OUR genes.
You don’t get to claim me
in the ways that make you proud
but disown the ways
that make you uncomfortable.
I am not broken.
I am not something that needs fixing.
I am the full, unedited version of us.
When you point a finger?
Four are pointing back at you.
Autism shouldn’t be a surprise.
Because—
Wanderers drown.
Unmanaged RSD kills.
Eating disorders kill.
Unmanaged ARFID is malnutrition.
When water repels, dehydration can kill.
PDA looks like death by police.
The Rule of Three is absolute
Just like our genes
If I die young, it won’t be because I was autistic. It will be because of you.
Because of your world, the one that refuses to see, learn, listen, change.

I was autistic at birth.
I will be autistic when I die.
And every day in between.


Years later, that woman has a daughter
Her own little autistic bundle of joy
Life will be better for her little sweetheart
Autistic life different was her ploy.

Hush little baby, don’t say a thing
Mama’s gonna buy you a fidget ring
And if that ring don’t soothe my girl
Mama will show you how to knit and purl
And if that knitting doesn’t make you smile
Mama’s gonna be here all the while

Mama’s gonna buy you a clockwork bird.
And if that bird’s song doesn’t bring delight,
Mama will hold you through the night.
And if the night’s too dark to see,
Mama’s gonna light up the galaxy.
And if those stars don’t calm your fears,
Mama’s gonna dry all your tears.

And if those tears still find their way,
Mama’s gonna teach you how to play.
And if that play feels too intense,
Mama’s gonna build you a safe defense.

And if that defense starts to fall,
Mama’s gonna be there through it all.
And if the world feels too unkind,
Mama’s gonna help you unwind.

And if unwinding takes some time,
Mama’s gonna sing this simple rhyme.
And if this rhyme doesn’t soothe your mind,
Know Mama’s love is always aligned.

So hush, little baby, don’t you cry,
Mama’s here to help you fly.
And if flying feels too much to do,
Mama’s gonna stay right here with you.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  15/19

Ultrasound heart
By Lee-Anne Ford

The double-edged sword of memory,
A blade that grinds the soul with emery.
Raw nerves exposed, yet must stay composed—
No mercy in eternity.
A gallery of snapshots, a series of slides,
Each moment frozen, no film to rewind.
Not a story, but a slideshow,
People and places etched in time.
Mama’s battle with a cake tin—before it flew out the window.
Papa’s thousand-yard stare—when she wished to be widow.
Piper, proud in the show ring, a Scottie with ‘it.’
Pine plantations standing in serried ranks,
like soldiers guarding a farmer’s shadow.
Yet memory, too, holds the weight of the unknown—
The reprimands, the demands, the silent groan.
The Bolshie stall, my defiant refrain—
A little PDA, a little disdain.
Abandoned friendships, where I thought them perfect rhymes,
Each one lost before its time.
Imagine an image in high definition,
Every feature crisp, every frame precision.
Textures, light, and echoes sound—
Each a mind’s own locus, bound.
Some memories cut like bitter glass,
Some bloom as sweet as wine.
Autistic memory does not fade,
Singular, sharp, defined.
We recall what you forget,
We see what you let blur.
Not better, not worse—
Just. Different.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  14/19

Too late and right on time
By Lee-Anne Ford

In a time and place both near and far,
A girl grew up in her own bright way.
They called her smart, well-read, terrific—
Charmed by the cute things she would say.
Unknowingly autistic.

In second grade, she had a friend,
Dear Sylvie, always near.
A year behind, repeating class,
Then suddenly—she disappeared.
Unknowingly autistic.

“Subnormal,” they said. “Special school.”
So Sylvie went away.
Two girls who laughed at hidden things—
But only one got to stay.
Unknowingly autistic.

Imagine, then, if they had known,
If supports had lit the way—
Two girls giggling at the world,
In their own autistic play.
Knowingly autistic.

Two friends for life, side by side,
Safe, understood, together.
Instead, the years just faded her,
A friendship lost forever.
Unknowingly autistic.


But in some world, some place beyond,
Where time bends, twists, and sways,
Maybe they’re still swimming, laughing—
In their own autistic way.
Knowingly autistic.

Singing, biking, learning, growing,
Side by side, each day.
Instead, they split—one “subnormal,” one “smart”—
The 1970s way.
Unknowingly autistic.

And now I stand, reborn at last,
Autistic since ‘72.
It took fifty years to know myself—
To see the truth in view.
Knowingly autistic.

But grief, too, for what was lost—
For the path that might have been.
Two girls who should have had forever,
But lived in different skins.
Knowingly autistic.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  12/19

Promise of another world

By Lee-Anne Ford

 

Looking at photos, me as a child

Strictures to be meek, not wild

But I want.

 

Remembering moments, me as a teen

Some things real, some a dream

But I need.

 

Experiencing love, supreme oxytocin

No need for any old love potion

But I live.

 

Gasping in grief, widow’s needs

Never wearing black widow’s weeds

But I love.

 

Sighing in relief, explanation at last

Now reconciling an entire past

But I grieve

 

Which is me? Want, need, live, love, grief.

All but so much more

Autistic

Not wrong

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  10/19

Blending life with magic
By Lee-Anne Ford

Sundays, meal prep days
Needs music, words, plays
No need for headphones
Free sound in my zones
The sizzle of a hot pan is chemistry research
The idea of grilled peaches is sweet, pert
The song is light purple, glistening
The words are red, passionate
The recipe glows, alchemy
Kitchen chemistry? No. Magic blooms

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  9/19

I have no voice, how can I scream
By Lee-Anne Ford

From a liquid cocoon into a noisy room
Autistic from birth in a world not ours
Overheads lights, can’t enter this room.
Stim in twilight for hours
Impossible tastes, food is doom
Am I hungry? Can I eat flowers?
The seam allowance burns, awful loom
Wear inside out. Not your bowers.
That smell gags, can’t you zoom,
Run away from the stench towers?
Noise hurts, burns, run from room
Echoes, headphones, give succours

Your world hurts. Make it stop.
My world heals. Never stop.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 8/19

The breath between
By Lee-Anne Ford

A mind that walks the spaces ‘twixt it all,
The breath between the beats, the beats ‘neath breath.
You cast your laws, your walls, your hallowed halls,
Yet fail to see the rhythm underneath.
The western wind hums low—a hollow call,
A note that bends but will not break in time.
Autistic hands stretch wide, defy the thrall,
Yet still, you cage the ones who hear the chime.
But who else knows the base of eight, the sum,
Of atoms spun to music carved in spars?
Who counts the spaces, thumb to ghost of thumb,
And maps the void where voices echo stars?
Be deaf, be blind, be dumb—we rise in waves.
The edge of eight is ours—you cannot save.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  7/19

A childhood in deficit and afficit
By Lee-Anne Ford

She’s not gifted, just smart.
She’s not talented, just smart.
She’s a girl, she can’t do that.
She’s a girl, she can’t be that.
Brutal put-down, not my shutdown
Let me throw down, take you down
Do I shine too bright? Wear sunglasses.
Do I fall too low? That’s your shame.
Do I dig too deep? That’s your shallow.
Do I see too much? That’s your blindness.
Brutal shut-down, fallen crown
Let me lie down, adjust my gown
You judge too much. Not my fault.
You’re blind to see. Not my fault.
You cannot touch. Not my fault.
You cannot hear. Not my fault.
Allistic let-down, don’t dare frown
Autistic touchdown, go to town.
We are, we have, we do.
We just don’t do you.
 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology,  6/19

Harlequin, pierrot or me?
By Lee-Anne Ford

In an acting class, you learn
Voice, so you can earn
Speech production, so you can earn
Physical expressivity, so you can earn
Character, so you can earn
Acting methodologies, so you can earn
Script analysis, so you earn

In autistic life, you mask
Voice, though speaking hurts; don’t ask
Speech production, pitch and tone; a task
Character, mimicry, improvisation; can’t bask
Acting methodologies, which character, how, I ask
Script analysis, a different language, is that Basque?

Acting for money
Acting for survival
One is milk and honey
The other avoids revile
One is for pleasure
The other brings pain
One is for acclaim
The other to avoid blame
Celebrated existence
Criticised resistance

The Mardi Gras mask, much loved.
The autistic mask, heavy load.
The harlequin, the pierrot.
But what I wear brings me low.
Lest I be thought brute, a-fidget
Hung, reviled, in a social gibbet.

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.

The Chiaroscuro Anthology, 5/19

High fire danger warning
By Lee-Anne Ford


They said: Adrenal fatigue. Chronic stress. Thyroid imbalance.
My body, a tired machine—sputtering, misfiring, failing.
A cup of ginseng tea, an adaptogen capsule,
A list of herbal tonics to rebuild what was lost.

Rest, recover, reset.
Except I did, and still—
The exhaustion gnawed at my bones,
My brain fogged like morning mist
That never burned away.

They said: Take time off, breathe, relax.
I did. I sat in silence, in stillness, in sun.
Yet the light burned, the air scratched,
And the world remained too loud.

I rattled off dates like a script—
Lines I knew but had never rehearsed.
29 June. He died.
10 July. We buried him.
10 August. Ashes returned to earth.
17 August. My Sammy, gone.

She listened.
Then asked the question that shattered the script.
Are you autistic?

And in that moment,
Every misdiagnosis fell away.
Not just tired. Not just stressed.
A brain running on overdrive
For too many years,
Masking, stretching,
Until the system collapsed.

Is that why Reiki attunements failed?
That autistic heart resisting?
Is that where the burnout started?
Yet Reiki treatments fired healing—
How could it be wrong?

Is it rooted in attachment issues?
From birth to now? Anxious, avoidant.
Autonomic system in disarray.
Does autism mean herbs work differently?
Are different herbs needed for autism?

So many questions. What’s MTHFR?
And still—autistic burnout.
A broken nervous system.
A burnt-out nervous system.
From a burnt-out autistic brain.

The shock and heartbreak.
Skill regression. More than depression.
Neurological disablement.
Lifelong skills, lost.

Where am I? How do I heal?
When does this end?

Take heart, dear heart.
Inner child and old.
Look to your music, to Thirsty Merc.

“She’s the kind of grind that I don’t really mind…
Stand up, little love, I’m about to blow my cover.” 

Want the whole Anthology? It’s here.