From The Chiaroscuro Anthology to The Infernal Dames
Yesterday, The Chiaroscuro Anthology closed with a poem depicting intergenerational trauma, starting with rage against parents, ending with a promise to a child.
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.
A soft ending to The Chiaroscuro Anthology—nineteen poems about my autistic experience.
Yet, I’m not just autistic. I’m a woman, 53 years on this earth, and furious.
Not Joking – Global Gender Parity in 2158
The World Economic Forum estimated, late last year, that it would take another 134 years to reach global gender parity.
134 years
This day, this year, this decade, this century—we have granddaughters still fighting the battles their grandmothers thought they had won. Intergenerational inequity. Injustice, passed down like recipes and silverware. From the Greats to the Silents, the Boomers, Gen X, Millennials, Gen Z, Gen Alpha, and the unborn Gen Bravo.
The First Wave. The Second Wave. The Third Wave of feminism.
How many more waves must we ride when we’re already facing a tsunami?
A tsunami of dead women. A tsunami of gender pay gaps. A tsunami of stolen autonomy—of everything, even down to kitchen bench heights and seatbelts in cars.
Why not build a fire so big that not even this tsunami can extinguish it?
From this idea came The Infernal Dames.
While I have no children, I make this promise to the grandchildren of the next generation.
I do not want you to inherit the intergenerational trauma of centuries, the ache of millennia. I don’t want you to have to sing this lullaby and know it’s real:
Hush, little baby, don’t you cry Mama’s holding things that you can’t buy And if those things do make you cry You’ll understand why, bye and bye.
The Infernal Dames
A forensic reckoning, a class action, a ledger of women burned by silence, by medicine, by the system.
We gave more care to punch cards than to living women. “Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.”
We built hospitals where no one listened. “It’s anxiety. Lose weight.”
We prescribed silence. “Take this, it will help.”
We institutionalised grief. “You’re too much. Take this, it will help.”
We pathologised hormones. “You’re hysterical. Too much.”
We erased. “Your file could not be found.”
It is my intention that The Infernal Dames will roar.
This isn’t a poem. It’s a rupture. A palate cleanser between verses, with another poem; one not part of the Chiaroscuro Anthology, but one born of topical rage. A reckoning that interrupts the flow.
On 5 April, I turn 53. According to the statistics, I shouldn’t expect to live much longer. This post is for every autistic woman who was erased by research, sidelined by medicine, or written out of longevity science entirely.
It’s not pretty. But it’s mine. And it is the reason the poems exist.
Literature Review: Life Expectancy in Autistic Women by Support Level
Despite increasing awareness of autism across the lifespan, autistic women remain dramatically underrepresented in mortality research, especially when it comes to parsing outcomes by support level (Level 1 vs Level 3).
Key Study: DaWalt et al. (2019)
DaWalt and colleagues tracked 406 individuals with autism over 20 years. They found:
6.4% died during the study.
Average age of death: 39 years.
Primary causes of death: cancer, heart disease, accidents, medication complications.
Strong predictors: low early social reciprocity, poor daily living skills.
This aligns with Hirvikoski et al. (2016):
Average life expectancy in autism: 54 years.
With intellectual disability: 40 years.
Suicide prominent, especially in higher-functioning autistic adults.
Other studies (Croen et al., Nicolaidis et al., Mouridsen et al.) reinforce:
Poor healthcare access.
High comorbidities.
Elevated all-cause mortality.
Autistic Women: Still Largely Ignored
Late diagnosis → prolonged trauma exposure.
Higher suicidality (Hull et al., 2020).
More likely to mask, burnout, be misdiagnosed.
Hormonal & autoimmune issues often overlooked.
Estimated Life Expectancy
Group
Estimated Lifespan
Level 3 Autistic Women
40–53 years
Level 1 Autistic Women
60s–70s
General AU Women
~83 years
Diagnostic History: Erased, Delayed, or Denied
Benchmarking Temple Grandin
Diagnosed in the 1950s at age 3—seven years after Kanner’s paper. Language-delayed. Visible. White. Middle-class. Rare.
He writes about longevity like everyone has the same nervous system. We don’t.
Blistering Insight: The Deadly Consequences of Exclusion
Meditation and RSD
“Close your eyes. Breathe deeply.” For autistic people with Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD), silence is where shame howls. Guided visualisation? Not with aphantasia. Mouth breathing? Sensory hell.
This is life-threatening omission masquerading as wellness.
The Human Cost
RSD and Ideation
Workplace fear wasn’t abstract. One mistake meant:
Job loss.
No income.
Loss of housing.
Loss of care home for my husband.
Indexed life insurance. No suicide clause. $820k. Twice, unmanaged RSD brought me to ideation.
ARFID, Egg Whites, and Medical Trauma
Childhood: forced to eat egg whites. Backyard chickens. No escape. The trauma never left. I survived by becoming selective. Strict. Safe.
Talk Therapy as Adult ABA
“Reframe that.” “Breathe.” “Visualise peace.”
Mouth breathing = distress.
Silence = RSD.
Imagery = impossible with aphantasia.
Healing shouldn’t mean pretending to be neurotypical.
What Gets Left Out of the Longevity Conversation: Me
I’ve never done an annual check-up. Never had a pap smear or bowel screen. Never been hospitalised.
Why? Because I was never safe. Because no one knew I was autistic. Because every medical touchpoint reinforced trauma.
I live. I breathe. I do my best. And I am still here.
I Am Here: Redefining Longevity on My Own Terms
Not cold plunges. Not biohacking. Just this:
Sunday meal prep
Nesting tasks
Managing my nervous system
Rebuilding trust with my own body
Supplements and Supports
NAC
Curcumin BC95
Ginseng
Magnesium glycinate, threonate
Vitamin C
Nutritional yeast
Herbal liver and kidney support
HSD Awareness
HSD-aware osteopath
Movement adaptations
No more shame for “clumsiness”
Spitting in the Eye of Your Statistics
I am 53 this year. I am Level 1. My life expectancy? 67. The age I can access my super. How convenient.
Your stats say I won’t be here. So let me say it back:
I defy your statistics. I spit in their eye.
Lies, Lies and Damned Statistics: Lies of Longevity
By Lee-Anne Ford
Statistics. Lies, lies and statistics. Damned statistics, they say. Probabilities. Calculations. Actuarial triumph in play.
Welcome to my life after death— Actuarial calculations demand. Welcome to my outrageous breath. Statistics, my end, command.
Australian woman: expect average. Life expectancy of eighty-three. For near fifty years, I expected Retirement plus fifteen, plus three.
But when love becomes anticipated grief— Not the romantic, love born of chivalry, But the love of caring, feared destitution, Fated phone calls: will it this one be?
Sixteen years of what-if, how, when, Acting typical when not—ASD unknown. Do this, try that, be like, kowtow now, When the ultimate curveball is thrown.
Widowed. Free. Long years and tears ahead— The most stressful event in existence. But when I say it like this, you hear that: Not normal. Not like. Deviation resistance.
Expectancy—now it’s sixty-seven. Tell me, please, what can I do? Longevity tricks don’t work for me. That’s every trick, not just a few.
Betrayed by society, research, and genes. Autism: disordered, deviation from norm. Some must wonder, crying, “Why?” Why have you made me this reviled form?
Then woman. Women. Not little men— But erased once, and now erased again. Misogyny. Harassment. Abuse. That’s life. Some want us invisible again. Their shame.
So: statistics. Lies². Damned statistics. Actuarial calculations adjusted. Autistic life expectancy: sixty-seven. And wife of HD—twelve years, rusted.
Actuarial calculations complete. Scratching heads. Flummoxed me. Average expectancy now: fifty-five. Yet this year, I turn fifty-three.
Not a case of thirty years to go. But two. Just two. It’s clear. My female actuarial value? They say I won’t be here.
So: autistic rage and defiance. I defy your actuarial rhyme. I AM HERE. Changing the world— One conversation at a time.
In the margins: naturopaths. Western herbal medicine. Reiki. Hot stone massage. They didn’t save my life. They helped me stay.
The Auld Skald's Fudgel 