tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27871323744341767812024-02-19T10:31:32.449-06:00Deciphering MorganFamily and life with a lot of autism. The thoughts and ramblings of Jessi Cash.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-61599414263494761272018-04-03T08:48:00.000-05:002018-04-03T08:48:07.920-05:00Our Autism Days & MonthsIn our house, every day is Autism Awareness Day.
Every month is Autism Awareness Month.
Throw in a lot of love, laughter, acceptance, horrible humor, and you have our normal, ever single day programming.
I can list facts about autism, script the entire DSM-5, but that's not going to tell you anything about the boy I'm raising, nor will it tell you about me.
His autism doesn't look like the Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-34550047599482092492017-11-10T22:08:00.001-06:002017-11-10T22:08:25.135-06:00Rape culture & rage strokes My name is Jessi. I'm a survivor of rape and molestation. I loathe the rape culture our society has propagated, accepts, and then justifies- all while conveniently blaming the very people it victimizes.
I would give anything right now to feel compelled to stop talking about sexual assault. I'd love for a week to go by without triggers in the news, without another powerful man being accused of Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-25116446630348814562017-08-09T14:00:00.003-05:002017-08-11T08:51:34.906-05:00Sorry for the apologies I'm done.
Finished.
Will not back down.
I just can't do it anymore.
I refuse to apologize for past and present mistakes or the way I parent my children.
I'm over the mommy shaming, the victim blaming, the bullshit.
Things I refuse to apologize for are as follows:
1. Calling my son autistic. This is a no go for me. He IS autistic, just as he IS tall, has brown hair, and brown eyes. I'll be Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-40482141238659309242016-06-07T12:50:00.001-05:002016-06-07T12:50:40.649-05:00I RageI speak up about sexual assault not because I'm humiliated that it ever happened to me, but because I want other survivors to know that they're never alone.
I rage against this patriarchal society we're in, one that so thoroughly devalues women, that female rape victims are treated more harshly than the male rapists, because I was once told I'd encouraged my attacker's actions and had Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-59003081551038664032016-04-04T06:23:00.000-05:002016-04-04T06:23:47.736-05:00What Autism Has Taught MeI've been doing this parenting autism thing for about eleven years now, knowingly for sixish, and have had knowledge of my own autism for about three years. It's been one heck of a learning curve.
In that time, autism has taught me that it's never static and always changing. Yet, whole days, weeks, months, and even years go by that seem like Groundhog Day, where the routine rarely seems to vary.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-42787181483390654172016-03-31T08:42:00.000-05:002016-03-31T08:42:16.033-05:00Spring CleaningI cleaned out my Monica Gellar closet (if you don't know this reference, we can't be friends) and realized it was a metaphor for my mental illness. It was like the Pandora's box I haven't wanted to open for years, and yet, I knew it was time. I needed to do some cleaning, both figuratively and literally.
This is my closet now.
&Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-24253554508353956182015-11-24T08:47:00.003-06:002015-11-24T08:47:33.834-06:00How to Handle a Holiday Gathering*I get that I've added political commentary which can be divisive. The whole point is to distract people from autism. Please take this all with the humor that was intended.
It's the most wonderful time of the year! With that comes family gatherings where supposedly well meaning relatives say the most absurd shit ever. I polled some autistics and parents/spouses of autistics to see Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-54272496760931083322015-11-09T08:38:00.000-06:002015-11-09T08:38:12.797-06:00What I want Special Education Teachers to KnowDear sped teachers,
I've made contact with many of you as of today. With few exceptions (because there are always exceptions), you are wonderful at your job, or you strive very hard to be the best you know how. However, there are some things I want you to know.
"Grade level..."
What I love about the special education process, and IEPs, is that we have a one-of-a-kind chance to meet the child Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-2049979559513729242015-11-06T08:32:00.001-06:002015-11-06T08:32:12.235-06:00Anatomy of a Meltdown*Below is an anecdotal account of what it's like to melt down. I have used information from autistic friends. However, I've tried to tell this in a first person narrative in order to keep my friends' privacy intact. Please note, I'm not speaking of aggression.
I'm really terrible with managing my emotions. For me, feelings fall into two categories- forced apathy and everything else. When IAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-85147722100101469602015-11-05T08:27:00.001-06:002015-11-05T17:10:45.586-06:00Autism, For MeAutism for me is everything.
Autism intrinsically makes up every aspect of my daily life. I cannot separate autism from my being any more than I can change my eye color. I feel it down to my soul.
Autism means sensory assault in un/expected places. Beeping sounds, construction noise outside of my work, lights humming, and the pitch of people's voices.
I hold myself together until I cannot any Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-65342956235618836922015-06-16T18:15:00.000-05:002015-06-16T18:16:41.685-05:00Today**Editor's note: I began writing this a week ago, when emotions were raw, as they still are. This may contain some language that offends and surprises long time readers of mine. While I apologize, I also ask for you to regard the use of this language in the context that it is used. I'm hurting. It's that simple.
Today, I don't want to accept the hand my son has been dealt. I want to rage Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-67408585971652739472015-05-19T08:04:00.001-05:002015-05-19T09:00:23.922-05:00Choosing A Path**This raw post is written by my personal friend over at The Spectral Zone. He and his wife, along with their two gorgeous boys, have become friends of our family since our move to D.C. They are on a similar, yet different, path we were on so many years ago.
Sometimes, as veteran parents who have been in the autism diagnosis game a while, it's easy to forget or diminish some of the raw Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-81643317181719239292015-03-19T13:47:00.000-05:002015-03-19T13:47:00.761-05:00My Unquiet Brain
I wrote much of the post below a couple of months ago, when I was at rock bottom and off of my medications due to a lack of insurance. I'm better now, much better. If you or someone you love has mental illness, please, for the love of all that's holy- get help and take your meds. Please.
I have a mental illness. A couple, actually, with PTSD and anxiety being the bigger ones. Normally, I Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-1760321754098755302015-03-16T13:51:00.001-05:002015-03-16T13:58:27.525-05:00Doing EnoughSometimes, I look at the search strings which lead people to this blog. Usually, they are funny, though strange, and I get a good chuckle out of them ("burn all of the Thomas trains" is a favorite). However, today I saw the string, "I don't do enough for my autistic son." I felt pain reading that, a familiar pain which is usually throbbing dully inside of my heart and increasing my anxiety Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-35867891217574433512014-11-19T08:50:00.001-06:002014-11-19T08:50:38.742-06:00Tips for the new autism parentHi, you're new here.
I see you at the schools, in waiting rooms, and the grocery store. You're overwhelmed, aren't you? I'm sure that your head is swirling from the act of parenting a child you might not understand, the advice you're being given, and the materials you've been pouring over. You probably feel isolated, misunderstood as a parent, and even angry that your child is autistic.
There Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-66765292648922656612014-10-02T09:44:00.002-05:002014-10-02T09:44:31.480-05:00What It's Like*Editor's note: The following was a conversation I was lucky to be privy to between my two sons, over the course of about twenty minutes. I've omitted several things for privacy, and cleaned up others, while trying to keep the language as close to the original conversation as possible. I received both sons' permissions before publishing this.
"Morgan," Bay asked, "Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-33699609403193205562014-09-17T07:35:00.001-05:002014-09-17T07:35:41.369-05:00Not TypicalWhen Morgan was first diagnosed with autism, my husband and I were in "fix it" mode. We meant that our end game was that Morgan would be indistinguishable from other children.
We wanted him to pass for typical. We wanted him to be happy at all costs, as long as those costs were within our scope of reasoning.
We were determined.
I didn't care that the little voice in the Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-17265741454502806072014-08-20T17:43:00.001-05:002014-08-20T17:43:41.470-05:00Why I Stopped Using the "F" Word
I've always been hypercritical of myself. Always. By saying this, I am admitting that I am a grade-A neurotic asshole about a lot of things. With severe endometriosis in the last year has come severe swelling and weight gain. Some days, I carry an additional twenty pounds and fluctuate by four dress sizes. I've been depressed about this. I don't feel pretty or slim or even curvy. I feel Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-36171570867157978832014-07-11T17:29:00.000-05:002014-07-11T17:29:09.639-05:00Going Without Air
I wake up in a dead panic, not knowing where I am.
What's wrong with me?
I can't breathe. Oh God. I can't breathe.
Panic is reaching into my sternum and through me. It has a steel fist grip on my spine and it's twisting, trying to keep me from moving or breathing.
I can't breathe.
Why is it so hot?
I'm flapping at my neck, clawing at my Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-60247733619526135502014-06-26T16:47:00.002-05:002014-06-26T21:25:01.736-05:00Birds are A-Holes *Warning for absolutely horrible language. The following account is completely true and maybe only slightly embellished due to hysteria.
Nola, my pain in the ass cat.
Nola, my cat, escaped (again) last night when I forgot to latch the front door after letting Roxy out. It was raining and I didn't hear the door not close. Also, I was on the phone with my friend from Autism Art Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-39078826342488241462014-06-15T07:32:00.000-05:002014-06-15T07:34:59.617-05:00An Uncommon Father's Day TributeDear Dad,
Thanks for screwing up in a phenomenal way.
Your screw ups, and their lasting effects on me, have done me a world of favors. Truly. I used to loathe you for it, but now I only feel some mild apathy and pity because you've missed out on the nine best things to ever happen to your world- your children and grandchildren.
By your actions, you taught me that a promise is never real until Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-45234627091161127942014-06-11T18:05:00.001-05:002014-06-11T18:05:12.240-05:00TodayToday I was grateful.
We were by ourselves and no explanations, no funny looks, no "why does he make that sound?" happened.
We were alone at the pool and it was wonderful.
My boys played like only they can play, with their own language and movement.
They raced. They dove. They sang. They smiled.
They were children.
They didn't cry. They didn't notice the stares I notice. They didn't feel Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-36823235271878418382014-06-03T10:14:00.002-05:002014-06-03T11:13:14.396-05:00My Life on Lupron*If you're just joining me, or have come aboard in the last couple of months, I have severe endometriosis. I've already had a radical hysterectomy at the age of 27. Since last fall, I have been in a lot of pain because of a reemergence of my endometriosis that we've found to be inoperable because of the locations of the endometrials. Now, I'm on a six month course of Lupron - a drug that shuts Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-7973764841731939122014-05-14T10:23:00.000-05:002014-05-15T10:31:06.299-05:00Dear You*Trigger warning for talk of sexual abuse
Dear all of You,
I hate You. I don't hate easily, but I hate You.
I hate You for being the monsters that stole my innocence at the age of two, and again at three, then four, then five, and so on until I just expected to be threatened and abused by men at any age.
I hate You for implanting the most godawful things into my memories, things I cannot get Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2787132374434176781.post-14606883924861078622014-05-07T14:19:00.000-05:002014-05-07T14:19:22.581-05:00The State of YouHey you. Yes, you.
The person who doesn't know where to put that line between yourself and the in-laws or parents. Or the extended family, maybe old friends. The you who is so damned busy discovering yourself that you are baffling and probably irritating the crap out of all of these people that they feel compelled to say something awful (they're jack wagons, fyi)
The you who is in my groups, Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00655247840704194479noreply@blogger.com0