New Logo Poll

Simply put, we’re going to vote on the logo I make you look at every day. I like them all so you get to decide. These logos are copyrighted to me etc. If you want to use them talk to me and we can see.

So here is how this works, if you like one put the name of the image in a comment, you can list up to two in the comments. If you can’t find the name just try and describe it.





Asking For Help

Flat out, I need help. This is something that I’ve gone over a few times in this blog. I am finally giving in and asking. Some of you have offered to help me and that has alone been help.

Right now, I am focusing on getting my legs back. I am staring at the back of my scooter, it’s right now the world’s largest door stop to keep the door from opening while I sleep, but that is as much as it can do. Here is the link. Please pass this around. I will add this link to the side bar. The repairs are extensive, but most are somewhat optional, as long as I can get batteries. Those are also the most expensive part.

My goal once I have my legs back is not just to run wild and scare the able bodied people with my ability to spin donuts but it is also to use my ability to go places to help people. I am an advocate by nature, and the nature of advocacy requires mobility.

I am tired of crawling. I once wrote an Essay about dealing with disability called Army Crawling, and now I am doing that literally every day. This is effecting my health, and my body. I have asked for help from local organizations but their requirement for help is the loss of my freedom. I will not move into a nursing home so that these people feel good about helping me and don’t have to risk my actually living my life. I cannot fathom some of the responses, but I also know that there are other ways to get help. I am putting my freedom in your hands. If you can’t help, just pass my story along. Perhaps someone else who needs help can ask for it then too.


I don’t talk about my Autism all that much. I rarely notice it really. It’s who I am. I wouldn’t be me without it. I’d be some stranger who wanted to be Blond and would understand the point of Paris Hilton. No offense Paris, you confuse me.

I am tired of people suggesting I need to be cured. I hide my panic in public to the best of my ability, but of course ablism has already dehumanized me so people can crowd me, and I am the bad guy if they get in my face. I found the Autism Speaks Fail video extremely jarring and triggering. Yet again I am just not good enough to be human by the right of my birth.

Today we’re trying to trend the topic AutismSpeaksFail so please join in.

The video is googleable. I am bothered by it. The dreary music, the senseless words. The jokes that are following about how a cure is needed, and the serious responses to it about how a cure is needed.

I can’t believe half of the crap they post, but the rest of it is exactly what everyone has always said. I am Autistic but I live alone. I was married. I have been successful and I will be again.

If you ever watched the Stargate series you can see how it is. Autism is not some worm in the brain that needs to be removed, it doesn’t suppress me. I am not behind a wall, I am not unable to go to parties. I do. I also reserve the right to leave early when Nuerotypical people get weird, loud, and overwhelming. Or drunk…

I cannot comprehend any other way of being, and I am human. I am living. I am here. I am all grown up and no one has given me support for my Autism. I grew up with no diagnosis being beaten until I would pass out for daring to make any sound. My comfort and pain has never been acknowledged, and still cannot be. If I give in to my pain every time any NT people would, I would never stop screaming. Autism is. It just is.

Everything that has ever been created can be seen as bad and needing a cure. I do not need to be cured. I am sick and tired of other people on their whims deciding to cure me. The cures offered by the latest Autism speaks propaganda include voodoo. That is the same as me being raped in the name of someone else’s God because I am bad and it’s the only way to cure my sin.

I have the right to be angry about this. This misrepresentation, the others before it, it wastes support. It drains it away. It makes it all about the poor people that may have to deal with me. I have the right to get angry when a video meant to represent me states I cannot speak. I am eloquent when I choose to be, and they fail at eloquence in general. I have the right to scream so that all can hear. I am alive. I am here. I am told in the same breath to just shake my head and be quiet but I should fight for the support that I deserve. That is contradictory. If I deserve the support why do I have to fight for it? If I am to be quiet, this will not go away and that is not fighting.

Take your cure and go to your hell.

A Breath of Panic (Trigger Warning)

It came as a small scratching at the door. The wind and rain pounding on the outside making it easy to ignore. The cats sat staring at the closed curtains, each bristling. Then came the howls of the neighbor’s dog. It was snarling with rage. Even still, it could’ve been ignored. It was an eventful storm, loud and showing the wrath of nature. Nature screaming at the impending violation of his presence? The words brought me to pause, literally as I was watching a movie. “Oh (expletive) the door is locked.”

Immediately I sprang into action, my immobile body trapping me with the slowness that comes with adrenaline. My hands shook as I dialed first the Security office at the apartment, then the police. Someone had tried to enter. I couldn’t tell if it was my Ex. I knew it was. The cats ignore most strangers but fear him. In fact every day I still find new shades of things he has done. Today I learned that William answers to curse words.

The operator for 911 asked me to stay on the line. I appreciated that, I felt like I was going to pass out from panic. I didn’t tell her. If I said it, it acknowledged the part of me that had to wait. She had answered the phone before and remembered my voice, and that alone was comfort. Another bang came, and I heard the van driving up to the front. There were some thuds… then he was inside. It lasted for a split second, I never even saw him. The Security officer was there, and the police came as quickly as they could. The storm slowed them. I listened to the howl and watched my cats rage.

What happened? Using his key he broke into my storage unit, then he forced the door to open with brute force. The cats hid, and I risked pain by rolling off of my spot and crawling behind the wall space. I didn’t cry. I will probably when I lay down. I can’t yet. Everything is still to fresh. It’s been five hours and I just sit here. I finished my movie, I called people.

There is of course more to this story, but, he came again. I had just started to feel safe. The police told me I may not open my windows or doors, they will be watching the apartment as they can but any other crisis will pull them away. This will last until I move. I know too, now that there are two warrants for his arrest. I asked if I could write about that, and they said “Sure. If he reads it he may turn himself in, which will make his punishment much less.”

He did get away with some things. He took a few of my wheelchair accessories but not the wheelchair. I had started to feel safe. The complacency of having a moving date in mind and being about to pay my deposit via the help of my friend M, it left me feeling safe. I am still imagining. I am not just staring at the walls but I am browsing online stores and imagining what items may look like in my home and my yard.

I am (expletive) terrified. I should be. The idiot (yes I am just going to call him what he seems to be) first broke into the wrong apartment. The neighbor’s dog went after his balls and he may or may not have a serious groin injury. The neighbor did not see his face but was fairly certain it was him. They also called the police. Other neighbors heard the barking and looked outside. A total of six different neighbors and myself called in but he still escaped.

I do feel safer knowing that they didn’t ignore it. I have some balls I got for free with a bag of catfood, I am not sure why they were giving dog toys away but, I had been intending to give them to a service dog I know. Now they will be one less. The officer hand delivered the tennis ball for me, because that dog saved my life. I would’ve ignored it. I’ve felt like a crazy woman jumping at every sound.

It has worn me down so far, that I cannot even comprehend saftey. It feels like this distant dream. The concept that I could be safe? It’s a sweet torture. I can’t stop imagining it but now it feels like the worst idea ever. I do not want to sleep in my bed, it smells bad and I am afraid, one of the neighbors reported a gun.

Because he entered the storage unit and only he and I have a key, it was deemed beyond a reasonable doubt that he broke in. The police are going to make my landlord fix my door first thing in the morning, and security is parked out front. I know they will protect me but, I cannot stop the fear. None the less, I know I did the right thing. The police were impressed with my ability to protect myself. I will be feeling the effects for days.

In fact I never would have known he had entered the storage shed if I had not leaned on the door to keep my balance. I felt it shift and we all heard the lock click. I checked because they suspected he was hiding in side, but no such luck.

I do know this will help me with my restraining order. I go to court Wednesday at 9:45 AM. If he reads this maybe he will show up. He can tell them it’s all in my head.

I keep replaying the moment where he penetrated my home, there was a crackling sound, the door still closes now but he forced the locking mechanism through the wood, which was already damaged enough it looks whole. I felt myself stop, the cats were bolting away so I rolled and felt the most pain I have in a long time. I know nothing is broken that wasn’t before, and I will be bruised but, if I had been in his line of sight I might be dead.

I can’t wait to move. The good news is my friend who is helping me with the rent and deposit this month, so I can get out of Dodge has also replaced my waterbed mattress and has given me bedding. This means when I move I will sleep that first night in a bed that is full of clean instead of the decrepit filfth. I may even leave the mold filled waterbed here with the bags of his belongings. I no longer plan to try returning them to him. I will abandon it.

If you are wondering how bad the bed is, let me just say that the smell fills the entire house, and both K and myself have been taking benedryl so that we can breathe, the cats too. When I lay down it crunches, and sometimes it stabs me hard enough I can’t find a spot to rest on. I have no bedding as it is, and the poor man wound up having to replace everything except my bed frame. My ex found a way to ruin everything he could.

I will eventually post the wishlists here, though I may hide my really outlandish jewelry wishlist from you all. I decided to just make a list of anything pretty I may someday want, ignoring the fact most of it is over priced and I would never buy it.

Thank you all again for your support. I want to use this moment to draw your attention to a blog post that reminded me that this would’ve been way better if I wasn’t disabled. I wouldn’t have to fight for any police response. Tonight has been the major exception and not the rule. I had probably the best officer on the entire APD show up. So, here it is. This too has a trigger warning but it’s worth it.


I just got the call, and between texting people and emailing people, I am announcing here… I am not going to be homeless. I am not. Going. To. Be. Homeless.

The rosebush is my rosebush, the tree is my tree, the door with 17 locks (15 of which are being removed) and a chain? Mine.

I have a home. I am going to really make that wishlist now, only, one will be a list of wants, including the superfluous, the other of needs. I will actually use this as a shopping list offline, because most of what I want can be had for less than the internet demands. I can dream again. There is room for frivolity, which is a basic need in a way.

The need to dream, imagine, create, and not struggle and not feel pain. Frivolity in small doses can be the most beautiful thing you ever experience. Anything can be frivolous and my favorite flavor of frivolity? the joy of children with ridiculously complex but durable toys and my cats with their own desires.

I will post here if I have any trouble with the state keeping it’s word. They said they would help me with the deposit and first month’s rent, and so help them… they had best keep their word. If they do not, I will have to go to the media. That promise is the only reason I held out any hope for this.

Sprite is overly affectionate because I am unable to stop crying, tears of joy and relief. The instant I heard the place was mine I felt like my chest had exploded from the sudden drop off in my personal terror. I am still afraid but, now my fear is limited to the current and present dangers that moving will also diminish.

I may never be completely safe, but, I believe I can sleep at night again. Plus, no one vacuums at 6 am where I am going to live.

The Best Birthday Ever (Awesome Warning)

Today I turned 25. I am a quarter of a century in age, and it feels funny. I can barely comprehend how old I am as I am torn between the emotions of my inner child and the sensibility of my adult reality. This is something everyone of us deals with of course, I just don’t feel old enough to be 25.

Today has been the best Birthday of my life. I am in the middle of a storm both literal and figurative, and yet I am having one heck of a day! To start with, my friends and family both have turned to support me. I may have found a home. I was also given presents.

The best presents come when you least expect them. The present I treasure the most, well there are two. One is a hand carved stone deer. This was made by a Zuni craftsman for me. The honor I feel in being entrusted with a piece of his spirit, his art is immense. The second gift is gluten free pizza. Why do I treasure the delicious melty cheese that I will receive via UPS tomorrow?

I had to have it shipped across the country, I couldn’t go to the store and just pick up a pizza. It took effort, coordination, and honestly has cost a great deal. The cost bothers me but I will not look a gift Gluten Free Pepperoni Pizza in the… box… and deny it. I have been starved and tormented with food, it is time to celebrate with food.

My fears of homelessness may be past me tomorrow. They are diminished, and I am getting the chance and courage to make a list of what I need when I move, like a blender so I can blend things (high protein drinks to help my system recover from starvation or a waterbed heater that isn’t a fire hazard). I looked at the most amazing apartment today. For one, most of the utilities are included, I just pay electric and for my internet. For two, my dream home is cream with green trim… so is the apartment! It has a yard with a huge tree, a rosebush, and the one bedroom apartment is more accessible than the one I am in with two bedrooms.

The bedroom is gigantic, the bathroom is as big if not bigger than my kitchen and the nook where I am sitting right now. There is a space intended for a litter box, and the most wonderful thing? There is no pet rent, pet deposit or limitation besides “Just don’t let them poop on the carpet.” I can keep William Shakespurr. With his special needs I was terrified of giving him up. It left me in tears at the thought.

I can also get a dog. I may (sometime in the distant future when I can afford dog-food AND Cat-food) get a small dog like a Pomeranian. I secretly want to dress it up as a pomegranate… then take pictures and make horrible food jokes. That poor dog that has yet to be born or taken home with me. I will torment it with love.

I cried over the idea of no pet rent. The apartment manager listed what he is already coordinating to make the apartment accessible as soon as I am approved. I could get the call right now, or sometime tomorrow. I could move in by Friday.

Now this is all well and good but, I was worried about the neighborhood. It is not the best, but it is not the worst. It’s close though. You can see where the neighborhood itself is fighting against appearing destitute, where businesses are putting out the effort to draw customers and to make the place better. You can still see the crusty edges of gang violence but the true warzone is several city blocks away.

The distance sounds small but it is further away than where I sit right now. There are no drug dealers outside those doors. Here, the drug dealers and junkies are neighbors. There are weekly drug busts, which I do not like to think about. There, I have a yard. Here I have a fence and a sliding glass door.

I have a yard that is large enough I could get furniture like a table, chairs, an umbrella and still have room. I can once it is cleaned let the cats go outside, on their leashes of course. I have a tree. Not a baby tree but a massive tree. I think it may be a sumac, but, it is my tree. It is tall enough to shade my front window. I also have a rose bush. White roses. My favorite color for most flowers.

It gets better, despite the obvious flaws this apartment is over a half an hour closer to K’s home, and although it has no pool, the owner of the apartment pays for a weekly food box for each resident made up of mostly meat. Meat. Not just vegetables and half rotten salad. Meat. I could benefit from this, despite my allergies.

Monthly everyone is given things I cannot eat, but the Apartment Manager Buddy, he said he’d see if they could get me special things. That way when I go to the social gatherings I can eat too. Me. Included before I am even approved to move in. Me. Wanted. Me treated as a human by an apartment complex that obviously is not mainstream.

The walls may contain lead paint, so I won’t be eating any paint chips. Really I have to watch for William with that, but, before I move in K is going to clean it, her sister and mom voluntold me that. I have no option but to make sure my home is clean. I was also given a gigantic TV today, so that I can watch anything I want, and two end tables. There is plenty of space in this apartment. I can see myself there for a very long time. Ages, decades, maybe my entire life.

I’ve never felt that before, that this could be the place. It is not where I want to be, but if it is where I have to be, it is still better than where I am. I found this place through an act of desperation and partial blindness. My inability to read paper caused me to dial the wrong number, and I called the home of the owner of the complex. John, as I will call him, asked me why I was crying.

I couldn’t seem to make words happen when he answered and tried again. “I hope I have the right number, but I am calling because I am about to be homeless and I need a place. I can’t go to a shelter, I am physically disabled and medically fragile.” I remember feeling like an idiot. I’d already called dozens of places and my eyes were burning. Instead of the usual “Sorry we can’t help you.” I was given a reply of, “Well, this isn’t my office, but I own an apartment complex.” He recited the address, I wrote it down. “Call Buddy, he is my manager. I’m calling him on my cellphone right now to tell him you are about to call.” I gave him more information about who I am so he would know, and so he could tell Buddy.

I then set up a ride. They’re willing to work with me on rent if I cannot make it happen right off. They won’t let me die on the street. I feel a warm sensation at that thought. All because I transposed several numbers. Almost all seven were the wrong number.

The way this is being done makes me suspect several things, the owner is immensely rich and this is his tax write off, used to actually help people. He told me every single resident has needed help. I believe him. Alternately he and Buddy both have experienced need. This has left them open to helping other people, despite the mainstream ignorance that ability does not denote worth.

Whatever the cause, that alone did not make this the best Birthday ever, I am still fearing the touch of denial. The only thing that can keep me from this apartment is a criminal past, which I do not have as an adult. They won’t hold my childhood against me. I know the apartment is mine but that fear still niggles at my mind.

Any single event today would’ve been great, but, there’s more. Not only did my mom try for my birthday but, I spent the day with K’s daughter who always brings a smile to my face. She had fun pushing my manual wheelchair in the store by my future home. This apartment is right near everything I need including a shoe store, except a bank. I only have a savings account at a bank with only two inconvenient locations. That’s alright, though. I can pay my phone bill, electric bill, and internet bill all with in feet of one another.

Oh, and the grocery store? It’s inexpensive, has the biggest gluten free selection I have seen (we bought cake mix so I can have actual birthday cake tomorrow). The cat-food is also cheap. I can go out for ice cream if I want. I am going to be free. Free for my Birthday!

So, Happy Birthday to anyone else with one that has past or is coming, or is today. I hope you share my joy. I will soon be posting links or at least discussing a donations page now. Some of you suggested it in both private email and public comments, and if it helps me and doesn’t hurt you I can see this as absolutely reasonable. I am going to go eat steak for dinner and enjoy a snug from my cats, while waiting for the phone to ring. Best Birthday of my life.

Hope for a Cure!

I know, I rarely talk about cures with my disabilities. I don’t believe I have done so with positivity in mind. I have yearned for even hope however, that Celiac Disease can be cured and HOPE has arrived. Not a cure, but a clue.

I dream a dream of pasta. I dream a dream of pizza. I dream a dream of being able to afford things that I want to eat not what I can afford to eat. I dream a dream of cake. I dream a dream of cookies. I dream a dream of a sandwich. I dream a dream of tomato soup!

Oh how many times have I lain in bed longing for variety. I could possibly put away my Epipen. Oh what a dream! What a joy! I dream of a balanced diet, with true balance not “Can I afford this fruit today?”

I know not everything will be cured and it may take decades. There is hope. Thank you scientists, Doctors, and please don’t give up. The Celiac community appreciates even the chance to hope.

I count Celiac Disease as one of my most disabling disabilities. It cuts me off from family dinners. It cuts me off from pizza with the girls. It cuts me off from even a reasonable budget. It limits my life severely. I cannot afford to eat a GF diet but I cannot afford to not be Gluten Free. It is the millstone around my neck at meal time.

To paraphrase the famous quote, “Free at last, I can have bread and I am free at last.” To hunger, to starve. It has made me appreciate food all the more. I feel like Scarlette O’Hara now, this gives me hope that I shall NEVER go hungry again.

I may keep my gluten free brownies though… they are chocolatier!

It isn’t real. (Trigger Warning)

I borrowed money to pay my rent. I have no way to ever pay my friend back, but, he said it is a gift. Itis a gift that brings me to tears because I cannot pay him back and I have pride.

I spent time today thinking about being poor. I was not poor for two years, and that was it. I have been poor with a lack of love, I have been poor with a lack of food. I am tired of being poor.

I am tired of hunger. I look at my cabinet and I see the food I have and it has to last a month. The food I can afford to eat is a luxury. Why? Why is it luxury for me to not be poisoned? I cannot afford bread, because wheat will kill me. I cannot afford vegetables for the same reason.

I used to dumpster dive when I was a child, we’d go to the grocery store and I would climb into the dumpster and I would salvage food. This poorness haunts me.

One of the tactics that abusers use? Blame. The abuse is your fault. My ex blamed me for buying new clothing. I looked in the mirror and I saw myself in too tight clothing that was older than myself. I could see the holes, the wearing at the seams. The newer things I purchased at a thrift store. I saw nothing of value.

I didn’t want to live that way. Today I am wearing one of the new outfits, it has ruffles and is very feminine. I am uncertain what it means to wear this. It makes me uncomfortable on many levels, but I feel pretty. I shouldn’t. If I were meant to feel pretty wouldn’t I be accepted anywhere? This statement ignores the treatment that I get because of my disability. I am automatically inferior.

Being poor means that forever I am aware of my value in society, and that diminishes daily. Society prizes, more so as the economy receeds, the privilege of the able bodied. The privilege of the male. Being a poor woman means that I am fighting for my survival with no help.

No one returns my calls, I have no way of knowing if I can make it to the hearing that may or may not be set for my restraining order. I cannot pay the rent. There is a waiting list for every single accessible apartment in the city. This should be proof that there is a need for such things correct? A need for accessibility. It isn’t enough. I am looking at being trapped again. Wherever i go I am just trapped.

I am trapped because the wheelchair I have is not the wheelchair I need, but I have four more years to wait before I can get the one that I NEED. I need to get Sprite the service cat the vet but, if I have no shelter then I lose William too. I need to eat, but, I can’t afford enough. I lie when I am asked if I have eaten sometimes to save food. Just once a week, and I skip a lot of breakfasts.

I consider stealing every day to get what I need. I try to ignore the things that I have wanted, because wanting them now feels almost pornographic. It feels wrong to even mention a desire. I feel guilty for having some of the things I do. Beng poor means I shouldn’t have my computer.

I feel like I am a bad friend because I haven’t called some of the people I respect and care for, because I do not want to risk them giving my Ex this number. I feel guilty for paying for the phone that I can dial instead of the phone that was cheapest.

I feel bad for saying Shut the (curseword) up or get out, when people tell me I have to be making my abuse up. I feel bad for it, but I shouldn’t. I should not have to face guilt for any of this. This is not how the world should be.

All I want is a roof over my head, a one bedroom so I can have company, I want food I can eat, three meals a day with a grain that won;’t make me sick, some dairy, a bit of fruit, and meat. I want to go outside. I miss it. I see the light through the curtains but outside is danger. I want to be safe.

It’s not real. It being safety. I will never be safe enough. I will never have enough to eat. I can’t afford it and there is no government subsidy past just enough by someone else’s standards. There is never enough quiet, never enough time with people, never enough alone.

There is no balance. Balance is not real. There is depression, there is hunger, and there is the real fear that my cat is dying without medical care. My service animal could be dead and it’s all my fault.

There is no love. There is nothing. I can dream all I want but I am never getting out of this hole. I am never going to be anyone at all. How dare I even try?

I am just trash, broken humanity that should’ve died instead of fighting to survive. I should give up. Giving up will make everyone else happy. It’s never been about me. I’ve been the responsible adult for 22 years now. I am about to be 25.

I am tired. I am so very tired of making everyone else’s dreams a reality, and now mine are too far away. I will never dance again. I will never sing outside of my home. I will never succeed at anything without six times the effort of other people.

It isn’t real. It is hope. Hope is for people who can afford it. Hope is for people who believe the cops will take less than an hour to respond to a call for help, Hope is for people who don’t have to pray that nothing else goes wrong because their soul can’t afford anymore.

Hope is for people who don’t have crack dealers knocking on their doors. Hope is for people who don’t have to pray that answering their door is still safe. I can’t afford hope. Can you?

When Life is a Trigger Warning (Trigger Warning)

I wrote over 7000 words and WordPress ate it. I’ll try again later. I am really really not okay with this turn of events.

  • Polls

  • Ye Olde Archives of Fury

  • Top Rated

  • Top Clicks

    • None