Tapped

Wednesday, January 15, 2025

I had writing plans today. Or I made a plant to write today. Made it yesterday, in fact. Then saw the plan this morning and whatever it is in my brain that fears the future and failure decided otherwise.

Which means you’re stuck with this, the worst of the lint mining navelgazery, the angst of a Man Of A Certain Age working through a late autism diagnosis and being unhireable and generally turning into an amalgam of things I scoffed at in my not-so-youth.

The only way out is through, they said. They also said to be myself. Turns out that’s not terribly great advice, sticking up for one’s self and one’s identity in a room full of people who already find you a little off.

That’s not self-pity, that’s just the uncanny valley where all the good robots go and the allistics, the neurotypicals, watch from the bluffs and explain loudly across the gulf how they’re very much here for you. Until they’re not, usually right about the time when they expect performance out of the neurodiverse that exceeds our operating parameters.

This makes less sense than usual, and I swear it’s not some Vaguebook ploy for sympathy, or support, or anything of the kind. It’s just a note from a space where the dreams wave from a far distance, and they all feel very far away indeed.