It's sick how society will literally train autistic kids to disregard their internal experiences in order to submit to authority and societal expectations and then turn around and wonder why so many autistic people end up in abusive dynamics later in life. Like how exactly are the people who are famously bad at interpreting social dynamics somehow expected to know the difference between the supposedly "good" authority figures saying they have to do this and that even if it makes them really uncomfortable and "abusive people you shouldn't trust"
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if you've never been to the psych ward but wonder what kind of unethical practices go on there, here are a few examples from my own experience (as a teenager & young adult):
my friend was left alone in an empty rubber room overnight. for at least part of this i believe she was strapped down to a gurney. i saw her when they put her in there and it's an image i will never get out of my head.
i was forced to take antiandrogens (im intersex) at the state ward. when i initially declined (i'm transmasc), they labeled me noncompliant and threatened to take away "privileges" like socializing with my peers, going to school (we had our own school), going outside, and having certain foods.
being put on CO (constant observation) and having to have people watch you shower, change, and go to the bathroom. or, upon admission, being forced to strip and put on paper garments, and not being allowed to wear your own clothes for 48 hours. not even your own underwear. that's paper too.
these are just 3 examples, from 3 different hospitals. what they have in common is the systemic destruction of your dignity, autonomy, and personhood. that's not healing. that's not care. that's abuse and torture. psych wards employ literal torture tactics.
these facilities should not exist. no one should have this much power over another human being. especially not vulnerable people like the mentally ill and children.
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Many people are like "you ain't a man if you can't even beat somebody up" and look up to professions where the idea is keeping the peace by means of being capable of beating up anybody causing trouble. Meanwhile we have many other people who are like "true men don't NEED to beat people up. Real men are in tune with their and other people's feelings and keep the peace by becoming a pillar of support for those who need it. They don't need to start shit to prove their worth."
And then there's pain, right? Some people have the idea that a man's capacity to endure pain (thereby improving their ability to Win Fights) directly contributes to their masculinity, meanwhile AFABs of all types learn to endure much more physical pain due to not only biological factors like heavy/painful menstruation, but historically having any of their issues being overlooked wholesale by medical professionals.
All of this is to say according to my analysis, you are the ultimate man. They may not like it, but this is what peak masculinity looks like.
đđđ
First off, thank you for the flattery! This is very sweet of you to say, and if Iâm honest, gives me no small bit of pride. I spent a long time as a kid aiming for this ultimate goal, this self-projected image of self-sufficiency and strength, and it would be dishonest to say the feeling of having achieved that makes that younger piece of me glow a bit.
Second⊠thatâs an interesting thought, isnât it? Masculinity as a concept. What it means to be a Real Man.
EDIT: Adding a page break because I wound up rambling for like 2k words đđđđ My apologies, I also do not know why I am like this
For those who arenât aware, I didnât grow up as a boy. Not only that, but for much of my Girlhood I recall being he *only* girl, at home and at school and in the Boy Scouts program I spent over a decade in.
The Oldest Girl and the Only Girl at home- one of my bio parentâs homes- among a swarm of younger brothers, a perpetually-failing marriage, emotionally absent parents and an often physically absent mother, with a father who wasnât particularly subtle in his general dislike of me most days, I feltâŠ. Like. Well.
Itâs hard to say specifically when, but one instance stands out- and a warning here for some mild child abuse, but anyone whoâs shared this experience may know- for those of us who may have been spanked or screamed at or left alone here or there, thereâs this line we imagine, right? The dividing line between âthis is normalâ and âthis is what bad guys do in moviesâ- and for me, that was fitting hit in the face.
Because getting grabbed, dragged around, hair pulled, ass smacked, thatâs a bit old-fashioned, and itâs certainly a sign of a bad parent, but society doesn't really see that as ABUSE, right? So as a kid being roughed around a little, whatâs REAL abuse? Is it sexual? Malicious? Is it bruises, or just a bit of a red spot? Bleeding, or an accidental scrape after being pushed? Your parents arenât abusive, and other people have it worse, so whatâs that line in the sand that turns it from âmy dadâs just stressed from workâ to âmy dad is abusive and wrongâ?
For me, that was hits to the face. I could wave away a lot, because I knew I was a handful, but hitting people on the face is unjustifiable.
So I was kind of always looking for that line. Telling myself that if we never crossed that line, there was a good chance I was just whining. That I was just too sensitive. But there was always a chance, so I watched for it.
I always figured if I got hit, maybe I could dodge it. See it coming. Or just take it, not let him have the satisfaction of a response. Maybe even hit back, if it was bad enough.
None of that happened. I didnât see it coming, I didnât process it in time to flinch, I was so stunned I let myself lose my feet, and I was so rocked by betrayal and disbelief immediately after that I started bawling my eyes out.
You know. Like a kid.
And I remember after, as he sat me down on a chair and apologized, saying first that he was sorry, then asked to see my cheek, then lost the note of faux-concern and finally told me to stop blubbering already because he hadnât even left a bruise for Christâs sake, thinking that worse than the actual sting and worse than listening to his pathetic attempts to minimize what were obviously indefensible actions, was that I couldnât make myself stop crying.
He had shown he had a level of control over me that I didnât even have over myself, and it proved- to me, if not to him- that I was weak.
Of course I couldnât dodge, or duck, or block- I was twelve years old and maybe four feet tall, and he was a grown man. Physical inadequacies were to be expected.
But mental inadequacies? Emotional inadequacies?
I knew I was smarter than him. Kinder than him. More in control of myself and logical than he was.
Except I wasnât. Because I couldnât stop crying. And he could SEE that.
I havenât completely unpacked what that changed in me, but it certainly had an effect.
My mom told me heâd better be careful, because I was only getting bigger, and soon enough Iâd be able to give as good as I got.
My school counsellor said there wasnât much they could realistically do, since he made no effort to cooperate with mediation attempts, and to just hang in there âtil I was eighteen.
When youâre physically smaller, slower, weaker, all you can do after that is two things:
Get smarter
Get crazier
I wasnât just the only girl at home. I was also the other girl in the metal shop, the only girl at camp, the only girl among all my cousins. The only girl working on the farm.
And I learned that the two paths to get people to stop fucking with you, stop treating you like a weak inferior creature or thinking they can just pick you up and manhandle you how they like, is to cast a bigger shadow on the wall.
So yeah, maybe I am the only girl and the shortest one at the party, but if you tried shit there was a 50/50 chance Iâd kick the hell out of you.
(You only have to do this a handful of times, after all, before the rumour mill spreads the warning for you.)
And I might be the ONLY GIRL, after all, and therefore the only one acceptable to hit on, grab, touch, grope, and dare each other to kiss, but the only thing worse than not getting to practice flirting like the other straight boys is having That Specific Crazy Girl rip your dick off. So being scared of what I might do became a good excuse for the guys to avoid having to prove themselves with me, either- Is Darren a Gay? Is THAT why heâs scared to kiss Tea?
No, Darren says, itâs just that Tea is fucking scary and he doesnât have a death wish. Of COURSE he wants to kiss girls.
I do have a fairly good pain tolerance, though. Because if someone puts you in a nerve pinch, or bends your wrists backwards, or plays a round of bloody knuckles, if you can outlast everyone else then you gain a measure of respect. People remember you as the tough crazy bitch thatâll lock you in an arm bar and hold the hell on until you BOTH pass out, or at the very least pull some absolutely insane shit trying, and thatâs another reason not to fuck with you.
Pain tolerance is mostly just a mental game, anyways. Just like how a big part of âstrengthâ is just leverage and balance. Itâs not hard for a tiny girl to appear far stronger and tougher than she is, if she wants to.
The thing about being The Strongest, though?
Itâs fucking lonely.
People learn they canât just touch you, so they donât bother asking if itâs okay- they just stop.
People see you hauling heavy ass shit, and they donât offer to help, because youâre the strong one.
People donât ask if youâre okay, because youâre the tough one.
They donât ask how youâre holding up at home, either, because no matter how many times you get pushed down, you always get back up.
Other people- theyâre not like you. They need support.
You, though?
Theyâre grateful they donât have to worry about you.
Because you can take care of yourself.
This was all before I figured out I wasnât a girl, of course, but I donât think for a second that itâs irrelevant.
I think that strength, self-reliance, independence, maturity- all things we associate with Strong People, with Men- are all a part of the song and dance of Masculinity.
I played in to all the most toxic aspects of masculinity in order to protect myself. To stop being treated as a cute toy, or a potential victim. To build the reputation of the sort of person You Do Not Fuck With. And I succeeded!
But then I was left with the remainder, whatâs left in the invisible spot behind that mask- the isolation, the loneliness, the self-reliance because nobody is there anymore, the inability to understand your emotions because youâve spent far too long pretending you have none.
So maybe I still do carry the appearance of these things. I canât regret it, but I like to think Iâve grown a little inside that shell. I let myself cry more, communicate my needs more, tell the people I care about that I love them and enjoy their company.
Thank you for this ask. Itâs a good ask. And I think that my masculine aspects serve me well, now that Iâve figured out that âmanâ is actually in here somewhere, but I donât think that the Image of manhood was one nature had destined for me.
If anything, I think my experience of being A Girl made me more âmanlyâ than being Trans ever could have.
Which is, indeed, quite a bit to think about, isnât it?
