My name is Alexi Pryzbyla. I come from an affluent family and I grew up on a beautiful woodside property in Rochester, New York. I published this short autobiographical in the hopes it may help others like me before they end up like me. I live my life confined to my bed or my special wheelchair, which is covered in sensors and whirring electronic components. I need machines to monitor my vitals and sometimes I need help breathing. I ended up this way by my own decisions though. My dear reader, after reading this post I hope you’ll come to understand why I chose to do what I did. I hope you’ll understand my pain and spare someone else from this suffering. After all, as I’m sure you’d agree, it really isn’t easy to go on after losing the one you’ve loved most. And that’s what this story’s about: It’s about my loss and what it’s done to me. So please take this recounting to heart and open yourself to psychic vistas that may seem at first glance alien.

My home was a serene place surrounded by nature. Not far from my house was the great Lake Ontario. And we’d often receive visits from the local wildlife. I grew up watching deer play and prance in my yard. As a small child, my best friend and I would sit up to the glass of a sliding door window lost in the grace of the deer. Massive stags would face each other and clash their antlers as if jousting. All the while, neither made a single noise. Their composure seemed unreal and their size so overwhelming to such a small child. I’d have thought it all a dream save for my best friend witnessing the same magical spectacle of nature. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was giving us a show. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was one massive play made just for us.

It wasn’t until I was eight that I noticed people started to take serious issue with our friendship. When we went out to family events, my dad would ask me if Jack was coming with us. I thought these questions were silly since Jack went with us everywhere. But he’d only stare at me with a grim expression. Why was he so hurt by Jack coming with us? Jack had been there for everything up until that point. I don’t even think we’d gone a single holiday without Jack being there. He was more than just my best friend. Jack was my brother. We did everything together. Jack and I were like Phil and Lil from the Rugrats: inseparable and indistinguishable to all save for those who knew us most intimately. Still, my dad’s lament turned harsh. He’d grow frustrated with me and yell that Jack wasn’t welcome anymore. He told me he wanted to hear nothing more of Jack and that he’d take my games away if I’d ever mentioned his name around him. Obviously this devastated me. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what Jack did to be the target of my father’s malice. Jack was just a sweet and timid boy with an infectious smile. Oh, his smile would beam so bright that just watching him smile would raise my mood. A meek boy, Jack never protested against my father’s spite. Instead, he held strong and stayed quiet until we were alone in my room where I’d hold him close as he wept into my shoulder. I can still feel the way the cartilage of his nose would wrinkle against my shoulder blade.

Not too long after my father exploded at me about Jack, my mother took me to see a strange old man who always smelled of rose-scented cologne and mothballs. His big, wurly mustache complemented his cartoonish, large, and circular glasses. He looked like a gangly Polish Santa Claus and was jolly to boot. He always gave me a lollipop and asked if Jack would like one too. Naturally, Jack came with me to these visits. As I said, Jack is family and I hid nothing from him. The first few times we visited that smelly Santa he gave me all sorts of weird games to play. He had me stack colored blocks and rearrange them to correspond with shapes printed on little flashcards. Then he’d have me make a bunch of lists and remember numbers. I had no idea what the point of any of this was, but Jack and I laughed at the idea of some weird Santa Claus impersonator giving us stupid games to play all the time. We teased that the real Santa would have more fun games to play. But on the seventh visit, exactly one year after my dad blew up at Jack and me, that smelly Santa would change our lives forever.

He stopped mentioning Jack’s name at all, and whenever I’d bring Jack into the conversation he’d keep saying things like “Jack isn’t real,” or “have you been forgetting to take you medicine, Alexi?” These questions infuriated me. What does he mean Jack isn’t real?! He’s sitting right next to me, so, naturally, I snapped at the thin old man. I forcefully told him that Jack is real and he’s sitting right next to me. I told him that he’d better apologize for being so rude to my friend. In reaction to my outburst, he only stared with sad eyes filled with pity and concern. He stood up and asked me to wait there. He exited the room but left the door open just wide enough for me to see that he was talking with my mother. I couldn’t make out what they were saying over the incessant hissing of the white noise machine by the door, but whatever he told my mother clearly broke her heart because I could hear her sobs. I didn’t know what to expect after that, but I knew that whatever it is couldn’t have been good. I looked at Jack. He put his hand over mine. He could tell that I was worried. That weird man told my mother something about us. I had a terrible feeling in my gut that it concerned my friendship with Jack, and Jack felt that way too as I could see him barely succeeding at holding back his tears. Smelly Santa came back into the room, told me we were done for the day and gave me the usual lollipop I’d come to expect after every visit. But this time I’d noticed he’d only given me one lollipop. “What about Jack?” I asked. “One is enough, Alexi,” he responded. This infuriated me. How dare this lanky old curmudgeon insult my friend like that. I threw the lollipop on the ground and stomped it. I kept stomping and stomping until tears flowed from my eyes and stained the carpet below. I didn’t say another word—I was too full of rage to speak. I only gave him a nasty stare and then stormed out of his office and into my mother’s SUV. I put on the hood of my jacket pressed my face firmly against the cold backseat window.

Exactly two weeks before my tenth birthday I was brought to a large hospital at the University of Rochester. The building reminded me of the military silo from GoldenEye and it smelled sterile. I’d no idea why we were visiting a hospital since I wasn’t feeling sick. All I know is that my father was quiet throughout the entire car ride. We parked the car and walked through the automatic sliding door. And to keep out the crisp, cold air of winter, a massive heater blew a jet of warm air that filled the antechamber leading to the concierge desk. Jack and I had always loved automatic doors. We pretended we were Jedi force-pushing the doors open with a wave of our hands. And inside we’d imagine a swarm of droids waiting to attack. When we were younger we’d even act out the scene in grocery stores and malls, which were always to my parents’ dismay. But all the fun was quickly sapped out of this visit because deep down Jack and I knew something was off about this trip. My mother, normally talkative and spritely, had completely withdrawn and her eyes sunken. I could feel her hand shaking in mine. She spoke to the concierge, but I was too lost in my own thoughts to understand her. Jack, by my side, as always, tugged at my shirtsleeve to signal his own nervousness. I held his hand firmly and tried to put on a strong face. My father, exasperated, walked outside and lit a cigarette. I’d never seen my father smoke before that day. It was a habit he’d never kick and that ultimately led to his premature death. My mother knelt down to face me, tears soaking her cheeks and causing her black mascara to stain just underneath her eyes. The semi-circle pool of running makeup under her eyes reminded me of a goofy looking raccoon, and her words tumbled out of her mouth clumsily. I was too shocked at the time to remember exactly what she told me, but she mentioned that she loved me and that she was sorry. She told me that this would be for my own good and moments later a group of adults in strange light-blue-and-white scrubs and plain black sneakers came and escorted me behind two massive, stainless steel doors. I wouldn’t see my mother for another week, and it would be the last time I ever saw my father.

I was in that terrible place for about a month. And every day I’d undergo a battery of strange tests and activities. One moment I and some other kids would be given coloring books and other such things to distract us, and the next I was shepherded to strange rooms to talk to a woman who wore silk dress coats and spoke disinterestedly like telephone operators. After the first three days, all these strange women decided I would be given pills. Initially, I took these pills without putting up a fight. I’d figured I must somehow be sick with something and these strange people are just trying to help me. But after a few days of being on the medicine, I’d noticed Jack was acting unusually. His face was placid, and he barely spoke. Sometimes it looked as if he were fading. I was terrified. Whatever they were doing, they were hurting Jack. I told the woman with the silk blazer that I needed to stop taking the medicine immediately. I explained that, somehow, the medicine was hurting Jack. I burst into tears and begged her to please help me save Jack. I knew that if this kept up then he’d surely die. The woman stared back at me with soft, caring eyes and told me blankly: “Alexi, Jack isn’t real. We’re giving you the medicine so we can help you move on. You need to let Jack go now. Why don’t you try making friends with some of the other kids here?” I looked on her face with horror. I was so shocked that I stood up abruptly and backed up until I was up against the wall opposite of her. Naturally, she was shocked at this and implored me to calm down. But how could I be calm when face-to-face with a murderer? This strange woman just told me that they were deliberately trying to kill my best friend—my family—and she didn’t even bat an eye. Everyone was totally fine and without any conscience about killing Jack. They just didn’t know him the way I did. I implored her to speak with him. Surely, if she’d just have a few conversations with Jack, she’d understand that what she’s doing is crazy. She simply kept repeating that Jack isn’t real. However, what she said next has haunted me to this day. “Alexi, let me ask you, isn’t it strange how Jack never talks to anyone else? If he were real, how come he never talks to anyone else other than you? How come no one else sees or hears him? You seem to be the only one, Alexi, and we want to help you see the world the way it really is. We want you to be happy, Alexi.”

My heart dropped. I collapsed My name is Alexi Pryzbyla. I come from an affluent family and I grew up on a beautiful woodside property in Rochester, New York. I published this short autobiographical in the hopes it may help others like me before they end up like me. I live my life confined to my bed or my special wheelchair, which is covered in sensors and whirring electronic components. I need machines to monitor my vitals and sometimes I need help breathing. I ended up this way by my own decisions though, dear reader, after reading this post I hope you’ll come to understand why I chose to do what I did. I hope you’ll understand my pain and spare someone else from this suffering. After all, as I’m sure you’d agree, it really isn’t easy to go on after losing the one you’ve loved most. And that’s what this story’s about: It’s about my loss and what it’s done to me. So please take this recounting to heart and open yourself to psychic vistas that may seem at first glance alien.

My home was a serene place surrounded by nature. Not far from my house was the great Lake Ontario. And we’d often receive visits from the local wildlife. I grew up watching deer play and prance in my yard. As a small child, my best friend and I would sit up to the glass of a sliding door window lost in the grace of the deer. Massive stags would face each other and clash their antlers as if jousting. All the while, neither made a single noise. Their composure seemed unreal and their size so overwhelming to such a small child. I’d have thought it all a dream save for my best friend witnessing the same magical spectacle of nature. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was giving us a show. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was one massive play made just for us.

It wasn’t until I was eight that I noticed people started to take serious issue with our friendship. When we went out to family events, my dad would ask me if Jack was coming with us. I thought these questions were silly since Jack went with us everywhere. But he’d only stare at me with a grim expression. Why was he so hurt by Jack coming with us? Jack had been there for everything up until that point. I don’t even think we’d gone a single holiday without Jack being there. He was more than just my best friend. Jack was my brother. We did everything together. Jack and I were like Phil and Lil from the Rugrats: inseparable and indistinguishable to all save for those who knew us most intimately. Still, my dad’s lament turned harsh. He’d grow frustrated with me and yell that Jack wasn’t welcome anymore. He told me he wanted to hear nothing more of Jack and that he’d take my games away if I’d ever mentioned his name around him. Obviously this devastated me. I couldn’t for the life of me understand what Jack did to be the target of my father’s malice. Jack was just a sweet and timid boy with an infectious smile. Oh, his smile would beam so bright that just watching him smile would raise my mood. A meek boy, Jack never protested against my father’s spite. Instead, he held strong and stayed quiet until we were alone in my room where I’d hold him close as he wept into my shoulder. I can still feel the way the cartilage of his nose would wrinkle against my shoulder blade.

Not too long after my father exploded at me about Jack, my mother took me to see a strange old man who always smelled of rose-scented cologne and mothballs. His big, wurly mustache complemented his cartoonish, large, and circular glasses. He looked like a gangly Polish Santa Claus and was jolly to boot. He always gave me a lollipop and asked if Jack would like one too. Naturally, Jack came with me to these visits. As I said, Jack is family and I hid nothing from him. The first few times we visited that smelly Santa he gave me all sorts of weird games to play. He had me stack colored blocks and rearrange them to correspond with shapes printed on little flashcards. Then he’d have me make a bunch of lists and remember numbers. I had no idea what the point of any of this was, but Jack and I laughed at the idea of some weird Santa Claus impersonator giving us stupid games to play all the time. We teased that the real Santa would have more fun games to play. But on the seventh visit, exactly one year after my dad blew up at Jack and me, that smelly Santa would change our lives forever.

He stopped mentioning Jack’s name at all, and whenever I’d bring Jack into the conversation he’d keep saying things like “Jack isn’t real,” or “have you been forgetting to take you medicine, Alexi?” These questions infuriated me. What does he mean Jack isn’t real?! He’s sitting right next to me, so, naturally, I snapped at the thin old man. I forcefully told him that Jack is real and he’s sitting right next to me. I told him that he’d better apologize for being so rude to my friend. In reaction to my outburst, he only stared with sad eyes filled with pity and concern. He stood up and asked me to wait there. He exited the room but left the door open just wide enough for me to see that he was talking with my mother. I couldn’t make out what they were saying over the incessant hissing of the white noise machine by the door, but whatever he told my mother clearly broke her heart because I could hear her sobs. I didn’t know what to expect after that, but I knew that whatever it is couldn’t have been good. I looked at Jack. He put his hand over mine. He could tell that I was worried. That weird man told my mother something about us. I had a terrible feeling in my gut that it concerned my friendship with Jack, and Jack felt that way too as I could see him barely succeeding at holding back his tears. Smelly Santa came back into the room, told me we were done for the day and gave me the usual lollipop I’d come to expect after every visit. But this time I’d noticed he’d only given me one lollipop. “What about Jack?” I asked. “One is enough, Alexi,” he responded. This infuriated me. How dare this lanky old curmudgeon insult my friend like that. I threw the lollipop on the ground and stomped it. I kept stomping and stomping until tears flowed from my eyes and stained the carpet below. I didn’t say another word—I was too full of rage to speak. I only gave him a nasty stare and then stormed out of his office and into my mother’s SUV. I put on the hood of my jacket pressed my face firmly against the cold backseat window.

Exactly two weeks before my tenth birthday I was brought to a large hospital at the University of Rochester. The building reminded me of the military silo from GoldenEye and it smelled sterile. I’d no idea why we were visiting a hospital since I wasn’t feeling sick. All I know is that my father was quiet throughout the entire car ride. We parked the car and walked through the automatic sliding door. And to keep out the crisp, cold air of winter, a massive heater blew a jet of warm air that filled the antechamber leading to the concierge desk. Jack and I had always loved automatic doors. We pretended we were Jedi force-pushing the doors open with a wave of our hands. And inside we’d imagine a swarm of droids waiting to attack. When we were younger we’d even act out the scene in grocery stores and malls, which were always to my parents’ dismay. But all the fun was quickly sapped out of this visit because deep down Jack and I knew something was off about this trip. My mother, normally talkative and spritely, had completely withdrawn and her eyes sunken. I could feel her hand shaking in mine. She spoke to the concierge, but I was too lost in my own thoughts to understand her. Jack, by my side, as always, tugged at my shirtsleeve to signal his own nervousness. I held his hand firmly and tried to put on a strong face. My father, exasperated, walked outside and lit a cigarette. I’d never seen my father smoke before that day. It was a habit he’d never kick and that ultimately led to his premature death. My mother knelt down to face me, tears soaking her cheeks and causing her black mascara to stain just underneath her eyes. The semi-circle pool of running makeup under her eyes reminded me of a goofy looking raccoon, and her words tumbled out of her mouth clumsily. I was too shocked at the time to remember exactly what she told me, but she mentioned that she loved me and that she was sorry. She told me that this would be for my own good and moments later a group of adults in strange light-blue-and-white scrubs and plain black sneakers came and escorted me behind two massive, stainless steel doors. I wouldn’t see my mother for another week, and it would be the last time I ever saw my father.

I was in that terrible place for about a month. And every day I’d undergo a battery of strange tests and activities. One moment I and some other kids would be given coloring books and other such things to distract us, and the next I was shepherded to strange rooms to talk to a woman who wore silk dress coats and spoke disinterestedly like telephone operators. After the first three days, all these strange women decided I would be given pills. Initially, I took these pills without putting up a fight. I’d figured I must somehow be sick with something and these strange people are just trying to help me. But after a few days of being on the medicine, I’d noticed Jack was acting unusually. His face was placid, and he barely spoke. Sometimes it looked as if he were fading. I was terrified. Whatever they were doing, they were hurting Jack. I told the woman with the silk blazer that I needed to stop taking the medicine immediately. I explained that, somehow, the medicine was hurting Jack. I burst into tears and begged her to please help me save Jack. I knew that if this kept up then he’d surely die. The woman stared back at me with soft, caring eyes and told me blankly: “Alexi, Jack isn’t real. We’re giving you the medicine so we can help you move on. You need to let Jack go now. Why don’t you try making friends with some of the other kids here?” I looked on her face with horror. I was so shocked that I stood up abruptly and backed up until I was up against the wall opposite of her. Naturally, she was shocked at this and implored me to calm down. But how could I be calm when face-to-face with a murderer? This strange woman just told me that they were deliberately trying to kill my best friend—my family—and she didn’t even bat an eye. Everyone was totally fine and without any conscience about killing Jack. They just didn’t know him the way I did. I implored her to speak with him. Surely, if she’d just have a few conversations with Jack, she’d understand that what she’s doing is crazy. She simply kept repeating that Jack isn’t real. However, what she said next has haunted me to this day. “Alexi, let me ask you, isn’t it strange how Jack never talks to anyone else? If he were real, how come he never talks to anyone else other than you? How come no one else sees or hears him? You seem to be the only one, Alexi, and we want to help you see the world the way it really is. We want you to be happy, Alexi.”

My heart dropped. I collapsed to my knees on the hard, tile floor. That was when I’d finally realized that Jack was a friend that only I could see, feel, and love. Jack was both a singular entity and a necessary extension of my being. And it was then I’d realized there was no other option but to run. The woman wearing silk clearly made up her mind. She’d have the people wearing scrubs give me pills to slowly kill Jack and I wasn’t strong enough to stop them. Still, I tried. I threw a chair at her and broke out of the room. I ran desperately, making my way toward the exit. I hopped over obstacles and shoulder-checked a couple of nurses in my way. I had no time to lose and I knew security would be on my tail soon enough. I got to the stairwell when two huge men grabbed me. I fought ferociously, flailing, kicking, and screaming. I begged them to stop and screamed so desperately that spittle collected on the sides of my mouth. Two more men came and then all four of them held me tight so that I couldn’t move. All the while, I screamed violently. I screamed about the impending murder. I pleaded desperately with the men to let me go. I tried to tell them that these strange people are about to kill an innocent child and that they would be to blame for his death. They only kept on, only speaking to tell me that things were okay and that they were here to help.

The men brought me to my room where they fashioned me with straps attached to railings on the side of the bed. A man in white holding a syringe injected me with some sedative. From that day onward, I was to be supervised at all times. They would force me to take my pills, and when I forced myself to vomit, they started to administer the medication intravenously. I couldn’t fight back because they would sedate me. I was forced to watch my friend die in front of me over the span of a week. A week and two days after my attempted escape Jack finally passed. He didn’t evaporate before my eyes or have any last words for me. The medicine had made him too weak. He simply left altogether one day and never came back. Then another week passed. I became gaunt because I refused food and drink. I’d talked to no one and stared at the walls all day and all night. My mother couldn’t bear to visit me. And I found out soon after that my father had divorced her because I was too much for him to deal with. After about two-and-a-half more weeks in the psychiatric ward, my mother finally signed me out. I barely ever spoke to her from that day forward. I was irrevocably changed. My grades slipped and I was put into remedial classes. I saw a therapist every week that I didn’t speak a single word to. Every day felt bland until finally, on my eleventh birthday, I’d decided enough was enough. I took a large spool of kite string I had in my closet—Jack and I used to love flying kites on the banks of Lake Ontario during the summer. That was back when my family was happy—when my family was still a family. I wrapped the kite string around my bedpost such that it was layered into a neat and tight oval just big enough to squeeze my head through. I had quite a bit of string and I didn’t eat much so the makeshift noose supported my weight easily. I poked my head through the hole and tried to kneel, though the string kept my knees from touching the ground. The noose squeezed tight around me so that I couldn’t breathe. My heartbeat pounded in my head. Gradually, the pounding grew fainter until I’d lost consciousness. Just before the lights went out, though, I saw a faint mirage. It was Jack, beside me and smiling through tears with a noose around his neck. The last thing I remember before passing out was this scene and the taste of my tears.

Clearly, that suicide attempt failed. I don’t know how long I was dangling there before my mother discovered me, but it was long enough for me to have suffered permanent brain damage. I’d essentially suffered a stroke having deprived my brain of oxygen for so long. Now I live in a hospice and survive on my inheritance. I wish I were dead every day, but my mother believes that deep down I still wish to live, so I lie here patiently waiting until I’m old enough apply for physician-assisted-suicide in Oregon. I’m sure she knows my will to live isn’t there but she deludes herself as a mother is wont to do. I’ve never communicated with her since and, frankly, I’ve got no inclination to do so.

The bondage of love is perhaps the most pernicious of all. Love deludes and blinds those so that there isn’t even a contemplation of wrongdoing. Or at least those contemplations are quickly shooed off by convenient lies the loving other tells herself to keep an iron grasp on the object of their deadly affection. And so, dear reader, be mindful before you assume the intent and suffering of others. It’s been five-and-a-half years since that fateful day I was dangling from my bedpost and I haven’t felt joy since. I hope this story may save some other unfortunate child and his friend. So please, if you have at all any kindness in your heart, you’ll pray that I’ll one day be reunited with Jack—the only person I’ve ever truly loved— in the afterlife.

to my knees on the hard, tile floor. That was when I’d finally realized that Jack was a friend that only I could see, feel, and love. Jack was both a singular entity and a necessary extension of my being. And it was then I’d realized there was no other option but to run. The woman wearing silk clearly made up her mind. She’d have the people wearing scrubs give me pills to slowly kill Jack and I wasn’t strong enough to stop them. Still, I tried. I threw a chair at her and broke out of the room. I ran desperately, making my way toward the exit. I hopped over obstacles and shoulder-checked a couple of nurses in my way. I had no time to lose and I knew security would be on my tail soon enough. I got to the stairwell when two huge men grabbed me. I fought ferociously, flailing, kicking, and screaming. I begged them to stop and screamed so desperately that spittle collected on the sides of my mouth. Two more men came and then all four of them held me tight so that I couldn’t move. All the while, I screamed violently. I screamed about the impending murder. I pleaded desperately with the men to let me go. I tried to tell them that these strange people are about to kill an innocent child and that they would be to blame for his death. They only kept on, only speaking to tell me that things were okay and that they were here to help.

The men brought me to my room where they fashioned me with straps attached to railings on the side of the bed. A man in white holding a syringe injected me with some sedative. From that day onward, I was to be supervised at all times. They would force me to take my pills, and when I forced myself to vomit, they started to administer the medication intravenously. I couldn’t fight back because they would sedate me. I was forced to watch my friend die in front of me over the span of a week. A week and two days after my attempted escape Jack finally passed. He didn’t evaporate before my eyes or have any last words for me. The medicine had made him too weak. He simply left altogether one day and never came back. Then another week passed. I became gaunt because I refused food and drink. I’d talked to no one and stared at the walls all day and all night. My mother couldn’t bear to visit me. And I found out soon after that my father had divorced her because I was too much for him to deal with. After about two-and-a-half more weeks in the psychiatric ward, my mother finally signed me out. I barely ever spoke to her from that day forward. I was irrevocably changed. My grades slipped and I was put into remedial classes. I saw a therapist every week that I didn’t speak a single word to. Every day felt bland until finally, on my eleventh birthday, I’d decided enough was enough. I took a large spool of kite string I had in my closet—Jack and I used to love flying kites on the banks of Lake Ontario during the summer. That was back when my family was happy—when my family was still a family. I wrapped the kite string around my bedpost such that it was layered into a neat and tight oval just big enough to squeeze my head through. I had quite a bit of string and I didn’t eat much so the makeshift noose supported my weight easily. I poked my head through the hole and tried to kneel, though the string kept my knees from touching the ground. The noose squeezed tight around me so that I couldn’t breathe. My heartbeat pounded in my head. Gradually, the pounding grew fainter until I’d lost consciousness. Just before the lights went out, though, I saw a faint mirage. It was Jack, beside me and smiling through tears with a noose around his neck. The last thing I remember before passing out was this scene and the taste of my tears.

Clearly, that suicide attempt failed. I don’t know how long I was dangling there before my mother discovered me, but it was long enough for me to have suffered permanent brain damage. I’d essentially suffered a stroke having deprived my brain of oxygen for so long. Now I live in a hospice and survive on my inheritance. I wish I were dead every day, but my mother believes that deep down I still wish to live, so I lie here patiently waiting until I’m old enough apply for physician-assisted-suicide in Oregon. I’m sure she knows my will to live isn’t there but she deludes herself as a mother is wont to do. I’ve never communicated with her since and, frankly, I’ve got no inclination to do so.

The bondage of love is perhaps the most pernicious of all. Love deludes and blinds those so that there isn’t any idea of wrongdoing. Or at least those contemplations are quickly shooed off by convenient lies the loving other tells herself to keep an iron grasp on the object of their deadly affection. And so, dear reader, be mindful before you assume the intent and suffering of others. It’s been five-and-a-half years since that fateful day I was dangling from my bedpost and I haven’t felt joy since. I hope this story may save some other unfortunate child and his friend. So please, if you have at all any kindness in your heart, you’ll pray that I’ll one day be reunited with Jack—the only person I’ve ever truly loved.

#wondering, #shortstory, #suicide, #mentalhealth, #surrealism

What happens when a full-duplex connection is terminated in one direction? No communication can be had, and then both parties are left with festering anxiety over what hasn’t been communicated. What if the full-duplex connections were both working as intended except the parties could only partially understand each other? There are unique horrors in this scenario. There’s a special kind of sadness, a unique poverty of compassion that happens when someone misconstrues your intentions. This is what it’s like to be autistic. We are trapped in a situation where the others misunderstand us as frequently as we misunderstand them. However, this world wasn’t built for us. And, unfortunately for us humans, we have no modems to make sense of the noise.

Imagine yourself in this position. You’re smart. You’re capable. But you’re also autistic. You’re a fucking weirdo and you know it. People expect you to either be a complete idiot or Rain Man. Anything in-between these poles garners a variety of reactions that are all colored by expectation. They’ll tell you that you should grasp coding without issue. They should know, their autistic cousin went to Purdue and now look at him; he’s working for Google. Sure, the weirdo eats cheese sticks in his boxers all day and would rather watch K-On than touch a woman’s tits, but that’s all besides the point. Their cousin’s a savant and so you should be too. Otherwise, what’s the point in keeping your ass alive?

And when you don’t feed the machine, when you prove that you’re not a gifted coder or a janitor-turned-mathematician they’ll turn around and cast expectations on you they wouldn’t place on themselves. Why couldn’t you be smarter? Look at you, all the autism and without any genius to show. What a fucking disgrace you are. Yet, notice how they never seem to add themselves to this equation. Not sure what I mean? Here, allow me to indulge in the autistic pastime of guiding you through a simple calculus.

The DSM-5, the holy bible of the psychiatric institutions throughout the United States, is a laundry list detailing what’s fucking wrong with us. In this list are dreaded diagnoses such as bipolar and autism. The Good Book details the negatives of autism. The most benign entry is essentially still negative: Great! you don’t slap yourself and you can act marginally normal. Good job, tiger, keep on keeping on with your masked autism. Notice, however, that none of our gifts are ever praised unless taken to the absolute extreme, e.g. Rain Man, Good Will Hunting, etc.

Nevermind the fact that autistics built and continue to build most of the technology (mostly) non-autistics use to pathologize us. They do so without the slightest hint of irony. Nevermind that autistic writers like Emily Dickinson have captivated audiences, or that recent genetics research has found that autistic genes have existed for millennia and are thought to have helped propel the species forward; no, nevermind any of that, because, my little autistic friend, you’ve got a weird way of talking to people.

So, despite our contributions to society, we are primarily judged on our social intuitions. Naturally, this makes sense: we’re a social animal, after all. But we're also intelligent animals when we want to be. As such, you’d think we’d move past such a reductionist duality. Especially when research has shown that non-autistics are fucking terrible at empathizing with autistics and vice versa. Researchers find that, unsurprisingly, autistics demonstrate a strong capability to understand each other and that the same follows for non-autistics interacting with their fellow non-autistics. However, communication breaks down when these two groups try to interact with each other. Why? Well, our brains are wired differently. If one’s fundamental experience of the world and their very method of cognition is different from another’s, it’s going to cause some misunderstandings. Experiencing culture shock when visiting a foreign nation is a similar albeit diluted version of this miscommunication. Except no one (save for white nationalists) would qualify the locals in this foreign land as behaving badly. Yet this is exactly how the behaviors of autistics are qualified.

Our tendencies are misunderstood by non-autistics who lack the capacity to understand why we do what we do. They don’t understand that the screaming autistic kid is screaming because the classroom he’s sitting in is filled with bright fluorescent lighting that cuts through his retina like a knife. Nor do they understand that the fire alarms cause actual fucking pain. They don’t realize that this kid’s got an encyclopedic memory and could out-research them without even trying. They don’t understand that this kid could be extremely useful at recognizing patterns because his lateral thinking abilities are significantly better than his peers’. No. They will only see the screaming child who they deem mentally deficient because he cannot articulate himself to his persecutors.

Think about it: You’re judged by everyone around you. You’re constantly measured up against peers and your actions are scrutinized with a laser focus because you’ve “acted out” before. You become both a scapegoat and a liability. You’re now in the crosshairs and this only makes you act out more because you don’t understand why you’re the target. As far as you know, you’ve only kept to yourself. You don’t like to socialize much because when you’ve tried in the past people treated you like shit. Nowadays, you find hanging with animals at the local shelter to be a much better option. Those animals display their true intentions to you. You understand them and they understand you. Naturally, a bunch of other autistics work there too.

In response, you’re labeled the oddball who’d rather hang out with dogs than people. This behavior is incomprehensible to those who’ve experienced the rejection you have. It’s one thing to be rejected by individuals. It’s a whole other case when the world rejects you. Your parents are constantly berated for having you and your existence seems like a mistake. People are always trying to change your behaviors despite them having an important cause. They don’t realize that your idiosyncratic hand movements are a means of regulating the sensory input flooding your brain. What’s worse is you’re damned if you and damned if you don’t. Non-autistics will pressure you to socialize or ostracize you outright if you refuse. In more extreme cases they may even institutionalize you. But when you socialize you’re repeatedly reminded that you’re a little irredeemable piece of shit who can’t understand the most basic social cues. To make matters worse, the autistics who can pass well enough do so at a cost. They burn out and fall into deep depression trying to force themselves to be something that they’re not.

No matter what you do or how you do it: you’re wrong. You’re wrong because you’re incomprehensible and non-autistics are terrified of those whom they cannot so easily relate to. So, they write myths about us. But we’re not deities in these myths. No, we’re the ones who ruin their lives. Ancient autism mommies would whisper of fairies who’d steal your lovely baby and live in her place. These devilish little fairies would grow as perfect replicas of your precious baby save for the fact that this kid’s hyperlexic and she’s kinda weird. I mean, she speaks in full sentences at three years old and other times she doesn’t speak at all. Also, why does she ask so many questions about the world? Surely, this little imposter is a fairy who’s stolen my good little neurotypical baby and is living in her place. Because even ancient people thought it more believable that their kids were abducted by little magical people than to face the reality that your child’s just different from you.

Ancient autism mommies aside, let’s return to the full-duplex conversation. The math follows that neither communication channel, non-autistic or autistic, can understand what the other is saying. Our software’s fundamentally different, and while the machine-level code can be deciphered, who wants reverse-engineer all that? So, it’s simpler to force normativity. Rather than to compromise and work to understand the foreign software, the communication channel with more wires, the non-autistic channel, will force the other to decode their messages while also complying with their own software. We committed the crime of having been wired differently so we’ve got to do all the work. And when you fail, they’ll say disparaging things about you in a book so that those who you thought would help you most, those who are supposed to be the arbiters of mental health will tell you that you’re the problem. You’re sick but there’s no cure.

So, they will tell you to grow a thick skin and play with some toys if you’re so uncomfortable. They will proceed to say that you’re such a little child because you play with these toys to achieve some modicum of comfort. Worst of all they will blame you for existing. They will gaslight you and swear that you’re the problem. I mean, look at you, you fucking creep. You can’t comply with our rules and we wrote this book. So stop your autistic screaming and get back to work, bitch. I’ve got a story to share and Twitter’s down, so chop-chop!

Love is meritless, random, a strike from Cupid’s bow, so they often say. But we all know the truth of that. We know that love is not so innocent nor so blind. We know that Wendy was just a bit too fat for your liking. What a shame, since you really liked her save for her massive waistline. And Jamal would be perfect if only he weren’t three inches shorter than you. Still, people romanticize love despite knowing in their heart of hearts that love is as finicky an emotion as any other.

There was the time that I was sure Michelle loved me back. And she did. That is, until she found out my dirty little secret. See, my physical appearance is deceptive: I’m the worst kind of deceiver. The kind that lures a nice white girl in with sweet talk and a slight olive complexion. I spoke to her about physics, memes, and stupid bullshit. I made ridiculous jokes that she vibed with and she only added fuel to the flames of our jovial stupidity. Oh, how fun were our Skype conversations! Miles and miles apart but it felt like she was right next to me. Her pale face was in contrast with the deeply stained mahogany table her gaming rig sat atop. Still, she was never quite as white as Suzy, that Norweigian Forest cat she loved so dearly.

We talked with each other for hours, day after day, until things started heating up. She talked about how she gets wetter than most women. She told me how she loves to have her hair pulled while getting rammed from behind. She not-so-subtly implied that these are the boxes I ought to tick when she comes over. She insisted that we play video games after we fuck; we were nerds, after all. Things were great.

Then, teasing me, she jokes about the bright pink tip of my dick. I correct her, telling her that, actually, the tip of my penis is a lighter brown tone and that my shaft is tan. I expressed to her that I had a Hispanic man’s dick. Then, a silence followed by a painful realization. I was not the white boy of her dreams. I was a fucking spic. Her half Australian and half Norweigian pedigree was far above my own. She wore her white ethnocentricism like a Zwarte Piet mask on Christmas.

She finally replied. “Oh, I thought you were white. I’m sorry, this can’t work.” The words hung in the air like Carlos Esclava’s body hung from that lonely tree on Mokelumne Hill. She went on to tell me how she wishes to keep her ancestry pure and that this was surely no sleight against me. Of course, there was nothing particularly racist about it. She simply wanted to keep my dirty spic legacy far away from her untainted white genepool. She cited lame excuses about “culture” and other such nonsense; as if Australians and Noweigians have cultures that anywhere near resemble each other, yet somehow her parents overcame these cultural differences. Michelle went on to tell me that Italians weren’t really white and that they were a source for much of the problems in Europe.

I was sixteen then. It was the first time I tasted the bitter pill of reality, that my immutable characteristics would bar me from love. It was the first of many pills, since, my dear reader, this was far form an isolated incident. To this day, she believes I’m “too sensitive”, a “snowflake liberal” who became unjustifiably upset. After all, it’s only biological determinisn, right? And why should I take biology so personally when nature doesn’t care about feelings. This is the way things are. I should just grow up, shut my spic mouth, and move on with my life.

This arrogant strut brings me no closer to serendipity.

I sit on my hands and let myself drown.  

In my credulity, I let the wizard make craft of my head;

Terraform my cerebellum with wonders contrived from science.

I wonder what value he sees; for when I roll back my eyes and look into my skull,

I see only a charlatan.

Oh wizard, what brings you here?

What amalgam have you brought this wrought child?

Could you cast magics to make this cavernous chasm pregnant with life?

These scenes are best left to witches, or on front doors as Halloween decorations.

My apologies, dear wizard, but I needn’t your spells today.

May this chasm leave you slack-jawed in mirth, lest it remain vacant—parched.

If you cast one spell, dear wizard—artisan of the conscious—make it one to bring forth the rain.