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We're lost, it seems

Somewhere in the in-between 

Can no one see

Where the hell we are going?

As the days go by faster and faster with no sign of slowing down

We're all living in a crazy world

We're all living in a crazy world

It's so easy now to lose your soul

It's so easy to forget the whole

Point of why we're even here

Cause we're all living in a crazy world

We're lost at sea

Drowning underneath the waves

We sow these seeds

and copyright ‘Jesus saves’

We all have dreams

That get lost along the way

Torn at the seams

They fade and begin to fray

As the days go by faster and faster with no sign of slowing down

We're all living in a crazy world

We're all living in a crazy world

It's so easy now to lose your soul

It's so easy to forget the whole

Point of why we're even here

Cause we're all living in a crazy world

This crazy world

Has gotten so fucked up

There's nowhere else to go

To get away from everyone

We're all living in a crazy world

We're all living in a crazy world

We're all living in a crazy world

It's so easy now to lose your soul

It's so easy to forget the whole

Point of why we're even here

Cause we're all living in a crazy world

Living in a crazy world

Living in a crazy world

Living in a crazy world

(Fade out)

There’s a concept in physics known as the “three-body problem.” While the movement of two celestial bodies under gravity can be predicted relatively easily, a third is introduced, and the system’s behaviour becomes chaotic—impossible to determine with simple rules. Recent popularisations of this idea underscore a universal truth: some systems are simply too dynamic and interconnected for neat, reductionist solutions.

When it comes to Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) and its diagnostic “severity levels,” we face a strikingly similar human dilemma. The DSM-5’s introduction of Levels 1, 2, and 3 was intended to bring order and standardised language to the diverse ways autism presents, theoretically aiding treatment planning and resource allocation. In theory, this sounds pragmatic. In practice, it falls short.

The Paradox: Achievement vs. Internal Reality

As an autistic educator and researcher, I have lived the consequences of this system. My recent reclassification to Level 2 ASD—“requiring substantial support”—brought a strange mix of validation and frustration. This is a vindication because my experiences were previously dismissed by a psychiatrist who saw only my academic achievements. The frustration, however, is palpable because this label reinforced my conviction that autism’s diagnostic levels are profoundly misguided, reflecting society’s need for tidy categories rather than our complex realities.

The notion that academic or professional success negates significant autistic traits is deeply flawed. Navigating academic structures does not erase daily challenges: sensory overwhelm, executive dysfunction, and the relentless, exhausting labour of masking. These are high-cost performances, invisible to those who rely on superficial assessments. Support needs are fluid and context-dependent, not static or easily captured by a single label.

Our Own ‘Three-Body Problem’: Levels vs. Lived Experience

Much like the celestial three-body problem, attempting to categorise the infinite variability of autistic experience into three tiers quickly descends into its own form of chaos, often with detrimental human consequences. Consider the “three bodies” at play:

1. The Autistic Individual: Each person is a universe of unique neurology, fluctuating internal states, sensory sensitivities, co-occurring conditions, strengths, and challenges.
2. The Environment: An ever-changing landscape of social expectations, sensory inputs, available (or absent) accommodations, and varying levels of understanding and acceptance.
3. The Diagnostic & Support System: A complex entity shaped by clinical judgement, resource constraints, policy, and systemic biases.

The interplay between these “bodies” means that support needs are rarely static or straightforward enough to be captured by a single, lifelong level. The system strives for predictability but, in reality, is far more complex and less predictable than such classifications allow, leaving many needs unmet and individuals unsupported.

As I wrote in “A Pox on Resilience”:

“Lazy welfare cheat or inspiration porn,

No middle ground for the differently born.”

These levels create false binaries, ignoring the constant evolution of support needs. Research confirms that static categories limit opportunities by pigeonholing individuals into narrow definitions of their abilities and challenges. They also fail to reflect the lived experience of autistic people, who often find their support needs changing over time and in different situations.

Beyond Simplistic Labels: Urgent Need for Systemic Change

For instance, a person with autism may require more support during a job interview than during a routine day at home. However, the current system does not account for such variations, leading to inadequate support in certain situations. While diagnosis can validate, the real harm arises from how levels are used in practice. Critics, including autistic advocates and researchers, rightly argue that these levels are poorly defined and fail to capture the dynamic, fluctuating nature of support needs across different contexts and life stages. As one advocate put it, “mild autism doesn’t mean one experiences autism mildly... It means YOU experience their autism mildly.” This insight highlights how these labels often reflect external perceptions rather than internal realities.

We urgently need systems that recognise:

1. Support needs are dynamic and context-dependent.
2. Achievement does not negate disability or the need for accommodations.
3. Environmental modifications and societal acceptance are essential.
4. Autistic voices must lead: Nothing About Us, Without Us!

Finding Our Voice, Demanding Better

Through poetry and teaching, I attempt to express what clinical language overlooks. When I write, “Barriers bloom like noxious weeds, / Choking paths, stifling needs,” I articulate the daily reality of navigating obstructive systems—a truth my neurodivergent students deeply understand.

More Than a Level: A Call to Action

I may be “Level 2 autistic,” but I am also an educator, poet, mentor, and advocate. These roles are not contradictions. Our value lies not in labels but our unique insights and collective strength.

The system that imposes these levels is in urgent need of transformation. Who better to lead that change than those who know its failings first-hand? Let’s dismantle these oversimplifications and build something truly supportive—together.

Wreckage Report (Sextant Deconstructed)

Who charts this

wr

eck?

(My inner compass spins, a frantic needle, lost to any guiding star.)

This vessel, I, where sorrow overbrims,

a foundering

vertigo,

both intimate

and

far.

The world? Unbalanced—

(skewed, storm-scarred, its charts unjust)

Yet, I endure—I breathe—though hope is dust adrift.

Indifferent eyes. The chill.

A

sea

of

disbelief

where documented pleas

(decades unreckoned, Millie’s warmth now still, a solace memory lost among the shoals and trees

of a forgotten year, no landfall found)

find no safe harbour. No shore. No ease.

All cherished things—

(mere flotsam).

I walk on paths

so

shattered,

so unplumbed,

none can chart my pain,

each step a trial by f i r e, a burning, constant flame.

The powerful? They

wat

ch.

(Their hands are folded, calm from their high deck).

Their coffers

swell.

(I bear the crushing blame, the water's claim).

Long days I fight this ceaseless, grinding weight—

these shackles forged of institutional sh a m e.

I seek out havens.

(Compassion’s gentle, guiding light,

a beacon hoped for in this endless night)

For corners where the truth

might dare to speak its name.

Instead: these hollow forms, these systems b u i l t

on breaking spirits, fanning despair’s

fl

a

me.

My evidence ignored, unread, unseen—

a logbook lost, while hunger gnaws.

(A fading, desperate claim).

If those who rule—

(and turn their gaze aside from this

capsizing

fate)—

Why not complete this ruin suffering laid bare?

A cleaner end.

(Than silence where they hide, abandoning the sl ate).

The noose of their neglect, it tightens... If you look away,

at least let honesty

attend my last des p a i r.

So let me lie.

(Where truth, at last, prevails, beyond the ocean's swell).

Earth below; above, the watching skies.

No more false comfort, no more whispered tales—

Just peace.

When this exhausted essence flies,

no longer tossed by wave or cruellest play.

When one sharp, silent

mer

cy

would light a clearer, final way.

(no star)

We've become our own plague

Burying the ones that we love

We're hopeless so we pray

Looking for answers from above

We take and we take until there's nothing left

We're all just a bunch of sinners after all

And we're all fucked when we hear the final call,

oh man

Cause nobody’s prepared for the end at all

There's nothing we can do to escape the fall

of man

We spread like a virus

Killing everything in our way

Disregard the sirens

They are just white noise anyway

We take and we take until there's nothing left

We're all just a bunch of sinners after all

And we're all fucked when we hear the final call,

oh man

Cause nobody's prepared for the end at all

There's nothing we can do to escape the fall

of man

SO GET READY FOR THE END!

We're all just a bunch of sinners after all

And we're all fucked when we hear the final call,

oh man

Cause nobody's prepared for the end at all

There's nothing we can do to escape the fall

of man

4/2/25

Finding solace under the Southern Cross, where memory becomes a constellation. Image by Midjourney v7.

Between Broken Paths and Stars

For Millie and Mr. Kitty, my guiding stars

My very being flickers, who can trace 
This self I bear, a star about to fade? 
This vessel, home to sorrows, 
finds no space But vertigo, a mind in light and shade. 
This unjust world, its balance cracked and lost — 
Yet still I am — I live — though tempest-tossed.

Into the storm of cold, dismissive eyes, 
Into the swirling sea of disbelief, 
Where documented, earnest, unheard cries 
Find no safe harbour, no shore, no relief. 
All that I cherished dissolves into mist, 
My Millie murdered, her comfort now unkissed.

I tread on broken paths none comprehend, 
Each step through searing flame, a daily pain. 
Authorities watch with dispassionate lens, 
Their coffers full, while I shoulder the blame. 
I labour through days of unyielding strain, 
Yet cannot shed these shackles of disdain.

I yearn for havens where compassion dwells, 
For quiet corners where truth might gently bloom; 
Instead, I find but empty, hollow shells 
Of systems built to seal a spirit’s tomb. 
Medical reports stack high, unread, unseen, 
While hunger gnaws where solace might have been.

If those who govern, those who feign to care, 
Choose wilful blindness as they watch me fall, 
Why not complete this suffering laid bare? 
A kinder end than no response at all. 
The noose of neglect tightens day by day — 
At least speak truth as you all turn away.

So let me rest where honesty prevails, 
The earth below; above, celestial skies. 
No more false promises or hollow tales, 
Just peace at last when this tired spirit flies. 
Yet as the dusk descends, a gentle gleam — 
Your soft green eyes, my Mr. Kitty, like a waking dream.

They are the lanterns in this gathering gloom, 
A steadfast glow that sorrow cannot quell. 
Your purring presence warms this fading room, 
A tender love, a deep and sacred spell. 
And in this love, release finds soft embrace — 
No stark farewell, but entry to a grace, 
A dream within a dream, a starlit, sacred place. 
Your love, a light that time cannot erase.

Facing the unyielding, dismissive gaze of indifference. Image by Midjourney v7.

The Unread Ledger

I am, and this I is a ledger of hurts, each entry meticulously documented, each plea authenticated by the invisible ink of suffering. Decades of it. Do you see? My lifelines are not lines at all but fissures, dimming like ancient stars collapsing under their own weight. This vessel you observe, it brims not with wine but with sorrows, a constant vertigo in a world that has lost its balance, its justice a rusted mechanism. And Millie, my Millie, her warmth is now a ghost in the fading tapestry of all I ever cherished.

These paths I tread are not paved; they are fractured glass underfoot, each step a re-acquaintance with a burning, fibrous inflammation of the soul. And the authorities, they watch, do they not? Their hands are folded, clean. Their coffers are full, lined with the silence that answers my pleas. Six days I labour against the current, the seventh brings no rest, only the tightening of the same invisible shackles. My pain is a meticulous report, submitted daily, piled high, unread.

I have yearned for the quiet corners of compassion, for the havens where truth is not a foreign tongue but the very air one breathes. Instead, these hollow shells, these systems designed to break the already broken. Their architecture is a monument to indifference. Medical reports stack like accusations against their neglect, and hunger, a patient wolf, gnaws beneath the sunset of each failing day.

If governance is this wilful blindness, this turning away from the falling, then why the pretence of care? Why not complete the demolition that suffering began? An honest end, a swift release — would that not be a mercy compared to this curated decay, this slow tightening of the noose of your neglect? If you must turn away, at least let your silence be honest, not cloaked in the platitudes of a care that never arrives. Let the earth be my final auditor, the celestial skies my witness. No more false promises. Only peace, when the spirit is finally, irrevocably, unburdened.

 The doors of hope swing shut with hollow clang. The safety net unravels, a taunting haunt. Photo by Nastia Petruk on Unsplash

Caesura of the self

"Aut Caesar aut nihil."
– Cesare Borgia

In the empty spaces between footfalls, we find the echoes of our departing selves.

Placeholder image made in Midjourney v5.2

Absolution in Ink -rewrite

I haunt these halls-

a shadow stitched to linoleum,

a footfall in the hush

before the bell.

Each step is a gauntlet,

each breath a blade

against the throat of morning.

I write in the dark,

a final flare,

a phosphor script

on the bones of night.

To you-

students, seekers,

I leave a map:

let knowledge

be your lantern,

let truth be your teeth.

To you-

creatures curled

in the crook of my arm,

I leave the rhythm

of my hands,

the scent of my sleeve,

the promise of a bowl,

a window cracked for sun.

I have walked

the splintered roads,

worn my shoes

to the quick.

The streets wait-

mouths open,

hungry for the softest thing.

I cannot feed you

to that hunger.

So I script my exit,

one last rebellion

against the cold machinery

of indifference.

If death is mercy,

let it be a rest.

Yet even as I fade,

I see you-

in rooms of laughter,

in arms that do not tremble.

Let this vision

be the balm

that steadies my hand.

Let these words

be my last decree:

in every line,

a piece of me breaks free,

to hover, to guide,

to light your way

when all else fails.

"I pen farewells with hands that tremble, ache, / Each word a weight, each phrase a shackled sigh." Image by Midjourney v7

I am! Yet who discerns the self I bear?

My essence flickers, dimming like a star.

I am the vessel where my anguish dwells,

A mind in constant spin, both near and far.

This unjust world, its balance torn and lost—

Yet still I am—I live—though tempest-tossed.

Into the storm of cold, dismissive eyes,

Into the swirling sea of disbelief,

Where years of earnest, documented cries

Find no safe harbour, no shore, no relief.

All that I cherished fades into the mist,

My faithful friends, my comfort near-dismissed.

I pen farewells with hands that tremble, ache,

Each word a weight, each phrase a shackled sigh.

For those I've guided, nurtured, strived to wake,

Instructions flow like tears that never dry.

The care, the love, the dreams we've woven here—

Unravelled by the threads of fate, severe.

And for the gentle beasts who've shared my heart,

Whose fur and feathers soothed my weary soul,

I trace provisions for when I depart,

Each line an arrow through my being's whole.

The thought of parting rends with searing pain,

Yet homelessness would be a crueller bane.

I've fought, I've pleaded, scraped for any aid,

Exhausted every path, each avenue.

But now the hour comes, the choice is made,

To end this dance, to bid this life adieu.
The shame, the guilt, they claw with vicious talons,

Yet suffering's spectre looms in stark equivalence.

There's solace in imagining their joy,

In homes where love will be their steadfast guide.

Though I'll be gone, my spirit will deploy,

To guard and bless them, ever by their side.

And in that thought, a fragile peace unfurls,

To ease the ache within my shattered world.

So ink becomes my voice, my legacy,

The tether that connects me to their light.

Each caring phrase, a token of what's lost,

Each fond remembrance, armour for their fight.

I'll slip away, a whisper on the breeze,

But in these letters, part of me still breathes.