Note For Anyone Writing About Me

Guide to Writing About Me

I am an Autistic person,not a person with autism. I am also not Aspergers. The diagnosis isn't even in the DSM anymore, and yes, I agree with the consolidation of all autistic spectrum stuff under one umbrella. I have other issues with the DSM.

I don't like Autism Speaks. I'm Disabled, not differently abled, and I am an Autistic activist. Self-advocate is true, but incomplete.

Citing My Posts

MLA: Zisk, Alyssa Hillary. "Post Title." Yes, That Too. Day Month Year of post. Web. Day Month Year of retrieval.

APA: Zisk, A. H. (Year Month Day of post.) Post Title. [Web log post]. Retrieved from

Saturday, May 4, 2013

NaPoWriMo I'm not sure.

I wrote all my poems for NaPoWriMo on time, I swear! But they're all stuck in an Open Office document and I'm not sure which one is for which day. So... let's just call these 22-24?

On My Team

Your child is still your child.
Whatever you're feeling is valid.
It's a sad day, we know.
Autism: 0, You: 1

Have you read a word I've ever written?
There is no zero-sum game.
My autism and I have the same score.
What is that score?
I'm not sure,
I'm still playing.
The game has only just begun.
And autism?
It's playing on my team.



I stand in front of you.
I tell you exactly who I am.
I am a college student,
And I am Autistic.

And yet, and yet, and yet you assume,
I must be a parent,
I must be writing about my child,
An anniversary of diagnosis must be for my child.
No, it's for me.
An anniversary of diagnosis must bring back sadness.
No, it is a victory for understanding and hope.
An anniversary of diagnosis is a difficult day.
No, I want a cake. (Or ice cream. Ice cream is good.)
An anniversary of diagnosis is a day to reflect.
That much, at least, is true.
But what to reflect on, what to think?
Autism: 0, You: 1?
This is not zero-sum
Defeating autism?
We're not separate.
Remembering that my child (what child? I have no child yet) is still my child?
How could I forget that?
How could a different neurology cause anyone to forget that?

1 comment:

  1. I sought to pour my wisdom into her
    create a breathing, pulsing masterpiece;
    to mold, contrive, the best of me transfer
    through constant love labor. I would not cease.

    Pearls from my outstretched hand strewn, skipping
    loosened by flailing hands and kicking feet.
    Nectar painstakingly gathered dripping
    into pools of shed tears: Why she? Why me?

    Not lump of soft clay, but fully formed girl.
    Screaming for me from old manners to stray.
    Tightly held blossom, waiting to unfurl.
    At long last I learn: get out of the way.

    Through drawing and singing her sparkle shines.
    Years pass. Then, revealed, glimmers of mine.


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