I don’t WIKE it.

I don’t like change.

I really, really don’t like change. It’s hard. It’s difficult. It’s messy. I’m moving to a new state next month and I’m terrified.

I see my therapist twice a week (which I’m doing until literally the day before I move). Most nights, I play a game or watch a movie until I fall asleep. I see my one of my best friends on a regular basis.

And soon, everything changes.

And to quote Chris Evans, I DON’T WIKE IT.

And everything is chaos.

I find myself approaching autistic burnout.

I find myself regressing.

I find myself below my baseline.

And I don’t wike it.

I try to tell myself it’s normal. It’s okay. That even neurotypical people don’t cope well with change.

But I want things to be the way they are. The move is needed and is very good – it’s getting me into a much better place.

But I don’t WIKE IT.


Yes, I still hate Autism Speaks.

So today Facebook is abuzz. Apparently, Autism Speaks changed their mission statement to look prettier. For those following along at home, I am not a fan of them.  “But Nora!” I hear you cry out. “They no longer are searching for a cure! They’re searching for a SOLUTION.”

I’m here to tell you it’s the same thing. The exact thing. Cure? Solution? They’re different words for the same thing. And you know what that solution is? You know what their so-called awareness is endorsing? Eugenics.  THAT is the cure. THAT is the solution.

It’s all words. Just words. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing more. They can change their words, but until they change more  I’ll still boycott. They still insist we’re merely puzzles to be solved. And we’re NOT puzzles. They still insist that more boys than girls are autistics. We are still burdens. 

To them, autism does not speak. Autism parents speak. When actual autistics speak, we are silenced. We are bullied. We are pushed aside. Our words? Meaningless.

Autism speaks? Until you’re willing to listen to autistic adults, I’m still boycotting you. You know what your spectrum and solutions are? Wanting me and my friends dead. Forcing us into abusive therapies. Telling us the way we are simply isn’t good enough.

You and your supporters aren’t going to change, I suspect, but this is your chance to prove me wrong and you aren’t just words yet AGAIN.


In which Donald Trump is, once again, a buttcow

Donald Trump has, shockingly, once again made headlines. At this point, I seriously expect Asthon Kutcher to pop out and tell us he is epically punking us and trolling us. The latest comments though? While part of me is all “Why am I shocked?” the other part is “Why are you still supporting him?”

If your answer is “boys will be boys”, you are normalizing rape culture. You are saying it is okay to degrade and talk down to and about women. If you say that all men talk like that, you need to find some new men to talk to. If your answer is “what’s the big deal? It’s just locker room talk”, I dare you to look me in the eye, as a sexual abuse victim, and tell me those same words. Because you are literally justifying sexual abuse. You are literally saying that it’s no big deal. and that is not acceptable.

When these words come up in our history books, do you want to explain to your children what they mean? That we normalized them? Is this the world you want your children to grow up in? Do you want to tell your children you voted for someone who is literally normalizing sexual abuse, or do you want to tell them how you fought against him?

Trump isn’t brave for saying this crap. He isn’t edgy. He’s a buttcow, plain and simple. You are literally justifying and normalizing the abuse of women. And don’t give me that “but it was years ago!” crap. He’s shown no remorse. He hasn’t changed.


And We Dance

for nicolas.  january the 13, 1990 – july the 25, 2011

moments of childlike joy
the children’s museum, the science museum
and we dance


those nights that we shared
with the little princess and scrubs
and we laugh

those moments you saved my life
hours and hours of prayer
and we weep

we had our disagreements and fade
but you always were my friend, nicolas,
and we care

as the waves of time come crashing
and stop crashing far too soon
and i mourn

i long for the day where we reunite
and we can catch up once more
and i wait

together, no longer in pain
together, with our creator
and we dance

oh, i thought about You the day that nick died, and you met between my breaking. i know that i still love You god, despite the agony. cuz people they want to tell me You’re cruel, but if nick could sing he’d say it’s not true ‘cuz you’re good. cuz he loves us, whoah, how he loves us, whoah how he loves us, whoah how he loves…


I’m A Bad Crip

I was born disabled. I don’t know what it’s like to not be disabled. Every second of my life has been “Oh gods, Nora, you’re SO INSPIRING!”

I have nearly died. I don’t know what it’s like to be healthy. And my entire life I have been told I’m lucky. I’m blessed. I’m special.

I’ve been told I’m inspiring. That it’s amazing I graduated high school in the top portion of my class. I’ve been told what an incredible person I am merely for existing.

I am a bad crip.

I think this is bullshit.

I am a bad crip.

I’m not inspirational just for velcroing my shoes or getting a freaking soda from the store.

I am a bad crip.

I hate being told I’m amazing. I’m inspiring. I’m incredible. Don’t be inspired because I’m disabled. Be inspired because I’m a kickass Hufflepuff. Be inspired because I am loyal to a fault. Be inspired because I can still rap all the words to Jesus Freak, thank you very much. Be inspired because I know all the words to One Week by Barenaked Ladies. That my brain is a useless trap of Disney trivia and 90s Christian trivia.

I am a bad crip.

I don’t accept bullcrap excuses for ableism. I don’t let people push me around. When my PCA was treating me like shit and emotionally abusing me, I spoke out instead of just taking it. I document the hell-wringer the company puts me through, instead of doing what the world wants me to do: sitting down and shutting up.

I am a bad crip.

I’m snarky and sarcastic. I don’t take no for an answer. I push back. I don’t let the world walk over me. When I was told that I looked too good to be depressed and I just thought I was depressed, I ditched the doctor instead of believing the bullshit.

I am a bad crip.

And I’m proud of it.


And the very fear that makes you want to die, ends up the same as what keeps you alive

I have made it no secret that I was a victim of child abuse.  (Each link is a different post, for the record. Feels weird linking myself, but I’m not writing everything back out) And it sucks. There’s no easy way to say it. It sucks. And it’s defined so much of who I am.

I’ve read people say that they wish they were the person they were before their abuse. They grieve that person. But it’s not something I can do. I don’t know who I was before I was abused. I don’t know who I could have been. Would I still be a feisty, smartass Hufflepuff? Would I still be loyal and protective of my friends? Part of me thinks the hell I lived through is what made me want to protect others so much (and now I am thinking of Kingdom Hearts…cuz my friends are my power, so I protect them blah blah blah)

While part of me wishes to all hell I hadn’t been abused, would I be a voice for abused children if I hadn’t? Would I be trying like hell to make a difference? I don’t know. And that’s so complicated. The same thing that makes me suicidal, the same thing that haunts my memories… my nightmares, my flashbacks… is my same fighting force. The same thing that  propels me and keeps me going. The same thing that is my lifeblood. It’s keeping me alive and making me want to die all in one. And it’s such a weird feeling.

All at once, what haunts me is what fuels me. What holds me back is what propels me forward. And that’s just how it is going to be.


I am Annora

image is of a pale female brunette. she is wearing headphones and a shirt that says “sarcastic comment loading. please wait.”

When people ask me my name, I give it to them. My name is Annora (or Nora). It’s a big part of my identity. I chose it for myself. Annora is who I am. It’s who I’ll always be. I connect to the name Nora. It describes me, you know? The same way being a Hufflepuff describes me. The same way being Divergent describes me. The same way all my personality traits define me. 

I am also autistic. I’m not a person with autism. I don’t say I’m a person with Nora, that’s silly! Being autistic is as much of a part of my identity as my name.  There’s nothing wrong with my name and nothing wrong with being autistic. They’re both me. They’re both who I am. 

I am tired of people refusing to call me by my legal name and insisting I’m still “old name”. I’m tired of people calling me a person with autism. I’m tired of people calling me differently abled. Why the hell do you get to choose my labels for me? Who said you get to choose how I define myself? The only person who does so is me. I define me. And when I inform you of the proper language to use, it’s disrespectful not to use it. 

I’ve been told, flat out, that I’m “stupid” for changing my name. I’ve been told that I’m being absurd for insisting on identity first language. I’ve been told so many things on both counts. On the labels I’ve chosen for myself. On the labels that make me, well, me! 

I am Annora. 

I am autistic. 


Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
Wake me up when September ends

I remember 11 years ago, being a doe-eyed senior in high school. The world was my oyster and all that cliche shit. I was still relatively healthy by my not-optimal standards. I was in honors classes (my school called them “college prep”. We had regular, college prep, and AP. Had I been public school all four years, I would have been an AP student but that’s not my point).

That September, almost every morning on the bus I heard Wake Me Up When September Ends, which I now associate with senior year. September is a difficult month. Everything started falling apart. September is difficult. Please be gentle with me. Know that my blog posts may be more raw and vulnerable. Know that I may be more cynical and snappy.

But please be there for me. Thanks.