In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile. In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm. I realized, through it all…that in the middle of winter, I finally found that within me there lies an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger—something better, pushing right back.

Albert Camus

Please stay here with us. 

nomorepuzzleprofits:

We need to stop seeing autism as some sort of one-dimensional sliding scale. Autism is not a thermometer. It’s not a rating that is “more” or “less”. High-functioning and Low-functioning do not exist in the real world.

Autism is a collection of symptoms and behaviours. Like a sundae bar. You choose your toppings that fit you.

Are you a bipolar extravert that loves socialising, is good at math and bad at remembering time? That’s ONE way to be autistic!

Are you a socially anxious autistic who has meltdowns when your clothes don’t feel right but a genius knowledge of music theory and is great at scheduling? That’s another way to be autistic!

Notice how both of those examples has strengths and weaknesses? Is one more “employable” or “high-functioning” than the other?

There is no one-size-fits-all category or rating for autism.

(via confessionsofanaspie)

lazyyogi:

Rest in a natural way like a small child. Rest like an ocean without waves. Rest within clarity like a candle flame. Rest without self-concerns like a human corpse. Rest unmoving like a mountain. 
Milarepa

lazyyogi:

Rest in a natural way like a small child. Rest like an ocean without waves. Rest within clarity like a candle flame. Rest without self-concerns like a human corpse. Rest unmoving like a mountain. 

Milarepa

youneedacat:

The “Trans Enough” project.  Trans people who feel like they’re not trans enough because they don’t measure up to whatever the trans people around them deem “trans enough”.  The video concludes with the idea that every trans person is trans enough, that there’s no such thing as “not trans enough”.  There are no captions and some of the people talking were nearly inaudible to me.  But some parts are done by writing on papers.  So I was able to understand some of the audio and most of the video.

longdivisionnnn:

thunderboltsortofapenny:

recoveringfrommyconvictions:

gaymerboy99:

littlelionmonster:

oldmanstephanie:

"Fuck You, Old People" — Group Piece at CUPSI 2014

"By the way, you can’t actually pick yourself up by your own bootstraps. That’s now how physics works."

FUCK. YES.

this gives me life….

"Act your fucking age" god damn, this has a good message here.

39 seconds in and I reblogged it

I don’t want a trophy, I WANT A FUCKING JOB

(via autisticcat)

shadesofnerdness:

dawngyocry:

I’m not saying it’s fair, or even possible to try to care about every person or demographic. All I’m begging for is that we at least try not to be so hateful.

I think this is exactly what those people trying to argue against me need to see.

(via scarlettfire)

bookdrunkinlove:

Hey guys!!!! I can’t believe there are actually 5 thousand of you that want to follow me!! It’s crazy to think that just a few months ago there were only 30 of you! I blame Manda and Jess haha!
So as a thank you for putting up with my toddler spam, my late night wine book rants, and Maureen and my banter back and forth. I would like to give away some books!
So here are the rules!!:
• I will be choosing TWO winners! The first winner will get either two paperbacks or one hardcover book of their choice! The second winner will receive one paperback of their choice!
• That’s right! Any book you want!!  I would have chosen some of my favorite books, but I want you to get whatever book you’ve been dying to read!
• This is open internationally! I will be purchasing the books through  the book depository! So you just have to be ok with giving me your address for shipping purposes!
• Now the usual fine print. You must be my follower! I will check! Also likes count. Reblog as much as you would like. Just don’t spam your dash! Also no giveaway blogs! That’s cheating.
• Liam will be picking the two winners from a fishbowl. But if there are way too many for me to write down, I will be using a number generator. This will happen on August 10th

bookdrunkinlove:

Hey guys!!!! I can’t believe there are actually 5 thousand of you that want to follow me!! It’s crazy to think that just a few months ago there were only 30 of you! I blame Manda and Jess haha!

So as a thank you for putting up with my toddler spam, my late night wine book rants, and Maureen and my banter back and forth. I would like to give away some books!

So here are the rules!!:

• I will be choosing TWO winners! The first winner will get either two paperbacks or one hardcover book of their choice! The second winner will receive one paperback of their choice!

• That’s right! Any book you want!!
I would have chosen some of my favorite books, but I want you to get whatever book you’ve been dying to read!

• This is open internationally! I will be purchasing the books through the book depository! So you just have to be ok with giving me your address for shipping purposes!

• Now the usual fine print. You must be my follower! I will check! Also likes count. Reblog as much as you would like. Just don’t spam your dash! Also no giveaway blogs! That’s cheating.

• Liam will be picking the two winners from a fishbowl. But if there are way too many for me to write down, I will be using a number generator. This will happen on August 10th

(via booksthatstartwitha)

And how hard is it to land even a minimum-wage job? This year, the Ivy League college admissions acceptance rate was 8.9%. Last year, when Walmart opened its first store in Washington, D.C., there were more than 23,000 applications for 600 jobs, which resulted in an acceptance rate of 2.6%, making the big box store about twice as selective as Harvard and five times as choosy as Cornell. Telling unemployed people to get off their couches (or out of the cars they live in or the shelters where they sleep) and get a job makes as much sense as telling them to go study at Harvard.

"Believing that you are unworthy of love and belonging or that who you are authentically is a sin or is wrong, is deadly." - It Got Better featuring Laverne Cox (x)

(via scattered-minutiae)

diriyeosman:

HOW MENTAL ILLNESS FED MY CREATIVITY
BY DIRIYE OSMAN
 There’s no romance to mental illness. Whether you’re suffering from psychosis or schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or depression, the realities of mental ill-health often mean a life disrupted by isolation, harrowing symptoms, hospitalizations, discrimination and despair. At a time when the government seems hell-bent on slashing away at the budgets of mental health services across the country and working overtime to stigmatize the mentally disabled by creating barriers to benefits through dehumanizing work programmes, it’s important to remember this: there’s no romance to mental illness. There’s juice to the story but no joy. 
I was diagnosed with psychosis at the age of eighteen and most of my adult life has been spent in and out of psychiatric units. Over the years that diagnosis has shifted towards schizophrenia, then anxiety disorder, and finally bipolar disorder. I was told that I suffered from bipolar disorder during a period of severe mental strain. I had just come out as gay to my strict Muslim family who swiftly disowned me and my relationship with my long-term partner had disintegrated. When the consultant psychiatrist told me the news, I laughed.
“Why are you laughing?” he asked.
“If I don’t laugh now,” I said, “I’ll start crying, and I don’t have the luxury to feel sorry for myself.”
I come from a close-knit family and they were my primary carers. Whenever I was unwell, my parents or my older sister would pick up the phone and call my care-worker. My older sister, in particular, was a powerful source of comfort and support. She would call me every day to lift my spirits and make me laugh when things looked grim. But beyond these vital elements, she made my quality of life considerably better by helping me out around the house, encouraging me to apply for university, helping me fill out job applications. The irony, of course, is that it was my sister, who was also my closest friend, who outed me to the rest of my family.
When my psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder my local mental health team, which had always been an integral part of my recovery process, discharged me because the cuts to their budget were so deep that they had to place me in the care of my GP. 
I laughed and laughed at this bad luck and, when the laughter subsided, I sat down in front of my clapped-out computer and started writing a short story. I had been working on a collection of short fiction called ‘Fairytales For Lost Children’ at the time and my only response to my grim circumstances was to continue writing this book. The pieces were primarily about the Somali gay and lesbian experience filtered through the lens of my own life as a gay Somali. When I started writing these stories, I was still in the closet, and with each story that I wrote my confidence and sense of pride grew until I gradually came into my own. I had hoped that by writing this collection I would not only affirm my own identity but also offer hope to other gay and lesbian youth who were going through similar difficulties. By the time I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, however, I found myself writing fiction in order to save my life. 
During that period I would experience euphoric highs punctuated by crippling lows. Since there was no support system in place, I would diligently write through each manic episode, and the creative impulse to thread each story, to keep the structure flowing as best as I could, kept me going.
Every time I felt the impulse to throw myself off my balcony, every time I found myself lying on the kitchen floor in a depressed stupor, I would think of the sentences that needed to be rephrased, the paragraphs that needed a particular cadence or rhythm, and I would get back to my computer and comb those kinks out. The obsession with detail, the palpable passion and sadness on each page was fuelled by my desire to transform destructive emotions like mania into something purposive, beautiful even.
There may not be any romance to mental illness but who needs romance when the preferable route is agency? The prevailing conversation around mental health issues is agency and the lack thereof on the part of the mentally ill. But what do you do if you’re a paid-up member of the mentally ill populace in question? Do you curl up into a ball and give up? No, you look for solutions. Ultimately, it’s about keeping despair at bay and sometimes simple things like running, taking up a hobby, doing charity work, painting or, in my case, writing can be a galvanizing part of the recovery process. Keeping the brain and the body active can give life a semblance of pleasure and hope. This is what writing has done for me. I took every traumatic element of my condition and channelled it into something useful. Because I was writing from a position of vulnerability, my powers of empathy were heightened and I approached my characters’ narrative arcs with a sense of humanity that I could not have mustered had I not experienced similar struggles myself.
Today I write from a place of optimism. I’m out of the woods health-wise, but I remain pragmatic and know that this could easily change. If my health deteriorates I will continue to do what I’ve always done when faced with disaster. I will keep writing. I will keep feeding the fire. 
FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN is available via the following links:
UK: http://amzn.to/12nRtp7

US: http://amzn.to/13p8PGk

CAN: http://amzn.to/1ePjj6u
Diriye Osman is photographed by Boris Mitkov.

diriyeosman:

HOW MENTAL ILLNESS FED MY CREATIVITY

BY DIRIYE OSMAN

 There’s no romance to mental illness. Whether you’re suffering from psychosis or schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or depression, the realities of mental ill-health often mean a life disrupted by isolation, harrowing symptoms, hospitalizations, discrimination and despair. At a time when the government seems hell-bent on slashing away at the budgets of mental health services across the country and working overtime to stigmatize the mentally disabled by creating barriers to benefits through dehumanizing work programmes, it’s important to remember this: there’s no romance to mental illness. There’s juice to the story but no joy.

I was diagnosed with psychosis at the age of eighteen and most of my adult life has been spent in and out of psychiatric units. Over the years that diagnosis has shifted towards schizophrenia, then anxiety disorder, and finally bipolar disorder. I was told that I suffered from bipolar disorder during a period of severe mental strain. I had just come out as gay to my strict Muslim family who swiftly disowned me and my relationship with my long-term partner had disintegrated. When the consultant psychiatrist told me the news, I laughed.

“Why are you laughing?” he asked.

“If I don’t laugh now,” I said, “I’ll start crying, and I don’t have the luxury to feel sorry for myself.”

I come from a close-knit family and they were my primary carers. Whenever I was unwell, my parents or my older sister would pick up the phone and call my care-worker. My older sister, in particular, was a powerful source of comfort and support. She would call me every day to lift my spirits and make me laugh when things looked grim. But beyond these vital elements, she made my quality of life considerably better by helping me out around the house, encouraging me to apply for university, helping me fill out job applications. The irony, of course, is that it was my sister, who was also my closest friend, who outed me to the rest of my family.

When my psychiatrist diagnosed me with bipolar disorder my local mental health team, which had always been an integral part of my recovery process, discharged me because the cuts to their budget were so deep that they had to place me in the care of my GP.

I laughed and laughed at this bad luck and, when the laughter subsided, I sat down in front of my clapped-out computer and started writing a short story. I had been working on a collection of short fiction called ‘Fairytales For Lost Children’ at the time and my only response to my grim circumstances was to continue writing this book. The pieces were primarily about the Somali gay and lesbian experience filtered through the lens of my own life as a gay Somali. When I started writing these stories, I was still in the closet, and with each story that I wrote my confidence and sense of pride grew until I gradually came into my own. I had hoped that by writing this collection I would not only affirm my own identity but also offer hope to other gay and lesbian youth who were going through similar difficulties. By the time I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, however, I found myself writing fiction in order to save my life.

During that period I would experience euphoric highs punctuated by crippling lows. Since there was no support system in place, I would diligently write through each manic episode, and the creative impulse to thread each story, to keep the structure flowing as best as I could, kept me going.

Every time I felt the impulse to throw myself off my balcony, every time I found myself lying on the kitchen floor in a depressed stupor, I would think of the sentences that needed to be rephrased, the paragraphs that needed a particular cadence or rhythm, and I would get back to my computer and comb those kinks out. The obsession with detail, the palpable passion and sadness on each page was fuelled by my desire to transform destructive emotions like mania into something purposive, beautiful even.

There may not be any romance to mental illness but who needs romance when the preferable route is agency? The prevailing conversation around mental health issues is agency and the lack thereof on the part of the mentally ill. But what do you do if you’re a paid-up member of the mentally ill populace in question? Do you curl up into a ball and give up? No, you look for solutions. Ultimately, it’s about keeping despair at bay and sometimes simple things like running, taking up a hobby, doing charity work, painting or, in my case, writing can be a galvanizing part of the recovery process. Keeping the brain and the body active can give life a semblance of pleasure and hope. This is what writing has done for me. I took every traumatic element of my condition and channelled it into something useful. Because I was writing from a position of vulnerability, my powers of empathy were heightened and I approached my characters’ narrative arcs with a sense of humanity that I could not have mustered had I not experienced similar struggles myself.

Today I write from a place of optimism. I’m out of the woods health-wise, but I remain pragmatic and know that this could easily change. If my health deteriorates I will continue to do what I’ve always done when faced with disaster. I will keep writing. I will keep feeding the fire.

FAIRYTALES FOR LOST CHILDREN is available via the following links:

UK: http://amzn.to/12nRtp7


US: http://amzn.to/13p8PGk


CAN: http://amzn.to/1ePjj6u

Diriye Osman is photographed by Boris Mitkov.

(via aspiefightingforsurvival)