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#censusfail

So, I went to a movie on Saturday. It took me four hours to get ready.That’s four entire hours, not three hours with a rest every hour. I dragged myself there, dressed up for the occasion, and a guy seven or so seats away waved at me and kept giving me the thumbs up.

I think, perhaps, he recognised that I worked very hard to attend in cosplay, or just that he recognised my moogle.

I got home and found the door jammed closed with a piece of paper. The piece of paper was a passive-aggressive note from a census collector named Colin. Colin had decided, since the ABS won’t allow me access to the alternate survey for people who don’t use ‘male’ and ‘female’, to shove a paper form in my smaller-than-regulation mailbox, with the weekend’s catalogues. I spent twenty minutes tearing it to pieces from both sides in order to get it out, and there are bits still in there. I ended up having to get food delivered, because my hands hadn’t recovered enough for me to make my own.

The note also said he’s coming back.

Somehow, I don’t feel safe knowing that.

 

No means NO

I suppose people don’t read, or assume that all phones have speech-to-text functionality. I could swear I remember the psychiatrist saying he would hold the referral. Instead, the other doctor’s office has picked up leaving me messages again. It’s not happening, people. Respect that.

 

 

There’s a theme coming out, of a lack of respect.

A while ago, I attended a show. It was the first one since the disaster last time, and naturally, it ended up turning out badly. They started breaking the stage down early, because security harassed everyone out – me, specifically. The man came and stood over me, ignoring that I was clearly preparing to leave by putting my knitting in my bag, picking up my keys, confirming I had all my things. He was so close that I could not see his face, or stand without bumping into him. He made a big gesture for me to leave, and I just put my head down, thought you will not rush me, and kept going. Then he leaned in further and started waving his hand in my face. I prayed for him to leave, and he did. I pushed myself up on the wall and then had to walk out unaided, because they’d already started shutting the doors to the band area, including the one nearest me, which if it was open would have allowed me to lean on the wall the entire way out. Instead, he followed me – to the point where my friend noticed something was wrong.

When I complained about this, the venue manager apologised, admitted that they had broken down the stage early, were very sorry etc.

The security company decided to insinuate that I was intoxicated and that if I wanted to be treated politely, then I should carry a card explaining my condition. As if, you know, you have to be less than perfectly abled to deserve the basic human courtesy of having more than two minutes to leave a venue, and as if signing to the man in question on the way in and limping rather obviously is not enough for them. I know this, because I had my phone out and was able to timestamp everything. Two minutes after the final note, he was waving his hand in my face. Six minutes after, I was on the steps outside, and my friend was standing there, not sure what to do because he hadn’t seen the initial incident, what with the door closed.

 

The venue generally closes half an hour after a show, apparently. …

 

I’m actually incensed by the notion that in order to be treated with basic courtesy, I have to explain and justify my condition. “I can’t talk, ringing you isn’t possible, please send a code,” to the ABS. “No, I do not trust that doctor,” to my psychiatrist, who’s sitting there telling me it has to be my choice and I have to feel safe and ready to take any steps, at the same time as he’s trying to push schema therapy on me, as if he’s unaware that I have to cope with intense dysphoria on top of everything else and I literally do not have the brain room to cope with anything else, especially something as radically holistic and intense (and expensive!) as schema therapy. Especially when, until now, he’s accepted that I’m doing everything on my own anyway and my brain just needs time. He apparently thinks I’ll magically change my mind if he has everyone bug me about it, and just keeps repeating himself.

And, you know, being able to stand up and leave a venue without being harassed.

 

I didn’t sleep, because I have to go back there tomorrow. I have to be prepared for the whole thing and everything that might or will or may possibly go wrong.

I am choosing to ignore this doctor thing. I’m not going there – I can’t get there by public transport, and it’s too far for me to drive. My parents are not an option, obviously, and I have a list of bad-taxi-driver stories almost as long as my contribution to the dub-con-is-rape solidarity postings going on now. (And, trust me, as an ace, autistic, conversion disorder, genderfluid, afab, person who doesn’t like labels, I have a lot.) I paid too much to skip the show, so I’m going, and then I am not returning to that venue, free tickets be damned (they’re closing soon, anyway, so it’s an empty threat, really). And if I am not allowed to fill out the census because they won’t give me access to the correct survey, well, I do believe that I can appeal the fine, though that’s time and energy for a small outcome, and I just have to pray that the census collector comes at a time I’m not home.

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