For the longest time in my adult life, I was peripheral to crip theory and neurodivergency. I was aware of queer and critical theory, but I'd never considered how deeply my shame was tied to expectations of normality. I'd be minding my own business, even enjoying uni (strange, I know), then just drop dead, becoming an anxious or dissociated mess who could barely open the curtains, let alone get to class. After delving into trauma studies it all clicked: I'm disabled. Or rather, I've been made disabled. More than raised in an invalidating home, I continue to experience disabling architectures at the hands of the state, the schooling system, and the workplace, with its rigid time schedules and maze of connected papers, an inhuman web that disallows any worker to slow down. If you fuck up, you fuck us all up. The university, by structure, is disabling. It's a miracle I've been able to teach one paper, without my depressions fucking me up. Fucking me up, because I'm not given the time to be fucked up. To simply wait, process, and integrate what I'm going through. No, tutorials must go on. Marking must go on. I must go on. Because I love my students. Because I think pedagogy is vital for consciousness raising. Because I need money. And because I need good references to build a wretched semblance of a career.
Long story short: I have always been a crip, a deviant, a parasite, because we live in a world where normality is define through capital, through one's capacity to labour in a standardised spatiotemporality: through the rigidity of clock time, mechanistic spatial practices, and an increasingly absurd level of flexibility that leaves many exhausted and jobless.
We had a mid-semester test. Not having seen the test myself, I oriented the kids towards open questions, interpretation and critical thinking. "You probably won't need to know the five elements of setting; what's more important is your capacity to critically engage with any one of these elements, to really comment on their literary power to characterise, to convey themes, and to construct ideology." I was wrong. Half the questions were just rote learning, fill in the boxes, Freire crying in his coffin. Even humanities pushes out technocrats. We come to resemble our surroundings, dead labour, dead facts, primed to the movement of plastic clock hands, the smiling face of Mickey as his arms bend beyond his sockets.
I was gonna do a dry and comprehensive review of this book, but I'm sad. Disillusioned. Crushed. The lecture convenor complained about the admin not sending them their marksheets. The admin was sorting through letters that had been handed in out of order. My hours were expected to be 7 a week; I do upwards of 20. The uni understaffs us so we bicker amongst ourselves, wasting energy on in-fighting that could be used to build alliances. The uni grinds us down into neurodivergents, so that even the normative subjects lose their jobs through burnout, bitterness, dissociation, anxiety, despair.
There's a point Chapman makes, near the end of the book, about the legalisation of euthanasia. We've had forty years of neoliberalism, the dismantlement of welfare, social services, cheap and well maintained public transport, and state housing. Under such condition, euthanasia gains a sinister connotation. It may be the choice one picks because life, under neoliberalism, is unbearable.
In the nineties, neurologists believed that the advent of mass pharmaceuticals would finally solve mental illness. This didn't happen. A decade later, CBT and mindfulness began rolling out as the next cure. Mental illness is as high as ever. This is not only because of our greater awareness of it (more people are diagnosed as neurodivergent), it is also because of the intensification of labour under neoliberalism (our conditions are more disabling). We have worse working conditions, longer (or far too few) hours, precarious employment, less social support, the externalisation of care to phone apps, and capitalism extracts more and more emotional and cognitive labour from us, so that we don't even have a semblance of leisure, let alone an authentic or lived sense of self.
In a section that utterly stunned me, Chapman argues that the spectrum for autism keeps expanding because more and more people fall short of "the social, communicative, and sensory processing capabilities required by [neoliberalism]." Capitalism doesn't merely marginalise neurodivergents, it creates them by extracting beyond the limits of the human body. Our bodies are consumed, broken apart, and made monstrous.
I teach for my kids. I teach, through all this agony, because I don't want them to ever feel as helpless and alone as I did during undergrad. It's not right. It's not fair. I know I shouldn't feel bad unable to keep up with the work, but at some level I do it so others aren't consumed. I'm in my Simone Weil arc. I'm in my mothering unto self-annihilation. All those psychotherapy books: they don't talk about empathic attunement as burnout, nor emotional regulation as taking too many sleep pills so you can get to tutorials on time the next morning. The well-adjusted individual is torn apart by all the worldly misadjustments that prod, pull, and pulverise them into fine dust. Ashes, really. Drifting through the air, they become a haze, and shroud the dreams of others. It's an enveloping love. A love that brings miasma and fever, and burns with the brightest sheen before convalescence. On waking, grace unfurls into the air. Pores exhale galaxies into the dappled sunlight. All around, you can see stars. They pulse in and out of focus. They live briefly in the traces of others.