Blast Radius: Epicentre of a Thousand Memories
A Meme, A Mind, and the Force of Being Unchosen
A meme detonated a lifetime of memories—being unchosen, erased, yet surviving. Today’s article explores that blast radius and the creation of Unchosen, a poem of defiance, belonging, and the power of choosing myself.
Introduction
I wasn’t prepared for the image.
Scrolling Instagram, expecting fluff or maybe pictures of bunnies or Care Bears, and then—bam. That quote. That disconnection. “We can’t force people to choose us.” It landed with the force of a blow—right to my verbal processing centre, which suddenly felt more like a dam about to burst than the organised archive I try to keep it.
Pre-HRT, this would have triggered an autistic shutdown. A meltdown, if it caught me at the wrong moment. And I’ve had many of those moments—when feeling pushes past language, past regulation, past the body’s capacity to contain. But now, post-HRT, the emotional waves don’t drown me—they move me. And this? It shook me to my core.
In that instant, my gestalt processing brain did what it always does: it edited together an 8K film reel of every time in my life this message proved true. From the earliest ruptures—being taken from my birth parents and handed, by a social worker’s hand, into cold compliance, into a childhood flavoured with Mirk’s sentiment, “children should be seen and not heard…”—through every moment of not belonging, of being required but not chosen. All the way forward to this very week at work, where I was again reminded that inclusion is often transactional, conditional. Never rooted in me as I am—autistic, trans, queer… competent, intelligent, creative…—but in what others need me to be.
Gobsmacked doesn’t cover it. I needed release.
Thankfully, I now have it.
Creativity, in its many forms, has long been my refuge, but poetry—new to me—has become something more. A lifeline. A way to speak when words won’t come, or come too many, too fast. In Værensland, the land of being, I am. But here, in the land of having, I must constantly justify, explain, translate. Poetry bridges the gap.
Today’s poem is born of that moment—the collision of image and memory, of system and soul. It is the expression of someone who has always lived as a foreigner in this world. Not because of where I was born—still a mystery, depending on which sealed record you believe—but because I am from Værensland, where being is enough, and no one must force belonging.
The poem began with a central focus:
They didn’t choose me.
But I am here.
And I choose myself.
I Choose Myself
That focus—They didn’t choose me. But I am here. And I choose myself—wasn’t a line, wasn’t a thought. It was a detonation. Instant. Spherical. Outward in every direction at once, as if the sentence were a stone hurled into the stillness of my being, shattering the surface, sending waves crashing into the farthest, most buried parts of me.
I couldn’t breathe for a moment—not out of fear, but from the sheer immensity of recognition. That kind of realisation that doesn’t just fill a room, but colonises your bones. My gestalt processor went into overdrive, not with calm, ordered recollection—but with explosions of memory, sound, and feeling, all demanding to be heard now.
I was there—the handoff, the social worker’s clinical touch. Not a rescue. Not salvation. Just transfer of property, from neglect into cold compliance. Then a child, in a house where “children should be seen and not heard” wasn’t a saying, but doctrine, woven into every glance, every withheld word of comfort. Where performative affection was a ration, doled out based on performance. I bent. I broke. And still—it was never enough.
Flash—primary school, before third grade. My voice sounding wrong, alien to their ears. My oddness—too visible. A target, not a child. Laughter like knives, cutting into my difference. Their confusion turned quickly to cruelty, and I—I was marked before I had the language, or the permission, to fight back. That came later—from my adoptive father. We don’t start fights. But if they do? Finish it. And I did. Which only sealed my status—permanent outsider. Permanent target.
Flash—the workplace this week. I am creative, competent, bright. Managing a full caseload of students who don’t belong in this Inclusion setting that centres the classroom UX around the teacher’s comfort, and ego. Teachers would prefer if these students weren’t there—interrupting their flow, complicating their day—but they’re stuck with them. And so, I’m necessary. Not wanted. Not needed. Not included. Just present. A credentialed outsider. Treated like some random adult who wandered in—a bit off, maybe—yet legally allowed to stay. My work keeps the system compliant. My presence? Conditional. Precarious. Expendable.
Every frame of this explosion screamed the same truth: They choose comfort. They choose sameness. I am neither.
And I am not built for erasure.
That line roared through me—not whispered—roared. I cannot erase what is breath, bone, being. This was not quiet reflection. This was survival rendered into verse. A lifeline forged in fire. The only way to contain this bloom, this endless blooming of choosing myself again, and again, and again, in a world that will never choose me freely. Unchosen, unrepentant. I do not wait to be chosen anymore. The explosion made sure of that. It’s still expanding. And I let it.
In Contrast, Connection
And then—two days ago as I write this—a different kind of message. An email from a friend, part of our daily exchange. Just words, simple in form, but saturated with meaning:
“I really appreciate you being there and reading all my emails and engaging with me on my thought experiments… I really do appreciate all the help and attention you have given…”
In a world that treats me like I just wandered in from nowhere, “a bit off” but tolerated because my credential allows it, this felt like a balm. A recognition not of obligation, but of presence. Not of usefulness, but of value. This email wasn’t just gratitude—it was mutuality. Trust. A relationship not built on what I can offer, but on who I am—and how that matters.
For over a year, we’ve been shaping a paper—trying to bridge the chasm between the vision in his mind and the constraints of the page. Not an easy task. And yet, he trusts me to help him. He believes in my newfound writing skills, trusts that I can take what’s abstract and shape it into something that fits the world’s language, without losing its soul. That trust—it’s no small thing. It makes me feel able, included, needed, wanted. It makes me feel like I belong.
Not because I’m a checkbox. Not because I’m a function. But because I am me—autistic, trans, queer—and that is enough.
Autistic. Trans. Queer. These are not faults, not flaws, not cloaks I can shed… They are breath, bone, being.
This is the opposite of what I experience in most spaces—the antithesis of being treated like a random, uninvited presence. Here, I’m not tolerated. I’m welcomed. Valued for my insights, for my mind, for the way I see and process the world. Even through email, across months and miles, I feel it. This is what belonging feels like. A space where I don’t have to translate myself, justify myself, force my way in.
And I can’t help but ask—why can’t it be like this everywhere?
Why can’t every interaction be rooted in respect, trust, and authenticity?
Why is this kind of connection so rare, when it feels so natural, so right?
The world could choose this way.
But it doesn’t.
Still—I have this.
And I know what it feels like now,
to be wanted,
not just needed.
To be seen,
not just used.
To be chosen,
not for convenience,
but for being.
The Jarring Slap of Reality
But even in the warmth of that belonging, reality waits like a blade.
The moment I look away from that rare connection, the world returns with force—a slap, not of surprise, but of relentless confirmation: You are not safe here. You are not wanted here.
The news cycles are an unending barrage—the Tangerine Tyrant and his loyal minions spew venom daily, every word a promise of harm, every policy a step toward extermination in plain sight. Their mouths shape futures where people like me—autistic, trans, queer—are not just erased, but criminalised, hunted. The bathroom bans were never the goal—they were the opening salvo. First, make our existence illegal. Then, make sure we no longer exist.
RFK Jr., with his history of eugenics and pseudoscientific filth, parades cures and therapies like weapons. His contempt for people like me drips from every sentence, every policy proposal, every hollow smile. He speaks of “fixing” and “healing”—but I know what that means. Erasure, again.
They want to shut down the Department of Education—the very institution responsible for Title 1, Special Education—the systems that barely keep students like mine afloat. And I see it clearly: the grift is already planned, the looting set to begin. Strip the schools, bleed the vulnerable, and sell the pieces to the highest bidder.
This isn’t new. It’s just the schoolyard bullies returned in final boss form—now with suits and laws and a nation behind them. Back then, they laughed at my voice, my oddness. Now, they legislate it out of existence.
The weight of it is crushing. There is no sphere where I am recognised, let alone protected. My body, my mind, my existence—a threat to their comfort, a glitch in their order.
I am not built for erasure.
Yet the world keeps trying.
And still—amidst this assault, my HRT-infused gestalt mind does what it must. It gathers the fragments, traces the threat, and spins protection from the chaos. The poem rises—not as art, but as incantation. Shield. Defiance.
They did not choose me.
Not at birth, when I was taken—not saved.
The ledger was inked before I could speak… a mould I would never fit.
These words are more than memory. They are armour, forged in fire. Every line a refusal to be erased. Every stanza a reclamation. They do not choose me. Not truly. Not freely. And I do not need them to. Not now.
Because I choose myself. And that choice echoes louder than their hatred. It blooms outward, just like the explosion that birthed it—outward, spherical, instant, unending. They may rule this land of “having,” but I come from Værensland, and in me, being will not be extinguished.
Let the poem speak. Let it shield. Let it burn.
Unchosen
They did not choose me.
Not at birth,
when I was taken—
not saved—
from arms that withheld
to arms that chilled.
A social worker’s hand,
clinical, efficient,
delivering me
from neglect
into cold compliance.
The ledger was inked
before I could speak,
lines etched with demands
I could not meet.
A transaction,
not a welcome.
A mould I would never fit.
I was not built
for such coldness—
for affection rationed
like wages,
for love measured
in usefulness.
But still, I tried.
I bent.
I broke.
They did not choose me
in the pews,
where Calvin’s shadow
weighed every breath,
where worth
was predestined,
and difference
was sin.
They did not choose me
in the classrooms,
where my voice
sounded strange,
my oddness
too visible,
a target
too easy.
I was marked
before I had words,
or permission,
to fight back.
They do not choose me
in the workplace.
I am included
when necessary,
discarded
when convenient.
A checkbox,
not a colleague.
Visibility
only when it serves them.
Autistic.
Trans.
Queer.
These are not faults,
not flaws,
not cloaks I can shed.
They are breath,
bone,
being.
I would not erase them.
I cannot erase them.
I am not built
for erasure.
They will not choose me.
Not truly.
Not freely.
They choose comfort.
They choose sameness.
I am neither.
But I am here—
unchosen,
unrepentant.
I walk with the jackrabbit,
the quail,
the coyote.
They know me.
They do not ask
what I can offer.
In the chaparral,
I am not too much.
I am not a mistake.
I am not alone.
They did not choose me.
But I remain,
whole.
And I choose myself.
Final thoughts …
Lately, I’ve watched people I once shared space with—online friends, fellow neurodivergents, fellow trans and queer kin—take the necessary step, in their view, of deleting everything. Erasing their digital selves, stripping all mention of their neurotype, their gender, their difference. Not because they want to, but because they don’t feel safe being seen anymore. Not in Ohio, not in Texas, Georgia, Florida.
So they pack up and leave, headed west—California, Washington. Queer refuges, once. But even those no longer feel sure.
Recent remarks from California’s governor made that clear enough. Gavin Newsom—he of the Willie Brown machine, the right-wing corporatist cloaked in the language of populism. His ambition is obvious. Presidential aspirations that bend toward appeasement, toward centrist comfort. I’m not fooled. I’ve seen what happens when the ruling class feigns solidarity to maintain power. They speak the language, but their loyalties are elsewhere. And even here, we are not safe.
It leaves me… here. Stuck, not by choice, but by circumstance.
The child of a Crown subject born abroad, I should be able to claim dual citizenship, should be able to live elsewhere, anywhere—in the wider Commonwealth, perhaps. But I can’t. Not with my documented neurodivergence, not with the layers of bureaucracy that bar the door. I am marooned. Dropped off here like misplaced luggage, in a country that treats my existence as threat.
And even getting out, flying out, isn’t safe.
The transport networks—American Airlines through Dallas, Delta through Atlanta—they run through hostile territory. The layovers alone put me at risk. Travelling whilst trans, whilst autistic, whilst visibly me, is no small matter. The route to freedom is closed.
And yet, I do not despair.
I am a leftist, a Marxist, and I do not traffic in doomerism.
Yes, I call things out. Yes, I name the truth, no matter how brutal.
But I believe in the fall of capitalism, in the solidarity of the working class, worldwide.
That belief is not naïve—it is necessary.
So I stay.
I write, because writing is resistance. I write, because they want us silent, and I won’t give them that.
I share, because others have been forced to vanish, and someone must remain to witness, to scream, to hope.
In this land where I was marooned, I choose to plant my words like seeds—
not for comfort,
not for permission,
but because I know that solidarity will rise,
and I will not be alone forever.