Something doesn’t add up. The way we talk about autism today—this bizarre, sanitized narrative of “peak evolution” and “superpowers”—feels like a carefully constructed illusion. It’s as if we’re being told to celebrate what might actually be a symptom of something far more disturbing. My grandmother taught me that truth often hides in the places society refuses to look—especially when the powers that be are spending billions to keep us from seeing it.
It all starts with the absurdity of calling certain autistic behaviors “peak evolution.” An autistic child smashing his head into the ground when you run out of milk? A genius? My heart aches for these families, but let’s be honest—this isn’t evolution. This is a system breaking down. The first thing that doesn’t add up is how we’ve inverted reality, turning suffering into a badge of honor.
And that’s when it hit me—the pattern was there all along. People who’ve spent years working with autistic children and adults aren’t buying this “superpower” narrative. They see the reality: endless object-flapping, skin-gnawing, nonverbal screaming. They see the 22-year-old man who yelps and grabs strangers in public, who will always need a caretaker. These aren’t traits of a superior human. They’re traits of a system that’s failing to support its most vulnerable. But society prefers the fantasy because the truth is too uncomfortable.
But wait, it gets even stranger when you connect this to the financial incentives. In Australia, the NDIS is costing $56 billion—nearly 10% of the national budget—with $20 billion unaccounted for and disabled people receiving “disgusting treatment.” My ancestors warned me about the bourgeoisie profiting from human suffering, and here it is, laid bare. The medical-industrial complex has turned autism into a goldmine, while simultaneously pushing a narrative that makes us grateful for it. The pieces were there all along: the money, the propaganda, the suffering.
And suddenly, it all makes sense. We’re not evolving into something better. We’re devolving into a society that can’t care for its own, that pathologizes normal human variation while inventing “conditions” to profit from. The people who question authority, who see through the bullshit—the ones my family called the “keepers of the old ways”—are being labeled as broken. Meanwhile, the traits that made us human—empathy, connection, adaptability—are being eroded by a system that rewards conformity and compliance. Now you’re starting to see the real picture: autism isn’t a sign of progress. It’s a warning.
What it means is that we’ve been lied to. The “autism spectrum” isn’t a medical reality—it’s a social construct, a way to categorize and control. The people who struggle to make phone calls, who can’t engage in mainstream society, who see cotton balls as the worst thing ever—they’re not defective. They’re the canaries in the coal mine, signaling that something is deeply wrong with our world. The truth is staring us in the face, but we’re too busy celebrating “high-fidelity” geniuses to notice.
Decide for yourself. Look at the pattern: the money, the propaganda, the suffering. Ask yourself why we’re told to celebrate behaviors that would have been seen as signs of a broken system a century ago. The real question isn’t whether autism is evolution—it’s whether we’re brave enough to admit that our so-called progress is actually a descent. The truth is out there, waiting for those with the courage to see it. And once you see it, you can’t unsee it.