Test Kitchen Thoughts: The Art of Being Watched

I wasn’t going to write this, but the weight of it sits in my chest, and the only way to exhale is to let it out.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what it means to be watched. Not in the supportive, engaged kind of way—but in the calculated, lurking, waiting-for-a-misstep kind of way. The kind of watching that isn’t about dialogue but about control.

And I know when it’s happening. I can feel it. The scrutiny. The way someone studies my words, not to understand them, but to find a weak spot. The way they sift through my content, not with curiosity, but with a scalpel, dissecting until they find something—anything—to twist.

And sure enough, one did. Again.

The Ritual of Undermining

It’s almost predictable now. The pattern is so tired, so played out, so obvious. Someone doesn’t like that I refuse to fall in line. That I refuse to speak about Autism, or neurodivergence, or theory, or lived experience in the way they’ve deemed acceptable. That I refuse to bow.

So they engage. Not in good faith—never in good faith. Instead, they show up armed with a misinterpretation, ready to debate a version of my words I never actually said. They don’t seek clarity; they seek victory. They don’t ask questions; they issue judgments.

And when I don’t submit? When I push back, stand firm, meet them with the same sharpness they came with? They flip the script.

“You’re defensive.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You’re on a high horse.”

“You need to step down.”

The irony is so thick you could spread it on toast.

I have no desire to sit at their table, and yet they are furious that I won’t eat the meal they’ve prepared.

The Long Game of Petty Fascination

Here’s what’s almost funny: I know they read my work. I know they watch, scrolling through my content, reading through entire multi-slide posts just to find something they can sink their teeth into.

And yet, they’ll swear I’m irrelevant.

Which begs the question: If I’m so irrelevant, why are you so obsessed?

Why does my existence, my words, my perspective unsettle you so much that you feel the need to track it, distort it, and perform your disapproval of it?

Because it’s not actually about me. It never was.

It’s about control. It’s about the unspoken rule that certain voices—certain kinds of Autistic voices—are allowed to lead the narrative. And when someone steps outside of that framework, the enforcers come knocking.

They act as though they are protecting truth, when in reality, they are protecting power.

And I refuse to let them hold it over me.

The Exit Plan

I know they’ll try again. That’s what people like this do. They wait. They watch. They seethe. They wait for a new post, a new thread, a new theory—anything they can latch onto to reassert their self-appointed authority.

But I won’t engage on their terms. I don’t owe them submission. I don’t owe them a debate.

They can keep watching.

I’ll keep rising.