In my law classes, we spend hours discussing the “Reasonable Man.” It’s this legal fiction—a creature who is always rational, always acts with foresight, and—most importantly—always follows the rules. He is the standard by which the legal system measures everyone. But I have a secret for my professors: The “Reasonable Man” does not live in my kitchen. And he certainly does not live in the NDIS planning office.
I am 50 years old. I am an Aboriginal trans man, I am autistic, and I am studying law. I know exactly what my rights are. I know what “reasonable and necessary” means because I have spent two years litigating it against an agency that seems to have confused “reasonable” with “the cheapest possible option that keeps a person alive for now.”
When you are autistic, you have a very specific, annoying relationship with truth. You expect systems to follow their own logic. If the NDIS Act says I am entitled to support, I expect support. If the law says I have a right to autonomy, I expect to be treated like an adult. When the reality deviates from the text, I don’t just “feel” it—I can mathematically prove the contradiction. That is my “craziness,” as they call it. My “pig-headedness.”
Let’s talk about the math of safety. Last week, I was reduced to seven hours of support a day. That leaves seventeen hours of silence. Seventeen hours of being unable to move, unable to eat, unable to communicate if my eye-gaze device flickers out. The planners call this “optimization.” I call it “catastrophic abandonment.” They present me with a binary choice, a false dichotomy that would be hilarious if it weren’t so grim: accept the plan as written, or we will have to look at group housing options.
It is a classic legal bully tactic. It’s the “take this deal or things will get worse for you” threat that you see in bad courtroom dramas. But this isn’t a drama. It’s my life. And the irony? I am a law student. I know exactly what a coercion tactic looks like. I know that their threat is not just a plan issue; it is a profound failure of their duty of care.
I am soft. I feel things deeply. My autism makes the world loud, and my empathy makes the injustice of it all feel like a physical weight in my chest. Most people tell me to “harden up.” They tell me to be “less emotional.” But here is the truth that the system refuses to see: my emotions are my evidence. My distress is a direct output of their broken input. If I were a robot, I’d be the perfect participant. I’d take the cut, I’d take the isolation, and I’d say “thank you” for the privilege of being ignored for seventeen hours. But I am not a robot. I am an emotional, intellectual human being who knows the value of my own life. Being “pig-headed” isn’t a personality flaw. It is a protective mechanism. It is the only thing standing between me and a system that wants to erase my autonomy because it is slightly cheaper to do so.
I am not just asking for a new plan anymore. I am done with just the “administrative fix.” I have a history of fighting—and winning—tribunal cases. I know how to build a case. And I am tired of the NDIA acting like they are above the law they are supposed to enforce. They have played the “administrative error” card for years, but what they have actually done is create a pattern of behavior that has eroded my mental health and put my life in immediate jeopardy.
So, here is my manifesto: I am going to keep trying. Not because I believe the system will suddenly wake up and be “reasonable.” I keep trying because the act of trying is a radical rejection of their plan to make me disappear. They can cut my hours. They can send me letters that make no sense. They can play their bureaucratic games. But I have two things they don’t have: the truth, and the law. And if they think I’m going to go quietly, they haven’t met me.
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