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I am currently studying law, so I am quite familiar with the concept of jurisdiction. I understand how state borders work. I know that when you cross from New South Wales into Queensland, you move from one legal jurisdiction into another. You might need to adjust your watch, and you definitely need to prepare for higher humidity.

But apparently, my family believes that crossing the Queensland border also triggers a form of sudden, irreversible amnesia regarding my existence.

It is a fascinating phenomenon, really. My relatives will happily hop on a plane, rent a car, or drive for eight hours to visit other family members in Queensland. They will post photos of beaches, they will check into hotels, they will share meals with cousins and aunts who live only a few suburbs away from me. Yet, when the topic of stopping by my place comes up, suddenly the map of Australia seems to warp.

Suddenly, I am not just “in Queensland.” I am in a sovereign nation that requires a visa, three vaccinations, and high-level diplomatic clearance to enter.

As an autistic person, I have a very low tolerance for “social politeness” that disguises the truth. I don’t need the excuses about how “busy” the trip was, or how “complicated the logistics were.” I can see the travel itinerary. I can see the photos on Facebook. I know that the car was driving on the exact same highway I use to get to the grocery store.

The soft part of me—the part that is still a human being with a heart—finds this deeply, quietly hurtful. It is a specific kind of loneliness, being visible enough to know you are being avoided, but not valuable enough to be included. It is the realization that you are not a destination; you are a chore that someone has successfully scheduled out of their holiday.

But then the sarcastic part of me—the part that is pig-headed enough to fight the NDIA and survive—takes over.

I’ve realized that this isn’t about geography at all. Geography is just the alibi. It’s the “Get Out of Jail Free” card for people who don’t want to admit that they are uncomfortable. They aren’t avoiding Queensland; they are avoiding the “inconvenience” of me. They are avoiding the reality of my life, my needs, and my reality as a trans man living with cerebral palsy. They prefer the “other” family because that family provides a smooth, frictionless, low-effort experience.

My house, however, requires something they aren’t prepared to give: genuine effort. It requires looking at a person as they are, not as a tourist attraction.

I’m not going to write another “Please visit me” email. I’m not going to cross-examine them on the witness stand of my inbox. I am done trying to prove my residency in this family.

If they want to treat my living room like a foreign country that requires an act of God to visit, they can keep their passport. I have law school, I have my autonomy, and I have a life that is too interesting to waste on people who don’t know how to read a map.

I am in Queensland. I am exactly where I chose to be. If they are in the neighborhood and decide to keep driving past, that’s their loss of jurisdiction—not mine.