Something aspirational for 2026
January has arrived, and today I’d like to put into words
something like my aspirations for 2026—
and also what kind of person Tatsumi Oyama is.
To begin with, I’ve never been very good at periodic rituals like “New Year’s resolutions.”
Like suddenly feeling pressure to be romantically partnered just because it’s Christmas,
or feeling compelled to do something meaningful simply because it’s New Year’s,
or because it’s summer… or Halloween… (and so on).
(In Japan, Christmas is not primarily a religious holiday.
It functions more as a seasonal social event, often associated with romance, romance-oriented behavior, and commercial expectations.
For many people, especially those without partners, Christmas can feel less like a celebration and more like a subtle social pressure to perform a certain role.)
Don’t get me wrong—I generally think Japan having four distinct seasons is a good thing. “Generally” here just means I’m not a fan of extreme heat or cold.
Anyway, these seasonal events make me feel as though my inner life is being pre-scheduled in advance, and I just can’t stand that.
Still, if I were to force myself to put something like a 2026 resolution into words, I suppose it would be to continue my creative activities as someone who leaves words behind, just as I’ve done until now.
Specifically, I’m thinking about blogging, writing books, giving lectures, and posting videos.
Something Like a Self-Introduction
Now then, I’d like to take this opportunity to put into words what kind of person Tatsumi Oyama is—something akin to a self-introduction.
I am a writer.
Throughout my life, I have experienced many setbacks due to innate limitations and numerous acquired hurdles that cut off my life choices. As a writer, I have witnessed the multiple layers that make up society through these setbacks.
And I possess the aspect of being a person with developmental disabilities who lived without a defining label.
What this means is that I was born in 1975 and received my developmental disability diagnosis at age 48. Therefore, I lived until that age without possessing a defining label—neither to the world nor to myself—to say, “I am a person with developmental disabilities.”
Moreover, because my developmental traits involve a pronounced strength in language comprehension, I can converse normally. In fact, many people might even perceive me as quite talkative.
Furthermore, having grown up under so-called “toxic parents,” my ability to read others’ expressions and adjust my words and actions accordingly developed highly, albeit in a distorted way.
Additionally, I am a survivor of bullying. I was bullied not only by classmates but also by teachers. These experiences seem to have instilled in me, at an early stage of life, a certain attitude toward human beings that could be described as “resignation” or “giving up.” This resignation granted me the freedom and burden to resolve conflicts and contradictions within my own inner world. Consequently, it fostered a personality unafraid of solitude and, at the same time, left me with a deep and persistent exhaustion toward life itself.
I believe this background is a major reason why, until I was 48, no one ever suggested I might have a developmental disorder, and why I myself never reached that perspective.
And I suspect this background is not shared by the majority of people with developmental disorders.
Life is difficult for me. That much is certain.
However, Japan’s social system labels me as follows:
The medical field assesses me as:
“This person can respond appropriately. Communication is possible.
There are many others facing more urgent difficulties.”
Meanwhile, in the welfare and psychological fields,
they arrive at nearly the same conclusion:
“Not socially dysfunctional,”
“Maintaining a minimum standard of living,”
“Not a high priority for support.”
In other words,
from the medical perspective, I am labeled as “someone who is still okay,”
and from the welfare perspective, as “someone who is already managing somehow.”
As a result, it can be said that I have always been placed in the position of “not someone who is truly in trouble.”
In other words, I might be described as “a person with developmental disabilities who has no place to belong anywhere in today’s society.”
Please don’t misunderstand me—I’m not here to criticize systems like healthcare or welfare. Fundamentally, I don’t seek a place to belong or be affiliated with, nor do I have the slightest desire for priority support.
I’m simply putting into words the landscape I’ve seen so far. Whether this holds any meaning or not, I don’t know. This is what I feel right now.
Throughout my life, I’ve held a deep fascination with the human condition. Receiving my developmental disability diagnosis at age 48 redefined my identity. Since then, I’ve observed the diverse realities of many individuals with developmental disabilities.
I sense that most people with developmental disabilities wish to “live normally.” Those like me, who chose the path of expression because “I couldn’t live normally,” are probably in the minority.
Therefore, I believe that precisely because I occupy this advantageous position, there are things I can articulate.
It’s not about stiff words like “responsibility” or “duty.”
I don’t have lofty aspirations like feeling I should speak up for someone else,
or wanting to help someone.
It’s more like: “If you can do it, maybe you should.”
Flexible. Unforced.
Like water that keeps flowing.
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