Autistic family, autistic irritation (plus, why I’m a terrible 21st Century author)

picture of a pencil with a sharpener and shavings lying on a blank notebook

I can understand why some thinkers are recluses. Heck, I’ve been a recluse, myself. Blogging is one of the few concessions I’ll make to being “social” about my work. Social media, to some extent, as well. But I’m not a big fan of running around, telling everyone about my work, what I’ve been doing, etc. Something about social interactions really sucks the life out of my thought process, especially when I’m working on an idea. And when the idea becomes fully formed — or formed enough to show up on the printed page after a bunch of rounds of edits — I’ve often moved on to the next Big Idea… and I’m thinking about that.

But of course, everybody wants to talk about that old idea that’s in my proverbial rear-view mirror. Stuff that’s new to them is “old hat” to me, and I can’t be bothered thinking about it, anymore.

I could never be in a band for that exact reason. Having to play the same songs, over and over — especially the songs that everybody else loves, because they’re familiar and they make them feel a certain special way. Ugh. How horrible. I could never do it. Same thing with ideas and books and whatnot. I don’t want to hang around chewing on the food for thought I masticated and swallowed days, weeks, months, and years ago. I’ve moved on.

So, I really do make a terrible 21st Century author. Writing and publishing have turned into such a promotion-intensive activity, over the past 40 years, which is a shame for writers like me. I’m just not all that keen on self-promotion. Plus, I really hate talking to other people about my work. It’s an internal process. Talking screws it up for me and messes up my thought process. And part of me thinks, if other people have to talk endlessly about an idea, they must not really get it, so why am I bothering talking endlessly about it with them?

How I long for the days when people could read something, reason through it themselves without needing constant conversation and reinforcement, and then draw their own conclusions without tapping the purported “wisdom of the herd”.

Ugh. How I hate that expression — “wisdom of the herd” (it hisses through my imagination as if the character Bubble from ‘AbFab’ were saying it). That combination of words defies logic, to my mind.

Well, anyway, I’m just venting. What was it I wanted to say? Oh, yeah — how glad I am, I’m not traveling to see my uber-autistic parents.

Don’t get me wrong. I do love my folks, and I enjoy much of the times I share with them. But I can do without their cluelessness about what it’s like to live in the non-autistic world as an autistic person, how exhausting it is, how dangerous it is, how confounding and thwarting it can be. Their surroundings are as autistic as autistic can be — and they make sure it stays that way. Everyone in their immediate circle is either neurodivergent or knows they’re outnumbered by neurodivergent folks, so they defer to them.

Autistic is the Normal of their world. Neurotypical is pathological. Ha! So there. They’ve got their black-and-white thinking, their strict routines (for everything), their rigidity and dogma, their sensory issues, their hyperverbalism, their very, very autistic mannerisms that stand out sharply in the world outside their enclave but are the most natural thing in the world within their protected sphere of influence. They have all the supports they need to live successful lives in that context, and they can’t imagine anyone wanting or needing to live any other way.

My two biological siblings — both autists extraordinaire (tho’ they don’t know it) — have recreated our parents’ lives to an uncanny degree. It’s a little creepy. But by my family’s standards, they’re wildly successful, fulfilling all the requirements of A Good Life. Meanwhile, my adopted sister and I are outside that paradigm, and we’re struggling. She’s on disability and hasn’t been able to work or do much of anything other than manage her pain for a number of years. My activities are quite constrained by, well, being constantly exhausted by the demands of my everyday life. Exhaustion and an intense life with a lot of personal demands, isn’t a great recipe for exploring all of life’s glorious variety — including packing in all the activities my autistic family does, church involvement, volunteering, intense social activity, etc. In my parents’ view, that means my sister and I are failing — not that we’re dealing with a more challenging set of circumstances and are actually more functional in significant ways than our siblings who didn’t “fall far from the tree”.

The ironic thing is, I wouldn’t mind being able to stick closer to the ways of my upbringing. But autism-centric society doesn’t always work in my favor. And the rigidity and routines that make life sweet for the auties and Aspies of my parents’ type make life absolutely miserable for me. Their arrangements are great for people in one “quadrant” of the autism spectrum, but they make life a living hell for folks who occupy a different space. And they’re so damn’ intransigent about it. Come to think of it, it reminds me a lot of how brittle and abrasive Autistic Twitter can get, sometimes.

Shades of my upbringing… and the reasons I moved away.

So, where was I… Oh, yeah. Bitching about my parents. My whole family, actually.  Vent, vent, vent.

But really, venting is only part of what I want to do, here. I’m off work for the next week and a half, which is bliss. I will actually have time to do all the things that have had to wait, thanks to my exhaustion and general overwhelm. Glorious. How delightful. I’ll be able to clean out my study. I think I’ll do that right now. I’ll have time to connect my new computer (I got a second-hand $3,000 machine for $304, which delights me). I’ll have time to lie down and nap whenever I danged well like.

And no travel to family. Not a bit. None of the stress and strain of highways with holiday-addled drivers. No sleeping in strange beds and dealing with strange routines. No social overwhelm. No hugs and sudden contact from hyposensitive, sensory-seeking family members. No foods that make me ill. No noise, no scents, no sensory assaults. No causes for meltdown/shutdown. And no interpersonal drama, other than the occasional heated discussion with my partner about something we both care deeply about.

Bliss.

So, why wreck it with ruminating on my disconnects with my family? They’re autistic. I’m autistic. We love each other and hate certain things about each other. And of course, we’re all 100% correct in our assessments 😉  Ha! Such is life in an autistic family.

Spring is coming, eventually. I’ll see them then.

For now, it’s all about making sure I’m well cared-for in my own well-cared-for space.

For once.

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