The resurgence of thought

Ice pillars in northern CanadaIt’s Saturday evening. I got about 2 1/2 hours of sleep this afternoon, topping off my 24 hour total of about 9 1/4 hours. I’ve needed to sleep like this. It’s been a rough bunch of weeks. Or rather, months.

After months of stress, including some really distressing changes to routine, I have finally found some balance. I’m finally back at a place where I can actually think complex thoughts. For some, not being able to string together highly complex thoughts might not be that big of a deal. For me, it’s brutal. It’s as bad as not being able to get up and move freely around the space, my back and legs cramping with intense pain. I’ve been there many times, physically, and it happens mentally as well.

Not that anybody notices. My low level functionality is more than adequate for the people around me every day. But it’s not for me. When I’m living at low-level functionality – that is, on the same level as most of the people I interact with on a daily basis – it’s as painful for me as the chronic, crippling pain was for me, 25 years ago.

But this isn’t about feeling sorry for myself. It’s actually celebratory. Because now I can get back to being me. No I can get back to doing the things that bring me joy on a daily basis.

I can pick up those books again, that I bought six months ago, and actually dive back into them. I can work on the writing pieces that I started last spring, and hope to actually complete them. I can dive into the kinds of mental and cognitive exercises that really do make me who I am, and live the joy that is my autistic life.

And I don’t have to be stuck in the conceptual equivalent of a sitcom or a vacuous reality show, slogging through each day, just trying to get to the end of it, so I can collect my paycheck and go home to collapse.

I can pull the manila folders out of my filing cabinet, open them up and rifle through the notes that I made, on and off, over the past four years, and actually make sense of it all. I can pick up where I left off, and as long as I can forgive myself for being susceptible to the exhaustion and overwhelm, I can actually make some progress.

I wonder sometimes what will become of my writing, when I’m gone. Will any of it makes sense to anyone? Will anyone care? Or will all the words just disappear into some shredding pile, or warm someone’s house as a firestarter in their fireplace?

I spend way too much time wondering about that. I need to just let it go

Because radio, right now, the only thing that really matters is that I’m able to work again. I’m able to think again. I am able to reattach the thoughts and concepts into a coherent stream, and make some sense of it all. I’m able to bring things through to completion, even as my outside life rages on with So much complication and conflict – most of it unnecessary.

I’ve said a number of times how difficult summer can be for me, in times like this, when I start to come out of my sunlight/heat/busy-ness-induced fog, I get yet another reminder of how true that is. Autumn is in full swing. We’ve changed our clocks, so it’s cold and dark, just the way I like it. It won’t be long before snow starts to fly, they will find myself out of my driveway, yet again, pushing the white fluffy stuff around. People will withdraw. Hibernate. And my mind and I will be free to do the work we need to do.

There’s part of me that wants to conceptualize this pernicious debilitation at the hands of overwhelm as a disability. And in some ways, it is. But in other ways, it’s just more background noise. It’s just another aspect of my life that adds texture. At least, I can keep working my paying job to keep things afloat, while I struggle to find balance in my own life.

If I were unable to earn a living, while this is happening, I don’t know what I would do. But that’s not one of my problems. There are other things that keep me on my proverbial toes.

For now, I just need to be immensely grateful that I’m able to think again in the ways that I want most to think. That’s a lot to be grateful for, and I really, truly am.


Meh, so I throw up. Meh, so I melt down. So what. Who cares.

bored emoticon mehWhat a horrible week this has been.

Work is just so unbelievably stupid, it’s astounding.

I’m behind on what I owe people, since — ta-da — I’m doing the work of 5 different people. Seriously. Look at the distribution of roles and responsibilities. I’m literally fulfilling the roles of 5 different people on the other side of the organization.

And that’s only for one of my three projects.

On my other two projects, I’m doing the work of three people, and two people, respectively.


So what.

I thought I was going to throw up, today, after a conference call that was all about inept people trying to cover their asses and pin the problems on me.


So what.

And then my boss comes by — Mr. Agitation — who really seems to thrive on chaos.


So what.

The dumbest thing about this whole business is now simple it is to fix it.

The work is so easy, it’s not even funny.

I just haven’t had the time to do it.

Because I have to have my sleep.

And I have to eat regularly.

And I have to protect my sanity and my health.

The work will get done.

And even if I do throw up or melt down or whatever…


So what.

I’ve been here before, and I made it through in one piece.

La la.

Feelings, feelings, more #ActuallyAutistic feelings – and what I can do about / with them

Odd Girl Out page screenshot

A few months back, I went on a “jag” about Alexithymia (click here to read posts I’ve tagged for the topic) — the inability to recognize your emotions. I’d taken an online test about it, out of curiosity, and when the results came back, it got me thinking.

And thinking

And thinking some more.

And then, while recently reading Odd Girl Out by Laura James, it didn’t take long for the topic to come up, altho’ obliquely. There’s a lot in the book that she touches on briefly and then moves on — which works for the flow of the book, especially if you understand what you’re looking at and can relate to it. For others, though, I think some gems can easily get missed. So, my plan is to (intermittently) follow along “after her” and put a little more explanation / context to the book. If you read it carefully and stop to consider what’s on each page, you’ll get a pretty damn’ good primer for what the interior world of an adult, late-diagnosed autistic woman is like.

But of course, people aren’t necessarily going to understand the significance and meaning of what they’re looking at. So, that leaves it to autistic folks to help put some context around it. I actually hope more late-diagnosed women (and men) do the same and post some interpretive commentary on their blogs, because this is a great opportunity to enlighten the mainstream about our issues. It’s an open door, so let’s not hesitate to step through.

Anyway… where was I? Oh yes… Alexithymia. Emotions. Not doing well with them. At all. Getting overwhelmed by them — good or bad — and not being able to name them. Needing words to sound like they mean. And wanting (more than anything) a neutral life that simply flows.

No sudden movements. Just the steady unfolding of days, predictably and quietly.

Sounds like nirvana to me.

Seriously, it does. As much as I want to believe I can push myself at the pace of the rest of the world, as much as I want to keep current with everything that’s happening, to not stand out as a “problem”.

Good feelings really can be as overwhelming as the bad. They still demand surges of energy to process and experience. Even if the surge of emotion is “good”, it still makes my adrenaline spike. And when that happens, my biochemistry makes it well nigh impossible to process information with higher thought. Everybody’s body does the same thing. That’s how we’re built, pretty much — stress hormones shunt energy and capabilities away from higher thought and focus them on raw survival.

That’s not usually a problem for (neurotypical) others, but it’s a big issue for me. Because I rely on higher thought processes to get through my day. It’s how I interact with life. It’s how I make sense of things. It’s how I stay safe. So, when emotions run high and my thought process gets dragged down into realms of oversimplified brute survival, it’s like chopping off a finger while I’m trying to type up a sensitive legal document that can land me in a whole lot of trouble if I mess up. Other people apparently feel invigorated by drama and stress, but I get so “turned around” and confused and disoriented, it makes everything worse.

I am not at my best, when there’s unwarranted drama — especially the kind that is illogical and purely for entertainment purposes. A whole lot of people frequently create drama to make themselves feel better, God help me. When that happens, I get dragged down into a pit of despair and disorientation that heaps even more stress on me and makes it even harder to think and process my surroundings.

In fact, the processing isn’t just about thoughts and emotions. It’s about sensory details. We autistic folks can be so “tuned in” to every sort of input around us, that we need every shred of higher reasoning we can spare, just to navigate the basics. So, when we’re inundated by stress hormones that shut down those faculties, we can literally be endangered — unsafe — threatened. Because in our diminished state, we can misinterpret clues from the world around us. Walk in front of a bus. Get mugged. Be lured into dangerous situations. Get taken advantage of, preyed upon, laughed at, even beaten up.

It’s no joking matter. Having our faculties impaired in any way literally puts us at risk. And when you’ve been through enough of those kinds of experiences (as so many autistic adults have), you develop a zealous love of sameness, neutrality, equanimity. The peace of mind and calmness of body that some people think is optional (or that you just do at a zen retreat) is not optional for us. We must have it. Or the real-world consequences can be severe.

So no, stress is not good for us. Emotional upheaval can be a problem.

And that goes for good kinds of upheaval, as well as the bad. Basically, anything that pumps up your system with drama hormones is a liability. It’s something I strive to avoid — and how ironic that I live with a bit of a drama queen. Laura James’ descriptions of the discrepancies between her temperament and her husband’s… well, that sounded familiar.

So, yeah — emotions. Wild fluctuations (which seem to be the norm, these days) are not my friends.

Plus, half the time, I can’t figure out what the heck I’m even feeling. Seriously, I have this pretty intense disconnect between what’s going on with me emotionally and my awareness of it. I’ve never really given it much thought, despite my partner’s repeated complaints that I’m “emotionally shut down”, and multiple therapists’ insistence that I must be deeply wounded, to be so “out of touch” with my emotions. I developed a bit of a complex about it, actually, taking everything they were saying to heart, and believing them. After all, they were the experts, right? And with one therapist after another telling me the same thing — almost like they’d been consulting with each other on the side — I figured they knew something I didn’t.

Actually, they didn’t know half of it. They knew far less than half. Maybe 1/67th, tops. And there was really no reason for me to develop a complex about it. Because how I process information from the world around me is just different from how they do it. I’m not damaged. I’m wounded, yeah, but in ways completely unlike what they think. I’m not “shut off” from my emotions. I just process data from the world around me in very different ways. And it takes a whole lot out of me, when I have to work overtime at processing under stressful conditions. Fatigue makes everything worse, and one thing leads to another… and before you know it, I’m in a state. They didn’t relieve my existential distress by poking and prodding at how I process emotion. They actually made it worse — which was great for them, because it locked me into a cycle of repeated problems that they were so convinced they could fix.

They weren’t fixing anything. They were creating problems. And I still resent them for it.

Well, I can’t get all tweaked over what others do. I’m Autistic. My Aspergers is in full-swing, in all its neurodivergent glory. Rather than relying on others to figure stuff out for me, I need to take matters into my own hands, figure things out, sort them out, and keep my life operating in ways that suit me. And I generally do.

I’m bumping it up a notch, too, developing some tools I can use to better manage my life, as well as sort out the emotional stuff I’ve got going on. I’m developing a system of Dynamic Strengths Mapping (DSM for short – mwahahaha) where I have a list of my strengths and a list of my relative weaknesses, and I “map” my specific strengths and abilities to my challenges.

I’m still mulling over the exact approach. I’d thought about creating a drag-and-drop web app. But that’s not visual enough for me — too much would be hidden. Then I thought about using index cards, so I can match many discrete strengths to my complex challenges. But that seems like it could get out of hand — too big, too hard to manage — and it would be really easy to duplicate information and confuse myself. So, I’m back to the spreadsheets idea, with some color coding thrown in for good measure.

I know I’ve got challenges on a regular basis. And I need a more efficient way of handling them. This DSM approach makes a whole lot more sense to me than just marinating in my misery, making myself feel awful — just awful — because I can’t figure stuff out. That’s ridiculous. Figure stuff out is what I do best. So, it’s time to work through this, come up with a workable approach, and then share it out to others who may find it useful.

Who knows? Maybe others are already doing this. I Googled “Strengths Mapping” + autism and found a lot of different approaches, but so far nothing that’s really dynamic, like this, applying specific strengths to varying circumstances. Well, whatever. I need this tool, and others might, too.

So, I’ll build it.

And the answers will come.

If you haven’t read Odd Girl Out, you really should. And take note of the details. There’s a lot in there that can slip by, if you’re not paying attention.

Sharing: When your #autistic sensory issues shut down your communication | from Auptima Press

I talked last time about how sensory issues (hyper- and hyposensitivity) can make life… interesting. The thing is, they don’t just complicate our own lives. Sensory issues also make interacting with the rest of the world very, very challenging.

Some researchers, like Olga Bogdashina, have been advocating that the mainstream take a closer look at our sensory issues and see how they are actually affecting our ability to interact with the world — and communicate. A recent “autism awareness” campaign showed the point of view of a young boy in a shopping mall who was overwhelmed by sensory input and just shut down. To the outside world he had become a “behavior problem”.

Those of us on the autism spectrum don’t need experts and non-profit organizations to tell us that sensory issues impact our communication. Some of us have been trying to bring that point home to the non-autistic world for quite some time — to no avail. ‘Cause seriously, it’s tough to sustain the levels of energy necessary to get people’s attention and get them to understand why they should even care / believe you, when the stress of doing so is spiking your own sensory issues… which then impedes your own ability to communicate.

Read the rest of the article: When your #autistic sensory issues shut down your communication | Auptima Press

Sharing: Sensory Issues – Hyper and Hypo-Sensitivity are Real Issues for #Autistic folks | from Auptima Press

Sensory issues are a funny thing. They can be our greatest joy, or the source of our greatest pain.

And yet most people just take them for granted – at least, neurotypical folks do. The five main senses – taste, touch, smell, hearing, sight… well, those are just how we interact with life, right? And the additional senses like balance, pain sensitivity, sensing whether or not we need to empty the bladder or bowels, and sensing where your body is in space… well, those should just work. Right?

Read the full article: Sensory Issues – Hyper and Hypo-Sensitivity are Real Issues for #Autistic folks | Auptima Press

What it means to be #autistic and permeable

water pouring on a permeable surface and tricking through the porous material
Everybody else’s “stuff” is always soaking through.

The majority of people I hear talking about autism (from outside our community) seem to believe that autism is about being insensitive, non-empathetic, having no sense of others or the world around us, and being unable to relate. We’re “impermeable” to them — solid blocks of concrete that can’t let anything in.

We’re logical, because we don’t “get” the whole emotional thing. We make decisions with our heads, because our hearts are shriveled up, stunted, and like the Grinch, three sizes too small. We don’t have capacity for the “soft” sides of life, according to some — including leading researchers (who shall go unnamed, so I don’t give them any more visibility).

In a recent post, I proposed that our logic actually stems from the fact that, as autistic people, we are so sensitive — to physical sensations, as well as emotions and empathetic experiences — that we have to learn how to manage the flood of all that sensations that are constantly intruding on our experience… or else.

I know I’m not the only autistic individual who finds life a repeated assault on my senses, with my vision and hearing and sense of touch elevated… even while I tend to have very little sensation of balance and where my body is relation to the world around me, and other senses — like taste and smell and the feeling of striking something so hard I bruise — are subject to extreme variation.

On top of it all — what joy! (not) — the emotional floodgates unleash torrents of sensed experience that drag me from ecstatic highs to the deepest, darkest pits of extreme lows, sometimes in a matter of minutes. That’s how I know not to pay too-too close attention to my mood swings, and not to get too down by my depressive episodes. They pass. I know all too well, how quickly (and inexplicably) they pass. That knowledge has kept me alive, through all the times I wanted to end it all. I’m still here, because I hang onto that transience… and I hold out with curiosity.

That spiky autistic profile is not just about skills and abilities. It’s also about experience. Sensation. Permeability.

Yes, permeability. Being open to the world in unseen ways, being affected by it, impacted by it, shaped by it, in ways that no one else can see. That invisibility is partly because I’m stoic throughout. I’ve had to learn to be stoic, because a little girl who acts out, is a little girl who gets punished. Pushed and pulled — which is the equivalent of being beaten, when you have tactile sensitivities. Corporal punishment, doled out at the hands of people who probably had no idea how much they were really hurting me.

The whole world has no idea how much it’s hurting me — and so many others like us.

Second reason is because apparently non-autistic people can’t actually relate to anything that doesn’t have to do with their own personal experience. How strange, that they label us as the empathy-impaired sorts. Untrue. Untrue in the extreme. It’s the other way ’round. I feel everything. I sense everything. I participate in the cesspool of human emotions and experiences, without ever wanting to. I’m permeable. It all gets through. I only wish I were as non-empathic as I’m purported to be.

I have to protect myself. That much is so, so clear, after the past few weeks. It’s been a trying time, and I’m tired. I’m worn out. Depleted. Not only from the constant activity and the increase in social interactions (including a shit-ton of conference calls, reminding me yet again how much I hate talking on the phone). It’s been incredibly painful. But what to do? It can’t be helped. If I want to keep my job, I have to take hit after hit, and keep coming back for more. I have to put on my stoic face, remind myself it’s not forever, and step up… to get slammed. Knocked around. Exhausted, wiped out, drained… and then told I need to give more. Do more. Be more. Be like everyone. Be like normal people. Be a team player. Step up. Step up and take the hit. Everyone else is doing it, so get in line and take your daily medicine of pain. Just like everyone else.

Except I’m not just like everyone else.

I have to protect myself.

Protect myself from their inefficiencies that are making everything So . Much . Worse.

Guard myself against their bad behavior,  their oversights, and especially against their emotional outbursts.

Deflect their emotional neediness, their grasping, cloying need for reassurance (especially with this fucking election going on).

Shield myself from their pettiness, their infighting which makes everything that much worse and prolongs the process of resolution.

Heaven help me, I need to be on constant guard. I’m tired. I’m over-extended. I’m a lot more permeable than usual.

And it’s not just the bad stuff I need to guard against. It’s also the “good” stuff. There are certain people around me who are drawn to me… they have that hungry look in their eye, longing for connection… and they don’t know how to do it without bringing sex into it. It’s a danger. They want to engage in that way. They’re looking to connect. And they want to do it in ways that damages their marriages – and could compromise mine. It happens with men. It happens with women. It happens with just about anyone I know who feels vulnerable and worn out, and looks to me to ease their pain… to fill up a part of them that gets so depleted by the ways they choose to live their lives.

I have to be careful, because the shared sense of connection can fell like I’m sharing it too, when I’m not. It’s easy for me to overlook that phenomenon. And a deep sense of shared connection (which I have by default) can escalate into something more than it ever should be. It’s happened before. I’ve gotten in trouble before. And now I know better. I also know that it’s the kind of thing that I need to guard against, because I’m aware. I’m a hell of a lot more aware than the non-autistic folks who are just oozing a need to connect… emanating their hunger for intimacy that they think can be satisfied by a romantic interlude.

That cannot happen. And as uncomfortable as it is for me, when I realize it, the best thing is to — yes — realize it. And nip it. Nip it in the bud. Keep things professional. Keep things distant. Boundaries, mate. Boundaries. Friendly, but not overly familiar. Keep it clean. Keep it clear. Because I can. And they can’t.

The onus for managing the dynamics between others and myself typically falls on me. The adult in the room is responsible for the behavior of the children, and neurotypical folks strike me — quite often — as children. Immature, prone to peer pressure, and sexually inexperienced — not so much with activity – though that’s often the case – but with their sexuality, in general. They don’t have a lot of inner monitoring or management skills, and so they’re more than a little impaired. To keep myself safe, and also keep things from turning into something that’s oh-so wrong, I have to “ride herd” on the dynamics… steer them in the directions I’m most comfortable with.

It sounds unfairly burdensome to me. It probably does to you, too. But what’s the alternative? To seize each “teachable moment” and evolve the neurotypicals around me, to better acquaint them with what’s really going on inside them, train them to notice when they’re being “emotionally incontinent”, and shepherd them along the path to self-enlightenment? Not gonna happen. Also, consider that when I’m in the thick of it, I’m over-taxed. And that means my processing time is slowed. And I stop being able to verbalize. I stopped verbalizing the other day, when I melted down over a particularly challenging series of events. Seizing teachable moments only works if you’re not prone to selective mutism.

So, I take things as they come. And I remind myself repeatedly that “It’s not me. It’s them,” when I’m feeling rushes of emotion and reaction that do not seem consistent with my own perspective. It happens. I’m permeable. I have to remember that, so I don’t lose myself in the sea of other people’s runny emotional muck. Because shutting myself down is not an option. If I do that, I lose my most reliable connection to the world around me — my orientation, my advantage.

If you want the highs, you have to manage that lows. If you’re going to be permeable (and we don’t always have a choice), you have to recognize the dangers, the risks, and learn to work with them.

So they don’t work against you.

My disadvantage is … different

trees down on a road after a storm
I may be temporarily blocked, but I can still climb over obstacles and go on my way

Austin Shinn has another nice post about The Problem of Privilege. And I wanted to chime in, as well.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot – especially lately, in light of my complexifying relationship to autism. Do I call myself “disabled”? Do I accept it as a condition that limits me? Why am I so reluctant to just adjust to that, and integrate that as part of my experience and identity? I’m deeply ambivalent.

I think part of it has to do with how I’m not permanently disabled by autism. My Aspie life is more akin to running a marathon on a bad day, and a 10K minimum on a good day. It makes things more challenging for me. It saps my energy. And many times I feel like I’m wobbling around after a mile-long sprint up a very steep hill. But it passes. I do have enduring executive function issues. But I know how to fix them. I’m working on them — as well as the rest of my life.

I guess I feel like calling myself “disabled” does a disservice to folks who truly are struggling with many, many aspects of their lives on a regular basis. I know I’m not supposed to compare myself to others, but when I do, I come out looking not at all disabled. I mean, seriously, if I just take good care of myself and get enough sleep and eat right and keep exercising, use my supports, and learn as I go, I can have a great life. I in fact do have a great life.

That’s not to say that I don’t have issues which are temporarily disabling. I have huge problems with communication, at times, and meltdowns (while rare, nowadays) are a force I need to reckon with. I don’t get jokes. I have trouble figuring out when to talk on the phone. I hate the phone, period. And some days, the best I can do is just muddle through… or go back to bed and rest till I’m functional again. I am at increased risk of exploitation, because I can be so trusting and naive and mis-read social cues. I’m sure I have over-paid for just about everything I’ve ever bought, because the thought of negotiating never occurs to me in the moment. I’ve really had a terrible time, in the past, and I’ve had to work through a whopping case of PTSD as a result of the “excitement” and “adventures” of my youth.

Autism for me can be disabling at times. It has brought me up short many, many times. But am I disabled? I wouldn’t say that — in fairness to people who truly are.

I’m one of the few people I know who actually understates their difficulties. Most people I know have an “enhanced” view of their own struggles — even the folks who appear to have the most advantage, the most skills, the most money, of the population.  And it makes me wonder about the nature of our difficulties, and how we see ourselves as advantaged, disadvantaged, privileged, oppressed. I can’t speak for anyone who’s not in my demographic … so that limits how much I can responsibly say. But I’ll say what I can, because I think it’s important to consider — especially when we talk about privilege, disability, and the assumptions we make about How The World Is.

There’s all kinds of talk going on about white privilege these days, which is refreshing to me. On the other hand, I know a lot of white folks who absolutely bristle at the idea that they are any more privileged than others. The very suggestion really offends them. Even though it seems quite obvious to me, they take deep (and sometimes incensed) exception to the very idea that they have an advantage in life.

After all, they have difficulties. Their lives are not a cakewalk. They really struggle with certain things, and I don’t doubt they experience a great deal of pain as a result. I think what obscures our vision, sometimes, is that our difficulties may make it seem as though we’re not favored or advantaged (privileged) in the ways we most long for. We wish we could get special dispensation from the world, but things are tough all around, and we don’t see any evidence of that being the case.

So, we can think of ourselves as struggling in significant ways without a safety net, when in fact we do have a lot of privilege to fall back on. In my case, I’m a queer woman who’s been intermittently disabled over the years, working hard to make ends meet without a college degree to back me up. I’ve been broke, I’ve been well-off. Now I’m just barely above the “broke”line again. So, that’s not always easy. It makes me vulnerable. But my vulnerability is very, very different from others’.

Case in point: I was technically homeless in the winter of 1990. I walked out of a bad relationship with a duffel bag of clothes and the friendship of one person I could rely on. I was walking around the snowy streets of a major city (in a fairly drug-infested neighborhood), looking for a doorway to sleep in, in case my one contact couldn’t help me. I got lucky. They were home, so I didn’t have to spend the night in a doorway. I was officially homeless for a few weeks, while I looked for my own place. Had that one friend kicked me out, I would have been looking for another doorway.

The thing is, my homelessness was very, very different from that of a Black woman whom I and some friends helped to a shelter, where she was going with her three young daughters. She was apparently leaving a bad situation at home, as well — and it seemed to me that she’d hung in there as long as she could, for the sake of her kids. No, she did not want to talk about it. At all. It seemed clear that she had to go to a shelter, because of her situation. She couldn’t just take her little girls with her out onto the street. God only knows what became of her family. I, on the other hand, was able to pick up and leave a bad situation, just a month or two later, with a sense of elation and hope, not dread and desperation.

My situation was a passing inconvenience, and I knew that because I was a young white, middle-class woman who nobody guessed was gay, I could expect special consideration from others — especially from white men middle-class men who may have seen me as a potential partner. Not that I was taking advantage of that, but I was always so very aware that my homelessness and my difficulties were temporary hardships, at best, which others (white others) would jump at helping me solve. I got my divorce for free, because I worked at a law firm. I got a few pieces of furniture for very cheap, because someone at work told me about a going-out-of-business sale that was happening elsewhere in the office building. I could fall back on an informal network of white folks who looked out for each other (especially attractive young white women), and get the support I needed. I used that network to find a room for rent in a nice house in a safe (white) neighborhood. And I could walk around late at night without too much concern, because young white women especially were protected in that area by men and elderly women who kept a watchful eye.

This is why I am reluctant to call myself disabled or disadvantaged — because beneath the surface, there are forces which look out for “their own” and mitigate the impact. And those forces tend to favor people who look like me. That’s something that precious, precious few white folks are aware of. It’s not that we all have it easy and cushy and whatnot — there is just a whole lot more that we can take for granted… and often never suspect that others can’t.

I can also take for granted that, even if I’m wearing very thin and am having trouble balancing, tolerating light and sound and touch, can’t make myself clear (or can’t even talk at the moment), and I can’t understand what anyone is saying to me… if I just take care of myself, rest up, and use my tools, I can restore my functionality to acceptable levels. I am not permanently knocked out of the perpetual competition that can be life. I just usually feel like I’ve just run a 10K; I’m wobbly, sore, weary, and I don’t have a ton of energy to spare on fruitless pursuits.

My disadvantage is far more of a difference, than it is for many, many people. And while my situation may be intermittently disabling, the last thing I want to do, is compromise their position because I’m showing up calling myself “disabled“, when I can clearly take so much for granted, than they ever could.

What drains… what lifts

a picture of a number of cherry picker lifts in a storage yardI’m supposed to get together with some Aspie friends tomorrow to hang out in one of the cool spots in a nearby city. I would love to go. I love the idea. But I’m done. Just done. I’ve got a lot of stuff rattlin’ ’round in my head, that needs to be seen to. I’ve been so caught up in bureaucratic red tape, along with the moral outrage that any of this is happening, as well as a sudden upsurge in busy-ness at work, that it’s drained a lot of life out of me.

The thing I have going for me, is these ideas that are cookin’ in the background. There’s some really interesting stuff brewing, and that gives me hope, even as I wrangle the real-world non-sensicality I seem to be marinating in, right now.

In the clarity of my own mind and my own logical ways, I find tremendous relief. When dealing with non-autistic people who have wrong information (together with no apparent wish to get the right information), it feels like I’m literally losing my mind. That’s probably the worst thing… The willful perpetuation of rank incompetence, completely unencumbered by awareness, regret, or the desire to remedy the situation.

I’m also working at getting my bearings after my autism assessment. I hadn’t realized just how hermetically sealed I’ve been in the offline world – how much I work at keeping things “under wraps” — especially with healthcare folks. That includes doctors, specialists, as well as therapy folks. And it extends from my providers to my partner’s, as well. Pretty much any and all healthcare professionals of any ilk, who are in a position to seriously mess me up with medications, bad advice, misdiagnosis, etc.

It’s pretty difficult to communicate and work effectively with people you fear and mistrust, and with whom you feel very little connection, because they are either unable or unwilling to see you for who you are and treat / interact with you accordingly.

Same goes for bosses. Work situations. Coworkers. I’m fortunate to work in a place that’s chock full of Aspie types, so I’m not out of place. But there’s still a whole lot they don’t get about my situation, and I’m not about to tell them. Like that business trip back in May, when I had to “work” the convention, standing for hours each day in a massive expo hall, suffused in blinking lights, loud noises, milling crowds, and a steady stream of passers-by whom I was supposed to engage and bring into the booth to discuss at length with them. Oh. My. God. It was awful. But everybody acted like it was no big deal. I did it, but Lord, how I suffered in the meantime.

And nobody but my partner actually understood just how grueling it was for me. Not my doctors, not my therapist, not my coworkers, and certainly not my boss, who thought it was all tons of fun.

I made it through in one piece, but I paid in a very big way. And the whole time I was there, I was on extreme high alert. I may have to go back and do it again next year, too. Because I was so successful at it. Great for them. Terrible for me.

Well, at least I didn’t melt down around any of them. That’s a huge plus. And I managed to remove myself at semi-regular intervals to recover in the quiet of my room, so that mitigated the sheer hell of it all.

I just wish I’d had a better grasp on how much my autism factors into those kinds of situations, so I could have been more confident about the strategies I was using. Part of the problem of being un-diagnosed, for me, is that it makes it easier for me to dismiss my issues and not even acknowledge them, not factor them in. I always have this “out” in the back of my brain saying, “Well, nobody official has actually said you’re on the spectrum, so let’s disregard the Klaxon alarms going off with you right now.”

That remaining 2.275% doubt in my mind allowed me just enough room to Ha-Ha! go on my merry way, dancing along the edge of the cliff. Fortunately, I didn’t fall over the edge.

Now, though, that’s not conveniently available to my little brain anymore. So, I have to pay attention. It’s non-negotiable. And I have to come to grips with the actually disabling aspects of my Royal Aspie-ness. It’s a stretch for me to actually consider myself disabled, and maybe it’s something I need to work towards. But truth be told, there are really significant traits that are disabling to certain aspects of my life. I hate asking for accommodations, and I hate having to navigate the social minefield of explaining my limitations to others. It’s one thing, if I’m working things out in my head. It’s another, if I have to explain things to others.

Fortunately, even if I can’t really explain to others what the deal is with me — and they might not believe me, anyway — I can work things out in the clarity and logic of my own head and figure out ways around situations on my own. Rather than battling against the incessant lights and noise of an expo hall, I can build in time away from it all, ducking out to sequester myself in a closed bathroom stall… getting something to eat or drink off the expo floor… making sure I have enough alone time to recharge and get my head back on straight.

See, as debilitating as my Royal Aspie-ness may be in the context of the outside world, in my interior world, it’s a joy like no other. It’s a constant wellspring of delight and elation, an oasis of fascination and curiosity and order and logic in the midst of a severely disordered, disconnected, ugly, and unspeakably ugly world. It’s my refuge, it’s my domain. And I always have it there to draw upon, when things around me are closing in and feel like they’re crushing me flat.

During that gauntlet of an expo, I had many hours of silent contemplation of the mountains to the east of the city, sitting in a darkened room with only my own thoughts for company. I had times of blissful solitude in the early morning light, as I went for a walk before anyone but the sun was up and about. I had some really great interactions with individuals who were eager to chat about their favorite things and gave me some welcome insight into what their own worlds were like. I got nearly enough sleep. And when I returned, I had no trouble sleeping at all — because I was home again, safe and sound.

And despite all the difficulties it causes me (or rather, the world causes me because it doesn’t “get” me), I wouldn’t trade my autism for the world.

The source of some of my greatest vulnerabilities is also the source of my greatest strengths. And on the balance, it’s worth all the trouble.

It is so worth it


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The roundabout #autism diagnosis discussion

Hedge maze with a wooden bridge with two people standing on it, looking around
I am here… somewhere… I think?

An interesting discussion has been developing between myself and a clinician who’s help me with executive functioning issues. This clinician is very smart, she’s very quick, and she’s extremely compassionate. Best of all, she wants to do the right thing, and she bends over backwards to help her clients / patients.

I started working with her after my old executive function coach moved on to another job, and the results have been mixed. I have to say, things are getting better, after a few bumpy initial months, which included meltdowns and shutdowns and some serious reservations on my part. I don’t think I ever seriously considered terminating with her, because I know her heart is good, and while she is somewhat young (she’s been practicing for a number of years, but in some developing nations she’d be young enough to be my daughter), she has a demonstrated interest and ability to learn and adapt, and that is probably the most important trait that I look for in a clinician.

One of the things that I had been hoping for when I started working with her was that her experience in assessing and working with autistic kids would help her to better understand and work with me. I googled her and found “autism” associated with her, and it’s one of the kinds of assessments she does. Interestingly, despite my not masking with her the way I did with the prior clinician, engaging in some pretty obvious tactile stimming, rocking, making minimal eye contact, and some periods of extended mutism, to this day she has never once directly mentioned anything to me about Aspergers or autism.

I have to say, I’m surprised. I regularly run into people who have a working familiarity with autism and Aspergers who start discussing it with me in a way that implies they just assume that I am on the spectrum. Those kinds of interchanges always intrigue me — and admittedly make me a little nervous. I never quite know what to expect when those kinds of conversations start, but without fail till now, every time someone has mentioned autism or Aspergers to me and tried to engage me in a conversation about it, they have been sympathetic, sensitive, and compassionate. It was never used against me in a way that implied that I was “less than” or somehow impaired.

So basically, I have been lowering my shields with this clinician, basically being my Aspie self in her presence. She asked for it, after all. Early on, she asked me how I would want my life to be, if I could get my own way. This was in relation to me telling her about how much I regularly do to help my partner with her health issues and other things she needs to get done in the course of the day. The clinician — like a number of others I’ve worked with — was all keen on me asserting myself more, “practicing self-care” and taking myself into consideration as much as I do my partner.

One of the main things that helps me, is not having to mask and blend and camouflage. I didn’t tell her that, but I decided it was the one thing I could do for myself when I was working with her that would help me. So, I have not been working overtime to manage my issues so they are not obtrusive. I’ve just let it all hang out, so to speak (what an image that conjures!). I’m basically just giving her all of the visual, verbal, and interactive clues that would show her that I’m one of those people on the spectrum who has certain issues that need to be taken into consideration as she interacts with me.

It doesn’t seem to be making an impact, however. She’s still pretty much interacting with me the same way as she was, months back. She still talks fast, she still presses me to verbalize Every . Little . Thing (Aaauugghhh!) And she doesn’t seem to pick up on my references to my sensory issues or factor them in.

But all is not lost. It’s taking a while, but I think we might be getting closer to The Conversation, because she has started to mention the hazards of certain types of diagnosis. She says she doesn’t want me to get locked into a diagnosis that’s going to be driven by a healthcare that doesn’t understand my situation. Could it possibly be a reference to An Autism Diagnosis? The suspense is driving me to distraction. My last clinician said something in passing to me on his last session with me about “getting a different sort of assessment” than the ones he’s done with me. An Autism Assessment, perhaps? I wasn’t quick enough to press him for details – the best I can do now is make stuff up in my mind.

The oblique references are getting irritating, I have to say. I seem to be swimming in a sea of roundabout allusions to my situation, rather than outright, direct references. And that doesn’t make things any easier for me. If anything, it makes me question my judgment. It makes me wonder if I really actually did hear her say that she thought that a more substantial diagnosis of a condition might work against me, and I wonder what exactly that meant.

Problem is, my processing speed is on the sluggish side, so by the time it sinks in, I’m sort of out of luck with asking any clarifying questions.

Anyway, I think I may know what is going on with her, and when I consider that she has been working with kids, or possibly young men, and probably – possibly – more than likely – no women on the autism spectrum him, her perceived hesitation makes sense.

Then again, maybe it’s just me making stuff up… again. Wouldn’t be the first time.

In any case, I don’t see her for another couple of weeks, due to summer vacations and such.  So, I have time to think about this… or something completely different.

Unschooling Myself After All These Years

barbed wire fence in front of a field of wheat
I’ve been blocked off for a very, very long time – kept in a state that was socially acceptable by a persistent, pervasive, subtle cultural violence that left it mark

I recently read a great article by a mother who is “unschooling” her autistic kids – Possibilities. It talks about having “radical trust” for kids, to know what they need, to develop as they need, and to not resort to the usual pressures and enculturation and forcing them into neurotypical straightjackets, just to be like everyone else… and pass as yet another regular person just going about their regular life.

It’s interesting that I came across this, because I was just thinking earlier that day about how my very strict, rigid, constantly correcting upbringing did turn me into a successful imitation of a neurotypical, who passes easily in the non-autistic world, and is a productive member of society. I was out for my Saturday afternoon walk, and I got to thinking about how I haven’t been at the same kind of disadvantage in the everyday mainstream world that so many autistic folks are, because I was constantly, continuously guided and instructed and commanded about the right things to do, under a variety of circumstances.

Never once, while I was growing up, was there ever any question about the right way and the wrong way to do things. It continues that way, to this day. When I visit my parents over the holidays, I frequently interact with their neighbors and others in the area who are quick to point out when I’ve done something wrong. When I’m not dressed properly for the weather. When I haven’t maintained my car properly, and the air in one of my tires is low. When I have spoken out of turn. When I have put something expensive in my shopping cart, while there’s a more economical version right on the store shelf in front of me. When I have parked too far from the curb. When I have locked my car doors in a neighborhood that is safe as safe can be.

Where I grew up, there was never any question about the proper way to do things. And there was never any hesitation among friends, family, teachers, ministers, neighbors, and complete strangers, to point out the things you did that were wrong. It was both stifling and soul-crushing, and refreshingly candid. You never had to question where you stood with people. They made that clear. And if you stepped out of line, they made sure you knew how you could get back in their good graces.

Of course, some of us could never steer ourselves back to the straight-and-narrow. All of the kids in the family fled the area, and we situated ourselves in new surroundings. Two of my siblings moved to areas populated by people very much like the folks we grew up around. One of those siblings has had unspecified mental health problems, which haven’t abated in their entire life. If I were a gambling woman, I’d say the company she keeps has something to do with it.

But I digress. The benefits of growing up in an area like that (where I’d hazard to say there are a much higher concentration of spectrum-y individuals than in the mainstream), is that there’s never any question about how to do things, how to live your life, how to be a member of society, how to contribute to the world around you. You’re instructed and corrected and prodded and cajoled and intimidated and hounded and coaxed, from the moment you wake till the instant your head hits the pillow. And as exhausting and distressing as it can be, it still trains you to conduct yourself in the world in a fitting manner. Moment after moment, day after day, month after month, year after year. And no bad behavior is tolerated.

Basically, you’re schooled.

And the other day, as I sauntered down the back road leading away from my house, I was feeling pretty good about my progress, thus far. I’ve been able to piece together a pretty good version of “the good life” – at least on the surface. I own a home (well, technically, the bank owns it). I have two cars (one of which is owned by another bank, which I’m paying off). I have a full-time job with a good company. I’m in a 25+ year marriage that’s still going strong. We are safe in a nice town, in a relatively prosperous part of the planet, and we have every comfort at our disposal. Not all of them are affordable for us, but if we had to have them, we could figure out a way to get them.

On the surface, nobody believes I’m autistic. After all, I’m a woman of a certain age who can interact with others successfully. I can do small talk. I can make eye contact, if I have to. I can relate to others. I’m relate-able. I don’t stim openly in front of people. I do tend to talk people’s ears off, when we start discussing the 12th century renaissance or user experience in web-based applications. I don’t collapse in horror when the fire alarm goes off at work; like everyone else, I hustle to the exit, hands over my ears. I don’t demonstrate a lot of the stereotypical traits often associated with autism. I pass as “normal”.

Because I’ve been trained.

Yes, I’ve been trained, I would imagine in a similar way to ABA – through constant feedback, continuous consequences, a steady stream of correction for when I’ve done things wrong, and the occasional reward for when I’ve gotten it right. Truth to tell, the greatest reward for getting it right, is just being left alone – I’ll take that. Just being out from under the scrutinizing eye of the culture police is the most delicious of reliefs.

I’ve been schooled. With the social equivalent of a ruler-clutching fist hovering over me, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. With the constant, constant, incessant attention to every detail about my life that indicates whether I’m Getting it Right, or I’m Doing it Wrong. I’ve been conditioned by the equivalent of a red-hot poker, or let’s say a cattle prod, to do things a certain way, to say things a certain way, to carry myself in a certain way, to embrace certain values, to develop a certain routine. To measure myself along the same lines as the rest of the world does – the rest of the neurotypical world.

I felt pretty good about that, too, as I was striding along that country road. Then I got back home, read the article, and I’ve had 24 hours to think about it… let it sink in… digest it… and realize, my supposed success has come at a very steep price. I was a pretty tortured soul as a kid. Depressed much of the time, isolating, fearful, anxious, just aching to get free of that world. I had so, so many problems with just about every classic point of autistic difficulty, but I suffered in silence, hiding it all, burying myself in religious fervor, in hopes it would “save” me from my “sinful” nature. I was in constant pain of one type or another, and was hurt and injured in countless ways. For all my supposed success at fitting in and fulfilling my social role, it came at a steep price.

And I’m still paying that price, even as I distance myself from the neurotypical ideals and step more fully into my autistic identity. I have tremendous difficulty doing a number of things independently and properly, but I have even more difficulty admitting it and asking for help. I have been sorely in need of support, many, many times in the course of my adult years, but I was too ashamed, too terrified, too confused to even begin to understand why that really was… or admit the depths to which I was floundering. I’ve been treading water ever since I left my parents’ home in 1983, and only in the past several years have I actually learned how to take a few strokes and begin swimming on my own.

So, for all my supposed success, for all the apparent effectiveness of my upbringing, that schooling had a steep and violent price tag attached. And I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to get out from under the spectrous threat of social retaliation. Like a fog it hangs over me, that fear of retribution, that fear of shaming, that fear of ridicule and public humiliation. Like a heavy wet woolen blanket, warm though it might be, it wears me down, it pulls me down, and there is no sun in sight to dry it.

I’m through feeling chipper and proud of my “functional” state, thanks to my violent upbringing. I’ve been schooled. Now I need something entirely different. Let the unschooling begin.