Deborah Markus's Blog, page 2

Details: Goose Boy?

One of the questions I found most helpful in the initial quiz in Cynthia Kim’s I Think I Might Be Autistic was in the section about “intense or unusual interests.” The author asks, “Do you find that you naturally focus more on the details of things than on the whole?”

I’m grateful that Kim went on to give an example of how this focus might manifest. “For example, when you walk into a new coffee shop, you might notice a sign then a person then a pattern on the wall then the sound of the espresso machine rather than immediately perceiving where you need to go to order your coffee.”

As a former professional proofreader, I might have felt the need to throw some commas into that mix. As a currently 53-year-old woman struggling to understand her own autism, I think that unbroken sentence expresses the overwhelming experience such a simple activity can be for some of us.

I don’t like to think of autism as a disability per se, but it’s true that my fear of becoming blinded by what others consider mere details has held me back from exploring what my city has to offer.

I want to learn to celebrate who and what I am. 

I also need to spend less time on this blog just now. After selling and professionally publishing a book that I now firmly believe should have been edited and marketed as literary fiction rather than a young adult novel, I’ve finished writing the first draft of another manuscript I would like to start pitching to agents. 

My writing partner, whose ideas on what needs fixing in my work have always been depressingly accurate, has confirmed that I need to do at least one rewrite. It shouldn’t take long, but it does need focus.

I do enjoy posting biweekly on this blog; so instead of skipping Monday as was my original plan, I’m going to call it Detail Day.

Today’s detail is brought to you by a long morning run and an unknown neighbor who left an intriguing mat next to the gutter. I run in the street partly for comfort, partly for safety, and partly to give me incentive to get up early because that’s the only time I can have the street to myself.

The mat features a picture of a child flying away on the back of a goose.

I’m very fond of folklore but didn’t recognize this story at all

I took a picture, got home and did a bit of Googling.

So far as I can tell, it’s not a German story, as I initially hypothesized. It’s a Swedish one. 

Specifically, it seems to be a picture based on a story by Selma Lagerlof, the first woman to receive the Nobel Prize in literature.

Lagerlof was commissioned to write a book about geography for Swedish public school students. She was inspired to write The Wonderful Adventures of Nils, a tale of a boy whose naughtiness causes him to be magically reduced to the size of, so far as I can tell, a fingerling potato. He is now at the mercy of all the farm animals he once tormented, and they’re not in a forgiving mood. Flying away with a flock of geese brings him to safety and teaches him some lessons about morality – and of course his beautiful country. (This is supposed to be a geography reader, after all.)

I would love to spend all day in a Lagerlof rabbit hole, since I was lucky enough to be born the right size and mental shape to fit in one, but duty calls and I reluctantly answer.

Judgement Day

Me (on the phone with my sister): …oh hey I should do a Tarot reading for you sometime. I still have some learning to do but I’m really into Tarot I don’t know if I ever told you that.

Sister: …you’re into Tarot?

Me: Yeah! Not, like, oh wow I think these cards can tell the future or whatever. I just like the pictures.

Sister: You’re into Tarot.

She wasn’t wrong to be surprised. Anyone who knows me should be surprised that I like Tarot cards. I’m not the slightest bit mystical. I believe in exactly zero supernatural things. I literally don’t believe that studying Tarot cards gives me any more insight into my life than, I don’t know, picking an Emily Dickinson poem at random and thinking about what her words might help me understand about my current issues.

…and that actually sounds like such a good idea that I’m now fighting the urge to skip blog day and go pull together a bunch of Dickinson poems that I can consult every morning.

No, no. I made a commitment to this blog. Dickinson’s been dead a long time. She can wait. Right now I need to write about the Tarot and what these strange pictures have helped me understand about myself.

Me: am I one of those people who says, “Oh, I don’t really believe in astrology! I just like reading my horoscope sometimes! It’s fun!” and then it turns out that this person who doesn’t “really believe” once paid hundreds of dollars to get one of those super-personalized horoscopes drawn up where they tell you all about your sun sign and moon sign and star sign and meteorite sign and it’s all based on the exact second you were born and what direction your laboring parent was facing at the moment of your birth? 

Me: I’m not throwing shade if someone is that kind of person. I just think it’s important to know that kind of thing about yourself. 

Me: So…am I really just intrigued by the art and the history and the fact that Shirley Jackson who happens to be my favorite writer also loved the Tarot?

Me: Or do I believe in some kind of literal actual magic?

Author of one of my Tarot books: “…and then during this one reading, I could hear all these dead people talking about what I was saying and disagreeing with my interpretation of the cards and I had to ask the person I was doing the reading for to come back in half an hour so I could clear all the unwanted spirits out although this one spirit actually made some valid points so I let him stay and ended up making him my partner and he’s dead so I don’t even have to pay him.”

Me: [image error]

Me: okay yeah I’m not secretly mystical 

I think I like the Tarot exactly because I don’t “believe” in it. Studying the cards is a safe way for me to tackle personal issues without admitting to myself that that’s what I’m doing. I can learn the meanings and the symbols in each card, but feel assured that this is just like gazing at paintings in a museum. I can look away from these pictures whenever I want to. That way, the “meanings” of the cards don’t seem so threatening. They’re only as true as I’m ready to admit at the time.

Emily Dickinson: Tell all the truth but tell it slant!

Me: …yeah, pretty much.

One way of getting acquainted with the cards without the pressure of trying to memorize everything about 78 cards at once is to do a one-card reading for yourself every morning. It’s surprising how memorable a card can be when it’s what you really sit and focus on just. That. CARD first thing in the day and then think about how it relates to what you’ve been doing and what you plan to go on doing. Especially if you keep a Tarot journal, which to my own surprise I’ve started doing. 

I’m surprised because I’ve always wished I had the discipline to keep a journal. It’s one of those things I want to have done but don’t seem to be able to push myself to do now. 

But now I’m keeping a Tarot diary. Not as regularly as I’d like, but it’s a start.

And a few weeks ago, I got a heavy-duty card to think about.

Tarot cards are divided into two major categories. There’s the so-called minor arcana, which in turn is divided into four suits. And there’s the major arcana, which has all the cards you’ve heard of – The Fool, The Hanged Man, Death, which really ought to be renamed THIS CARD DOESN’T MEAN ACTUAL DEATH since that’s what everyone says about it in this totally too-cool-for-school tone of voice because, oh, you think that Death means death? You think that a picture of a skeleton wearing black armor, carrying a black flag, and riding a pale horse, leaving corpses in its wake as it parades past the setting sun means DEATH? You simpleton! It’s just change! It’s transformation! I mean, sure, it just happens to be card number 13! So what?

Anyway. The major arcana are only 22 cards out of 78, so the fact that I’ve been getting them HALF THE TIME doesn’t mean anything. Could happen to anybody.

Emily Dickinson: Especially “anybody” who’s going through some major upheaval!

Me: That is NOT one of your poems.

Dickinson (innocently): I’m nobody! Who are you?

Anyway. A few weeks ago, I got yet another major arcana card. Kind of a scary-looking one. Judgement.

Me (looking at my Morning Reading): Well, this is going to be a fun day.

Okay, it’s hard to feel cheerful about a picture of a bunch of people rising up out of their own coffins. Especially that guy in front on the left. He looks seriously messed up, even for a corpse.

But everyone else doesn’t look upset at all. They’re raising their arms in a welcoming way. They’ve come to a place where there’s nothing to do but look back and make peace with the past. The kind of peace that can only come with accepting the truth about yourself.

Dominant color: blue. 

Symbol of: clarity, truth.

“Look back in order to move forward,” I wrote in my journal that day.

It’s one thing to suspect or even know for sure that I’m autistic. 

It’s another to look back and think about what that means when it comes to my past.

All those struggles. All that fighting. All that pain.

Feeling guilty. Feeling wrong.

Feeling – knowing– that I couldn’t live up to the most ordinary standards and expectations.

Having such high test scores and being such a low achiever.

Being so good with children and so lousy with everyone else.

Walking “funny.”

Talking “weird.”

It’s a lot to think about, a lot to process. A lot to grieve.

And now – maybe, finally – a lot to hope for.

Those people in the picture – they’re utterly uncovered. And they don’t seem to mind a bit.

There’s nothing to hide anymore. No point in trying to pretend.

Unlike those people, I have time ahead of me. And I can spend it learning my own truth and living as myself.

And funnily enough, this card feels like a chance to stop judging myself so much. Quit blaming myself for not being someone else.

“The future is not coming,” I wrote in my journal that day. “It’s here.”

And then I added: “Rise up and reckon.”

Time to move forward so I can look back without fear.

This One’s Going Out To…

Neurotypical spouse: (introduces me to new song)

Me: Wow.

Spouse: I thought you’d like it!

Me: Definitely.

Me: This is what I listen to now.

Spouse: (laughs because he thinks I’m joking)

Me: (smiles because I know I’m not)

2 Face Blind 2 Furious

Peaches was always easy to tell apart from other dragons even as a baby because she would always prop one of her feet up in an adorable and distinctive manner.

An autistic acquaintance mentioned that although she has aphantasia and therefore experiences some of the same issues I do with movies and new people, she finds face blindness mystifying.

I don’t blame her. I feel the same way, and I have face blindness.

I can say this: it’s not that I don’t pay attention to how people look. As a child who didn’t know she was autistic or face blind, I used to keep a mental list of the hair and eye color of everyone I knew. This seemed like such normal behavior to me that I was shocked to hear a grownup who’d seen me numerous times admit he didn’t know offhand what color eyes I had.

His were hazel-green, in case you were wondering. Which you probably weren’t, because why would you because even if you knew the guy you seriously do not need to care about this kind of detail unless you’re, I don’t know, planning to buy him a shirt that would bring out the color of his adorable peepers.

The point is, I was paying attention to people’s facial features. In my own way.

Which is not the way non-face blind people do. And that neurotypical way of noticing things is much more useful in terms of being a fellow human being. The man in question may not have known that I was five foot two with eyes of blue, but he could recognize me on sight. Which was more than I could do for him, which we both learned when I saw him in a crowd and didn’t know who he was until he greeted me verbally.

I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I was young enough to figure that it wasn’t my job to keep track of who all the grownups in the world were. Which was and remains true, but is a little beside the point. Said point being: it’s useful for humans to be able to recognize other humans who belong to their own particular group without having to see them many many many many times.

The thing about my own brand of face blindness – I can’t speak for anyone else – is that I do see faces. I see features. I even see resemblances between some people and others.

But those resemblances – the things that register as important to my mind – are not what other people notice. 

The reason I was briefly, absurdly convinced that the two actors I mentioned in my previous post were actually the same person has to do with that facial expression I also mentioned. They share a sort of mouth-curves-down-eyebrows-arch-up grimace. 

Which is the kind of information that’s useful to exactly NO one. Not a casting agent. Not a doting parent. No one.

But it’s the kind of information that my mind insists is vitally important. So I make blunders that are astoundingly foolish to those possessed of normal, useful information-processing systems.

Young teenage me: Guess what? I saw Edward at school today!

My older sister (Edward’s girlfriend): You did? What was he doing there?

Me: I don’t know. But he came up and said hi.

Sister: That’s weird.

Later that day:

Sister: I talked to Edward. He wasn’t at your school today.

Me: He was! I saw him!

Me: …unless I didn’t.

Me: I mean I saw someone who looked like him. And he said my name and said hi.

My other older sister: That wasn’t Edward. It was Allen. He got a job at your school.

Me: oh okay

My other older sister (Allen’s girlfriend): How on earth did you think Allan was Edward?

Me: It’s not my fault! They look a lot alike!

Both sisters: They look NOTHING alike!

And they didn’t. Edward was almost a foot shorter than Allen and had a different color, texture, and length of hair. They were white dudes who dated women with the same last name I had. That’s it.

Except they also both had a warm, teasing way of scrinching up their faces when they smiled, which they always did when they saw me because I was the dorky younger sister of their girlfriend and they were friendly fellows.

Guess what my brain decided to prioritize?

Having an idea about how people look can be a great thing if you’re a writer. A reader is going to fall asleep if I describe my character as being a white woman who’s five foot four inches tall and who has shoulder-length blonde hair that’s slightly wavy, blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and light eyebrows. The only person who’d be pleased to hear this kind of description is a police detective, and even he’s going to need more to go on than that.

But if I described this woman as having a warm, confiding smile and a maternal air in spite of her youth – well, she’s probably still going to get away with whatever crime she committed, but at least my readers will perk up a bit.

That kind of idea is the kind of thing my mind latches onto. I don’t register a blank when it comes to faces. I just don’t seem to put the information together in the usual useful manner. It’s as if my brain can’t be arsed to care about how someone actually looks because I’m too busy caring about what they’re like. 

Again: great for a novelist. Not so fabulous for an apartment manager. 

Fortunately I’m both, so I have a fifty-fifty chance of being right.

Right?

The Joy Of Face Blindness

Nutter Butter on a branch and Peaches in the tub and what do you mean you can’t tell them apart?

Me: (watching TV with spouse)

Me: (specifically an episode of The Big Bang Theory)

Me: (one of his favorite shows)

Spouse: (is married to the actual literal last person in the world not to have seen a single episode)

Me: (going for the win for marital harmony and cultural literacy)

Me: Oh!

Spouse: ?

Me: can you pause it please?

Spouse: sure

Spouse: (is used to this from years of watching TV with me)

Me: I know that guy!

Spouse: You know Sheldon???

Me: no no no

Me: I mean I know of him.

Me: That actor.

Me: He’s in another show I’ve seen!

Reality: (he isn’t)

Spouse (looking surprised and impressed): Really?

Me: Yes! He plays Moriarty in Sherlock!

Reality: (he way extremely doesn’t)

Reality: (also this incident took place several years ago when Me’s friend turned her on to Sherlock)

Reality: (this blog is the place for topical and fresh-off-the-press references)

Me: (would you MIND)

Reality: (sorry please go on)

Spouse: Huh. Busy guy.

Me: yeah sorry go ahead and unpause

Me: (manages to watch for like two uninterrupted minutes)

Me: sorry can you pause it again?

Spouse: (doesn’t even sigh or anything)

Me: okay their voices are nothing alike

Spouse: Whose?

Me: Sheldon and Moriarty’s. I mean, he must be a great voice artist if he can do an American accent so perfectly, but still…

Reality: (but still)

Me: (shut UP)

Me: (feels familiar sinking feeling)

Me (sighing): can you keep it paused a minute? I have to look this up.

Me: (googles that stuff)

Me: Damn it.

Reality: (hee hee hee)

Me: I hate you.

Spouse: ???

Me: no no no not you

Me: that’s just way extremely not the same actor

Me (showing screen to spouse): see?

Spouse: …yeah, that’s really not the same guy.

Me: I blew it again.

Me: Big time.

Me: I mean, they’re both white guys with dark hair, but that’s it. 

Me: I mean, when I’ve got the picture of the Moriarty guy in front of me and then I look at Sheldon on the TV, even I can see they look nothing alike.

Reality: (oh really?)

Me: (snarl)

Me: but I mean there’s gotta be something

Me: there has to be some reason I thought they were the same guy

Me: This is more than just the usual face blindness.

Spouse: (politely waiting to be allowed to watch his show already)

Me: sorry go ahead and unpause it again

Spouse: (watches show)

Me: (sort of watches show)

Me: (really just kind of stares at it)

Me: (not even bothering to try to keep up with the plot now)

Me: (cheese and crackers – once he’s unpaused, Sheldon looks exactly like Moriarty again)

Me: (to me anyway)

Me: (why why why why why)

Some character on Big Bang Theory: (says something Sheldon isn’t thrilled by)

Sheldon: (grimaces)

Me (triumphantly): that’s IT

Spouse: What’s what?

Me: That look. That funny little expression Sheldon gets. The thing his whole face does, just for a second. 

Me: THAT’S why he looks like Moriarty

Me: That’s when he looks like Moriarty.

Spouse: Huh.

Reality: (yes um sorry but I can’t see it)

Me: YEAH I KNOW

Spouse: ?????

Me: …sorry how ’bout we just watch this show like two people watching a show

Spouse: Sounds good!

As a kid, I didn’t know about face blindness. I just thought I was “bad with faces.”

Really bad.

Badness #1:

Six-year-old me: Hi, Aunt Suzy!

Lovely woman with new haircut: …I’m your mother.

Badness #2:

Fourteen-year-old me (who just spent an entire afternoon with cool new friend): Let’s meet after school tomorrow and hang out again!

Cool new friend: totally

Fourteen-year-old me (next day): (could someone please invent cell phone technology so I can text the girl who’s sitting next to me and make sure she’s the human I spent hours with yesterday because no I can’t tell by looking and yes I’d know her voice but sadly she’s not talking)

Cool new friend: why are you staring at me like that?

Cool new friendship: (dies)

Badness #3

31-year-old me (to cool new mom friend at cool mom hangout): Hey, it was great meeting you! Wonderful talk! See you next week!

31-year-old me (at cool mom hangout next week): um

Badness with extreme prejudice:

32-year-old me (at park with own toddler): Okay, I recognize those overalls. That’s my kid.

32-year-old me: …I think.

I am not making any of this up.

Yes, face blindness is real. Jane Goodall is face blind and was good enough to write about it in the introduction to her book Reason For Hope, which was how I figured out that I wasn’t just “bad with faces.”

Yes, face blindness is often associated with autism – or rather autism is often associated with face blindness. Point is, I do both and I do them well.

Yes, face blindness can make it a huge pain in the arse to keep track of who’s who and what’s going on in TV shows and movies. (Fun fact: Rogue One is a drastically different movie if you understand that there are actually two dark-haired men with facial hair in the first rapid-back-and-forth half hour of that film, not one man who’s having an unusually busy day.)

And most of all: no, face blindness is not just being sort of bad with faces. Face blindness is taking this test and answering all twenty questions either “OH HECK YES” or “OH NO WAY,” depending on whether the questions are “I never recognize anybody I’ve only met once unless their name is Godzilla and they’ve starred in several movies that have titles such as Godzilla” or “I’m so good at recognizing celebrities in those ‘before they were famous’ photos, that’s how I got hired to write for BuzzFeed.”

And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go play with my little bearded dragons, whom I was immediately able to tell apart from the day I brought them home at the age of three weeks. Because apparently I can recognize some people. Just not the ones most people hang out with.

Do You Have A Chainsaw?

I just felt like putting a picture of my girl Peaches here.

Me: Honey, I want to know what you think of this.

Kiddo: ?

Me: I’ve been reading the testing part of I Think I Might Be Autistic, and – gosh, I’m not totally sure yet, but I think – I think some of this might apply to me.

Kiddo (trying to keep a straight face): Oh?

Me: “Do you sometimes feel the need to repeatedly ask the same questions even after your question has been answered?”

Kiddo: Didn’t we talk about this already?

Me: Very funny. Okay, how about this one – “Do you get upset when someone or something disrupts one of your routines?”

Kiddo (snickering): oh no you never do that not you

Me: Shush. Just one more. “Do other people tell you that you sometimes overreact to small changes in plans or your environment?”

Kiddo: (laughing too hard to talk)

Me:  “Even if you don’t consider the changes small,” because excuse me but they’re not small they’re actually quite large so everyone please stop messing with my stuff.

Spouse: …were you editorializing on that last one?

Me: NO

It reminds me of something that periodically makes the rounds on social media: “Write the name of the last book you read, but add ‘With A Chainsaw’ to the end of the title.” Everyone has a merry old time. The biggest laughs are prompted by those who love the classics, because Little Women WITH A CHAINSAW just feels so right.

That kind of manic perfection is how it feels when an autistic person takes an autism test and holy crap everything in my whole life makes a bonkers kind of sense now.

I showed one of these tests to my spouse. I’ve shared fragments of them with friends who aren’t autistic.

In both cases, even when the questions elicited a “yes” response, it just wasn’t the same.

Q. Do you find it difficult to engage in “small talk”?

Non-autistic: Oh, yes! I got stuck talking to someone I didn’t know at a party, and we ended up talking about the weather for ten minutes! I mean, I guess I’ve always wanted to be a stereotype!

Autistic: I was in a waiting room and someone asked me what I was reading and I showed them and then I explained why this was the most meticulously researched biography of the Brontës that’s ever been written and how it turns out that Branwell Brontë didn’t actually spend his art-school tuition money on booze and then come home broke and disgraced the way all the other biographers say he did, and the person I was talking to sat there listening for a minute and then just got up and left and I didn’t even get the chance to tell them about the part where –

Q. Do you see conversations as primarily a way to exchange information rather than emotionally connect with people?

Non-autistic: …maybe? 

Autistic: Duh.

Q. Do you often prefer solitary activities or spending time alone?

Non-autistic: Oh, sure! 

Autistic: Why are you still here?

Q. Have you been told that your thinking is “black and white” or “all or nothing”?

Non-autistic: Well…

Autistic: Only by bad people.

Q. Do you –

Autistic: Who are wrong.

Q. Do you have large collections of factual knowledge?

Non-autistic: I mean…

Autistic: I need to buy a new set of shelves for my books about Regency England in general and Jane Austen in particular. The old shelves are falling apart.

Q. Do you have highly unusual interests?

Non-autistic: Well, I don’t know anyone else who loves Crazy Ex-Girlfriend!

Autistic: I just spent $75 on a university-press book about fairy beliefs in Shakespeare’s time.

Q. Do you – wait, really?

Autistic: WITH A CHAINSAW

I know plenty of people who would say yes to plenty of the questions on the questionnaires. Awkward at parties? All the time. Don’t always get certain types of humor? Of course. Cold when other people are hot, or vice versa? Story of my life, honey!

But it’s one thing to look at a body of questions and say, sure, I can relate to that. Some of it, anyway. It’s another to answer yes to question after question after question and HACHI MACHI THIS IS ALL ME I HAVE FOUND MY PEOPLE AT LAST.

And my people all have their very own chainsaws.

And it feels just right.

I’m Disappointed In You

Peaches does not approve.

Me (out walking with my spouse a couple of weeks ago): So.

Spouse: ?

Me: What would you think if someone said – on her blog – “you know, I wish someone had told me that it’s okay to feel a little sad and worried when you find out your child is autistic”?

Spouse: Well, okay.

Spouse: It’s okay to feel sad and worried about your kid.

Me: Like, “my kid’s autistic and I don’t know exactly what that means and I’m kind of sad that they can’t talk to me and maybe they’ll never be able to.”

Spouse: Sure.

Me: oh and also I lied

Me: she didn’t say “sad and worried”

Me: she said “disappointed”

Spouse: (indescribable noise)

Me: Yeah.

Me: I’m asking this because it seems like such a duh I feel like I must be missing something.

Me: If someone had a child who was physically disabled, how would people respond if she said, “I wish someone had told me it’s okay to feel disappointed?”

Me: Publicly said it. Like, proudly.

Spouse: Who said this?

Me: A woman who got in touch with me via my blog.

Me: She wanted me to take a look at her blog.

Me: I assumed she was autistic. I mean, the post she liked on my blog was the one about that stepmom being so mean about her partner’s autistic kid. 

Me: But I guess this woman read that and thought, “Well, I’m not like that. I’m one of the good ones!”

Spouse: One of the good…?

Me: Parents. Her kid’s autistic.

Spouse: Ah.

Me: And a disappointment.

Spouse: Great.

Me: I’m sure she’d say, “I didn’t say that! I didn’t say I was disappointed in my kid!”

Me: “I just meant I’m disappointed that my kid’s not like all the other kids!”

Me: “I’m disappointed that I don’t get to have the parenting life I assumed I would!”

Spouse: Really not sounding any better here. 

Me: She knows I’m autistic! How did she think I’d feel seeing someone say that?

Me: And also – since when does having a neurotypical kid, or even just a kid who isn’t autistic but might be interesting in other ways – since when is that a guarantee that your kid will do the things she’s talking about? Have slumber parties? Have friends? Go to the prom? Get married?

Me: I’m autistic and I got married!

Me: And plenty of neurotypical people don’t!

Me: “You’re allowed to be disappointed.”

Me: “It’s okay to wish things were different.”

Me: That’s not how you’re supposed to talk about your kid!

Me: That sounds like the field trip to the theme park got cancelled!

Spouse: If the trip to Disneyland got cancelled because my mom got sick, my disappointment wouldn’t have anything to do with her. I’d just be disappointed that we didn’t get to go. 

Spouse: Disappointment about people should be about what they did, not what they are. 

Spouse: You can say “I’m disappointed that you took money from my wallet without asking.” You can’t say “I’m disappointed that you’re a girl.”

Me: I mean, you can. And then everyone will know what a jerk you are.

Spouse: Exactly.

Me: …

Me: …I just can’t get over the fact that she thought I’d want to read this.

Me: Did she think I’d skip the part where having an autistic kid is a disappointment?

Me: Or did she think that I’d go on and read the bit where she says that, contrary to how it may have sounded a minute ago, she actually really does love her kid, and I’d be all, “AW LET’S HUG” and applaud for ten minutes straight?

Spouse: I was wondering what all that clapping noise coming from your office was.

Me (snickering): Yeah, that was totally me.

Me: …she also talked about something called ABA. It’s some kind of therapy, I guess?

Spouse: Never heard of it.

Me: I just saw someone mention it in one of my autism groups on Facebook. 

Me: They didn’t sound thrilled.

Spouse: Uh-oh.

Me: Yeah. Everybody else seemed to know what it was. I’m definitely going to have to look it up.

Me (sitting typing this right now): Foreshadowing – it’s not just for fiction anymore!

Walk Like An Allistic

Me: ooh lookit that big weirdo plant

Me: I love that guy!

Me: (takes a million pictures)

Me: I love succulents so much.

Me: I think I’m becoming the main character in that novel I wrote.

Spouse: …the wealthy heiress gay teenaged boarding-school student whose loved ones were systematically murdered?

Me: Okay, not JUST like her.

Me: But I’m starting to think flowers are kind of boring, just like she did.

Me: Flowers are all, “Hey, look – I’m PRETTY!”

Me: Like, whatever. I live in L.A. Half the humans here are models. And most of the rest of them used to be.

Me: I’m kind of over pretty.

Me: I love succulents ’cause they don’t settle for being cute.

Me: This weird purple flower has velvety-red leaves! And a big creepy tongue sticking out of the middle of its face!

Spouse: Uh…

Me: “Hey – suck my stamen, rosebuds!”

Spouse: We’d better get moving or we’ll be late.

Me: Yeah, okay.

Me: (catches sight of myself in window of building)

Me: Whoa.

Me: I do walk funny, don’t I?

Me: I mean, I knew I did, but I guess it feels different now that everybody’s out and about more.

Me (still looking at reflection as I walk): Dang.

Me: It’s an autism thing. Not, like, officially, but a lot of us do it.

Spouse: Your walk is fine. I like your walk.

Me (experimenting): Here, let’s see. Maybe if I kind of stabilize my core and tilt my hips forward a little…

Me (stepping gingerly): How does it look now? Am I walking normal now?

Spouse: Yes, but you look like you’re trying to walk normal.

Me: Great.

Me (still mincing like a neurotypical): This is exhausting.

Spouse: Don’t change your walk.

Me: Why not? 

Spouse: I like being able to pick you out in a crowd.

Me: (thinks about it)

Me: (starts walking my own kind of normal again)

Me: If a weird purple succulent flower could walk, I bet it would look like this.

Spouse: Absolutely.

One Of These Things Is NOT Like The Other

The following pairs of statements are drawn from conversations I’ve either witnessed or directly participated in. The first statement in each pair is a summary of a situation, edited for succinctness and factuality; the reply is as close to verbatim as I can make it.

1. “I have chronic nausea. It’s directly related to a disease called endometriosis, which I’ve confirmed that I have via surgery. This nausea often gets in the way of me participating in everyday activities and limits what I can do. Some days, literally all I can do is cope as best I can with feeling overwhelmingly, violently ill.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. When I saw the footage of the January 6 attack on the Capitol, I felt sick to my stomach.”

2. “I suffer from migraines. They’re overwhelming and often unpredictable. Some days, literally all I can do is hide in a dark room and hope no one makes any noise anywhere. This has had a serious, negative impact on my personal and professional life.”

“I know what you mean. I had a really annoying headache the other day.”

3. “I have twins.”

“Oh, I know what it’s like to have twins! I have a two-year-old and a six-month old.”

4. “Okay, I know some here have food allergies, so please let me know what those are so I can plan a meal that will be safe for everyone.”

“I hate dark meat.”

5. “I’m a black woman.”

“Oh, I know what it’s like to experience racism! I’m a white woman, but my child is black.”

6. “I just realized why I’ve been getting so tired so early in the day. I spend so much time in pain – not a lot of pain, but it’s constant. And I think it’s taking a lot of my energy just to cope with that. No wonder I start feeling ready for bed by eight o’clock.”

“I know exactly what you mean. I got up at five this morning!”

7. “I’m gay.”

“I get it. Once, I had a big crush on another woman.”

We have all – every single one of us – tried to be supportive and completely flubbed up.  

We all know how much grief there is to go around. We all know – or are in a position to know – how unavoidable pain is.

And yet many of us live our lives as if maybe, just maybe, if we planned things perfectly and did everything just right, we could circumvent sadness.

I can’t see any other explanation for why we tend to treat times of trouble as a surprise. Or as a curable illness and/or treatable lapse of judgment rather than a natural consequence of being alive.

Trying to cure someone of their own personal sadness usually works about as well as saying “Calm down!” to someone who’s visibly agitated. But most of us give it a try anyway.

And the first thing we do – which is also, not coincidentally, the first mistake we make – is try to empathize rather than sympathize.

Sympathy is a kindness. Sympathy is encapsulated in a simple, loving statement: “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

Empathy can be valuable, which is why many people join support groups made up of people dealing with similar issues.

But empathy can’t be purchased. It has to come of its own accord. 

That doesn’t stop plenty of people from trying to mangle their own experiences into the desired shape, often to disastrous effect.

“I know what that’s like!” they say. When they don’t. They can’t.

And the sad part is, no one wants them to. 

Insisting you can empathize with something you’ve never been through is condescending, dismissive, and damaging. 

A migraine isn’t just an ordinary headache, only bigger. Migraine is a neurological disease. Being prone to migraines means figuring out how to live your life without triggering not just pain but other, often incapacitating symptoms. 

I could go through the entire list of examples I gave above. I’ll go ahead and quickly say that the only way you can know what it’s like to have twins is to have twins, and that piping up with food preferences when an allergy discussion is on the table wins you a special prize in hell. 

The bigger point is: forcing fake empathy where empathy is impossible is cruel, though not at all unusual. It does damage. 

In the exchanges above, the #1s wind up feeling a little more angry, sad, misunderstood, and alone than they already were.

I’ll be talking more about ersatz empathy and the damage it does and why it’s on my mind in my next post.

Until then: please don’t be a #2. There’s enough of that in this world already.

Aspirational Me

Me: …so, yeah, I’m still having a really hard time reading I Think I Might Be Autistic. I don’t know why. It’s giving me so much good information. It’s telling me things I need to know and confirming things I already suspected. But it’s rough going.

Me: I mean, let’s face it – being autistic is not exactly aspirational.

Me: When was the last time someone said “I think so-and-so might be autistic” and then followed it up with a compliment?

Me: Last month I heard two separate comedians say on two separate comedy podcasts, “I think this guy must be on the spectrum.”

Me: One of them was saying what an idiot someone was; the other was describing a movie where a character didn’t display emotions appropriate to the situation.

Me: Oh, hey – let’s not forget all the advice-column letters where the it’s-always-a-woman is writing in about her problematic it’s-always-a-guy significant other. “He may be on the spectrum.”

Me: Why? Is he disciplined? A hard worker? Compulsively honest?

Me: Oh. No.

Me: He never seems to understand how she feels.

Me: Funny how those good qualities are things anyone could have, but if some guy’s an insensitive lout – boom. Must be on the spectrum.

Me: Because neurotypical dudes are never oblivious to the welfare of those around them.

Me: And autistic people as a group have no discernable good qualities.

Me: And of course there’s all the talk about “curing” us, which is not what you say about people you think are okay.

Me: So, yeah – I guess I can understand why finishing this book and moving forward with my diagnosis is taking some time. Why I need to take some time with this.

Me: Okay. To encourage myself to keep on keeping on, I’ll post short pieces about aspects of autism on my blog. Maybe that’ll help me feel less overwhelmed. 

Me: Plus that’ll be much more enjoyable for readers than if, say, I posted a summary of the dozens of questions in that initial test early in the book.

(Ah, sweet sweet optimism, let me sip thine ambrosial nectar one last wistful time.)

The expectation:

Me: I mean, even neurotypical readers will understand that when I’m talking about just one quality a lot of autistic people tend to share, I don’t mean that you can summarize autism with that one quality.

Me: And of course the neurotypicals and other non-autistics will get that there’s probably no single quality of autism that isn’t also something plenty of other people experience, too.

Me: It’s a matter of preponderance.

Me: And intensity.

Me: Plus we’re talking almost 150 characteristics on just this one list of questions. I can’t go into all of those at once! That would be so tedious!

Me: I already mentioned in a previous post that this questionnaire goes on for almost 30 pages.

Me: Non-autistic people will understand that I’m picking and choosing so this blog will be a source of edutainment rather than the online equivalent of a ten-pound block of cement.

Me: …right?

The reality:

Comments on blog: wrong

Comments on Facebook: wrong!

Comments in frantic phone calls from friends and loved ones: WRONG

Comments from all of the above: WHY ARE YOU SAYING ONLY AUTISTIC PEOPLE DO THIS ONE THING 

Comments from same: I DO THIS THING AND I AM NOT AUTISTIC

Me: hoo boy

I sat down to write a post about impostor syndrome and how much fun it isn’t. I realized as soon as I started to type that I had too much to say for one post to even begin to cover.

So that’s what this is: the beginning.

Two days ago, I had one of my worst days in recent memory, and I say that with the year 2020 looming large as life and twice as ugly in the rearview mirror.

I am feeling beaten down by a toxic combination of impostor syndrome and the fact that I’m feeling like an impostor about something no one wants to be.

I’m not a CEO who’s worried sick someone will figure out that secretly she’s not worthy of that promotion.

I’m not a kid who just got accepted into the Ivy League but who’s convinced she’s the only one who struggles with feelings of inadequacy. “Everybody else is doing great. I know some of them say they feel like impostors sometimes, but I really am one!”

I get to feel like an impostor because if I’m not autistic, everything that’s a life-defining struggle is just me being lazy, disorganized, and frankly kind of weird.

More on Monday.