But You Don’t Look Autistic at All (Bianca Toeps’ Books)

by Bianca Toeps

Simply by not eating. If I felt I had wolfed down too much candy during the day, I would skip dinner. That way I kept the numbers under control. My health, on the other hand, was rapidly declining.

But at some point, even that wasn’t enough anymore. I started throwing up, couldn’t motivate myself anymore with a single bag of candy and my seemingly perfect life started showing cracks. I missed classes because I was at home with a headache, Ben & Jerry’s, and panic attacks. The Tax Office sent me to a psychologist, but that didn’t help either. I was exhausted. But because I didn’t recognise what was happening, I convinced myself my job was the issue, and I resigned. I got a job on the side and collapsed again two weeks into that. It wasn’t until then that I decided I needed some serious help.

I had an eating disorder NOS (not otherwise specified), but that doesn’t change my point: they should have been more alert. I’ve often wondered why I had this eating disorder. I think there were multiple factors at play. Sensitivity to stimuli is one of them; there still are plenty of foods I don’t like to eat, because they feel unpleasant. At the same time, my sensitivity to pleasant stimuli meant certain foods helped me get through the day.

After a period of hunger, a person who barely eats enters a sort of numb, floating state. People in the group who suffered from anorexia told me that the biggest problem with eating more was that it made them feel more. Sensory overload.

Fucking ass.

Speaking of sensory issues: tight clothing, or actually all fabric touching my stomach, still causes me to reach sensory overload super fast. I used to think a flat stomach would solve this problem: when your clothes rest on your hip bones, you don’t feel them rubbing up against you every time you breathe or move. By now I have a wardrobe full of loose-fitting pants, stretchy leggings and jumpers and shirts that can best be described as “tents”. You’ll never get me into a two-piece suit again.

I dropped out in my second year, after a group assignment that went particularly wrong. Group assignments: the second favourite pastime for people who are into self-chastising. It’s not just autistics, by the way, who have difficulty working as a group; most non-autistics I know hate it as well, although the consequences might be a little less severe for them.

Once again I refused to admit I wouldn’t be able to cope with that, so once again I convinced myself I wanted to do something else.

“You’re not one to let things get you down”, my dad said to me recently. It wasn’t until later that I realised how much this comment meant to me; I’ve always been afraid he’d see me as a quitter, as someone who never finishes anything.

I was nervous, because our relationship hadn’t always been the best. We had reconnected a few years ago, and I wanted to keep it that way. I looked at my sheet of paper, but before I could even say anything, my dad started talking.

My father and stepmother had no reason to assume I was autistic, so they had tried to find other explanations for my behaviour. Rebellious adolescent behaviour. The result of the divorce. Maybe partly my mother’s fault as well, as she was apparently trying to undermine the authority in the Dad Residence.

“Can you handle criticism?” my dad had asked during a lunch date. It was July, and ever since February I’d had the feeling I had done something wrong. Now finally, the truth would come out. “You’re very self-absorbed”, my dad said.

It was supposed to be a poetic happy end to a period of fear, a confirmation our bond was restored once and for all. While planning my Japan trip I had always made our visit to Disneyland Tokyo my number one priority. Even a big work project had had to make way for it. “Well, I wouldn’t count on it!” my stepmother said. My dream was shattered. “What? Why not?” “Well, Mitchell called yesterday… They’re breaking up. They’re coming home this weekend.” I felt tears welling up. I looked at Riemer, who knew what this news meant to me. I mumbled something about ‘my planning’. My dad took this as an extremely selfish act. It wasn’t until I explained the reason for my crying months later, that he understood.

“Do you think you also have autism?” It’s the scariest question on my list. Most kids find out at a certain age that their parents aren’t the infallible superheroes they once seemed. But that my father might be autistic as well? It had never occured to me.

Most of the time, I didn’t really have a choice: a person has to eat, and I wasn’t on social benefits or had a partner with a money tree.

Maybe I’ve been telling myself all this time it’s a good thing I struggled like I did – as if that’s the reason I’ve achieved things. I’m happy with where I am now, but maybe I would have gotten here via a different route as well.

Client does appear to have a lot of trouble filtering information. It seems as if nothing gets past her, rather than things escaping her. According to her mother, the client sometimes lives in her own world. She thinks this is a defence mechanism for the client, to avoid being overwhelmed by things. The hectic behaviour and impulsiveness, as described by the client, seem to stem from tension and clumsiness, from not knowing how to say something the right way.”

According to this view, besides social quirks, the label ‘Asperger’s’ – as opposed to classic autism – also comes with special talents, which make the autistic person “useful”.