Nerdy, Dirty, Inked and Curvy

As part of my post-diagnostic care following my autism diagnosis, I have been working very hard to see the differences and not the disabilities. So, for example, instead of being continually frustrated that I cannot see 'the big picture' of a situation, I am now relishing that I can spot small details and how they connect that others may not. 

'Different not less.' Blah blah blah. 

For example, I asked a client if they would like a Hep C test in case their tattoos had been kitchen scratch jobs. The person looked suspicious. 'How do you know I have tattoos?' I glanced at him again. 'I can see them under your shirt,' I said. 

This person was wearing a long-sleeve shirt and I could see just a flash of black line work before their hand started, but it told me enough that they probably have at least one large tattoo, which are expensive and not many people I come across in any walk of life have the money for sleeve tattoos. So. Has it been done by a mate in a dirty kitchen with a machine bought from Amazon and so would they therefore like to be tested for BBV?

I digress. As part of embracing the differences, I have been pushing myself to go beyond my circumvented world (on the proviso I can return as suddenly as I choose). 

I wrote a horror/taboo story for an open submission call that had The Fiancé squirming when he asked to read it and looked at me with disgust. Showing someone my work is a big step because even fifteen minutes away from the laptop and I began to see syntax I could correct, plot that could be better juggled and imagery that could have more bite. Editing never stops. But I did submit it.

I began to get the blank spaces filled in on my arms with small tattoos that are not deep/meaningful/dark/worthy of commentary. They're cute, colourful and silly. And the artist was also crazy about The Offspring, too.

I won a Gift of Confidence boudoir (read: underwear) photography shoot with a local studio. I have never ever neverevernever been the kind of person to strip down to Batman knickers, raise my arms and cock a hip. But after finding solace with a make-up girl who geeked out with me about Xbox One (note: must finish Limbo) and a photographer who had orange hair, I was doing just that.

I'm getting older and I have to start taking more chances before I am unable to. 

Of course, there is inevitable fallout from being bolder. Submitting work risks rejection, getting 'cute' tattoos risks looking stupid and having photos that show my body risks feeling odd when I go to the Viewing Session.

 

But all people experience these risks of chances. 

There was one more significant instance of embracing the difference rather than the disability that may have triggered my weekend of doing Social Things. I was on a break with a co-worker, the same age as my mother, and in a roundabout way I explained I had Asperger's Syndrome. Directly, she asked exactly what that was (staff have recently had autism training). I explained it was a high-functioning form of autism, more hidden, not always as obvious. She asked what the symptoms were. Surprisingly, I talked openly about my sensory issues, my problem with socialising and making new friends, eye contact and how even when happy I may appear to act around 14. I explained meltdowns and what stimming is. She said it sounded very debilitating. I stated that yes, sometimes things get worse and I explained my rituals with leaving the house and multiple checkings, especially when stressed. What my own stimming and meltdowns looked like.

She clapped me on the shoulder when we walked back into work and said I handled it all very well. I made sure I didn't wriggle where she'd touched me and smiled.

So, I have that member of staff to thank for my busy albeit risk-fraught weekend. And it's a fucking shame because it's taken me 8 whole months before I could properly talk to my co-workers and back and forth freely and have them laugh even if I misinterpreted things. It's a fucking shame because I'm moving to a new job in a couple of weeks and no team will be this noisy, foul-mouthed and tender-hearted. They've done more for me than they know. Not just in learning very, very fast about managing substance misuse clients. But with integrating with a completely different career path and types of people. People who use the phrase 'You utter thundercunt' as freely as 'Is it raining outside?'

To my team: 

The Search For Silence Continues

Sometimes I'm quite amazed at how sensitive hearing can be on the spectrum. Years ago I was convinced I was going crazy. Now I know that I'm highly-tuned. But this doesn't make coping much different.

The day has been fine. In the afternoon myself and workmates went to an external meeting. After the noise and chatter settled and it became one speaker in a large, high-ceiling room, I quickly felt sick. I winced and covered my ears, trying not to look too...aspie. 

The sound of the lights, some twenty feet above me, sounded like hair clippers held directly beside my ears. It turned my stomach, made my palms sweat and wanted to vomit. I began to panic as I could no longer focus on the meeting. More frightening is that looking around, no one else appeared bothered. I began to rock gently on my chair.

Come the break, I legged it out the door for a cigarette. When I had to come back inside the buzzing room, I felt my eyes get hot and wet and I feared a meltdown was coming. I slipped over to my manager and asked to be excused. She laughed and said, 'You're not in school. You can just go.' I tried not to cry, grabbed my bag and ran out even as I heard someone call my name.

I didn't recognise town and just turned right and walked straight until I found myself back at my workplace. 30mg of diazepam took 30 minutes to kick in and I didn't want to go foetal in the street. 

Ironically, I went to see the psychologist after work. The rooms are thin-walled and I flinched for fifty minutes at cleaners dragging tables around in other rooms. When I left the room, I gagged and covered my nose at the smell of bleach.

My sensitivity is already high, but I feel like my tolerance is getting worse. I don't know exactly why. I don't think sensory issues can be progressive so perhaps it's stress-related. 

I get home and try and relax. I smell toast cooking through the terraced, but very solid walls of my neighbours' house. I know I'm not going insane. But this feels like a very mad way to be trying to live.