Three things have happened recently that I believe have exacerbated my signs of autism and unfortunately made passing something a lot more difficult to achieve. People have now noticed something is 'up'.
I will try to keep this as brief as I can. But I can't promise.
There was an instance during training connected to work whereby a facilitator made what I felt to be a discriminatory remark towards people with autism and other developmental differences. As a result, I got agitated and left the training to avoid a meltdown, but did return for the further two days training. Someone else brought this to my line manager and I had to write up, in detail, what had happened and disclose my difficulties and my autism. I am still waiting for an outcome from this three months later. This worries me. Who/how many people have seen or scrutinised private and personal information about me?
I decided to come off my Prozac after I was sedated to the point of wanting to go to sleep on the train platforms on the way to work, sleeping standing up and contemplating walking into traffic. I also noted my 14lb weight gain since going on Prozac.
So I ceased it and after an initial week of energy and euphoria, I was back to crying in public, at work, and rapidly lost my filter so that I saw connections to all pieces of information that I absorbed.
Then I went out on a social night, for the very first time, with some girls I had never met before. The PG Girls were welcoming, funny, gorgeous and yet I broke over five years of sobriety (bar the odd drink every few months) by drinking solidly for nine hours so that I could do social.
I then did something very very stupid.
I was wearing a ring and I had taken it off and put it in my pocket for safekeeping as I was going to be crashing on a bed in the house of the one of the PG Girls who had kindly let me stay with the others at 5am. I vaguely remembering admiring a chunky black ring at some point that I saw in a kitchen. This too went in my pocket for safekeeping. Unfortunately, what I did not remember at the time, but later discovered when the girl messaged in a panic, was that this was her partner's engagement ring.
I immediately stated that I had drunkenly walked off with it and was very sorry and would return it ASAP, which I did. Along with a card and some limited edition Garbage Pail Kids stickers.
Now, here's where it actually relates to autism.
To my mind, which has only 5% Theory of Mind (1/20 on the test), there was no longer a problem. I had explained where the ring was, apologised for a drunken walk-off and the very real fail in judgement by getting that drunk (even recognising that it was a very bad impression of myself to give) and then returned it ASAP with a card of apology.
This girl has, of course, expressed her anger at my being trusted to stay in her house as a new person who then walked off with something of high value. I was distraught because this time I did understand what she meant and for the first time, I realised that I couldn't solve a social fuck-up this large with an apology or a practicality. The girl asked for time before she could trust me or even see me socially. She asked that I did not attend lunch with the rest of them because of this.
I then realised that I have never made friends with anyone outside of a structured environment. My friends have always arisen firstly from being around people for long periods in a stable construct. School. University classes. Shared hosues. Work places. But never befriended new people in bars and clubs. And when I was added to The PG Girls chatty Facebook group, I saw keenly how they interacted. How well they knew each other. Had jokes about Disney, knew of each other's food dislikes, children's birthdays, type of dogs they have.
This may sound sad, but I tried to fit in by buying the things they liked. I ordered Killstar clothes I will probably look terrible in, a 'Unicorn Tears' shade of lipstick that is supposedly sold out everywhere and told them of new piercings I wanted. I do actually want these things, but now I question my motives. Is it for me or to fit in with a new crowd?
This must be made clear. I don't mean to make them sound shallow. They're not. They're lovely, caring, fun-loving and want to look pretty and badass.
I'm a tomboy. I always have been. I wear baggy jeans and most days just wear foundation for make-up. I like hoodies, not corsets. I don't do heels. I won't fit in with The PG Girls unless I can accept that I should just be me and stop trying to pass in a new way. They're smart enough to see through that eventually.
So what now?
I'm back on Prozac and tired and numb. My workplace support has been approved after four months though now apparently my probation must be extended, despite my work being described as 'exemplary'. I have learnt not to go to certain staff when I'm struggling because only now have they admitted that they know virtually nothing about autism and I feel that's underhand to state that you 'understand' when you later state that you actually don't know what a meltdown is.
And I'm pulling away from The PG Girls, because even though I think they're great and I'd love them to be my friends, I'm no good at starting new friendships and it's no good trying to break into an established group. I'm better on the fringes. It's chilly here, but at least I know where the line is.
New (at least, new to publication) story has found itself a home in Robbed of Sleep Volume 5, published by BigHugeGiant (@bighugegiant) and edited by Troy Blackford, who can be found lurking on Twitter under the handle @TBlackford3.
'Mr. Chop's House of Credit' is a story I wrote some time ago and it's always been a fond favourite, but has never found a home. Maybe its mix of gore and humour isn't for everyone, but if you like the idea of a pawnbroker's with a penchant for human organs, then it will be for you.
According to our editor, this latest anthology offers:
"Thirty-three fearful, fretful, and freakishly fanciful stories fresh from the minds of some of today’s most unstable speculative fiction authors"
I do so like this description of us RoS lot.
Click here for the e-version. Print to follow very soon.
After I posted my previous entry, I went on Facebook and discovered that Matt Haig unfriended me on Facebook.
That's more than a bit weird. His mutual friends are made up of four Manchester writers I've known for years. They've tutored me, drank with me, I've been to their readings and house-sat for them. But did I do a horribly creepy thing by asking if I could send him a present? Do autistic people never ever bloody know where the appropriate line is?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not so precious that an 'unfriending' would upset me. Only the idea that I might (or to be fair, might not) have been seen as a cyberspace Annie Wilkes who may have been sending something utterly inappropriate, when I thought I might be doing something to make someone smile.
Or maybe he imagined worse. A six-inch thick manuscript with a begging note for him to promote it.
Typical world 1. Autism 0.
Never mind. We'll win on penalties.
Yeah. Joking aside, I'm embarrassed.
I'm a big fan of the books of Matt Haig. Specifically of his novel The Radleys, a quirky family vampire tale lined with black comedy and laden with pathos. It speaks subtly of addiction and even more so of depression.
There is a book within this book called The Abstainer's Handbook and on a whim, I asked the owner, Scott, of Etsy shop IgnisFatuusBooks, to create a likeness of this book. Matt had posted recently about writing being an ongoing tool to challenge his depression. So, I asked Matt via Facebook if I could send him this piece of fan art/notebook to him care of his agent or publisher.
But he didn't reply.
This one-of-kind notebook that I thought perhaps might be a nice gift is heading its way to my letterbox. Now it'll probably remain unopened and unused.
Being a fankid to writers, this is nothing new. I have two letters from Chuck Palahniuk that are waiting to be framed, and I have debated having various author autographs I've collected tattooed on me. Bret Easton Ellis. Jasper Fforde. Ransom Riggs. I would give a kidney to meet or even just have a postcard from Stephen King. Writers to me are the real rockstars. Odd, awkward, making worlds made of make-believe and leaving something tangible behind.
I don't want to be rich or famous. I want to produce a novel that makes people cry, laugh, feel nauseous, comforted and disturbed. Because if I can do all that, it means I will finally understand people and, surely, understand other people's range of emotions and experiences. Creating 300 pages that resonates with people would mean I might finally be able to shatter the glass that the aspie lives behind. Perhaps I can stop passing/defaulting to saying outrageous things because I'm not sure how to join a conversation. Perhaps.
Perhaps Matt Haig might even get back to me and not think it weird I had a piece of fan art made for him, but know it was just one outsider to another saying, It's dangerous to go alone. Take this.
The Morpheus Tales Taboo Special issue has landed! My story 'Apron Strings' is amongst the pages of what promises to be, "No limits, no holds barred." @morpheustales
I'm pretty pleased with this story. It shaped itself quite naturally around a quick snippet from a friend. She had just given birth to her son. The midwife asked if she wanted to keep the placenta. The midwife still had her own son's placenta in her freezer 22 years later...
From the publishers:
"The free preview of the magazine is available here:
https://issuu.com/morpheustales/docs/taboo_special_issue_preview
The ebook in various formats is available here:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/648109?ref=morpheustales
The ebook will also be available on amazon for the kindle soon.
The printed digest size edition is available here:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/stanley-riiks-and-ken-goldman-and-adrian-ludens-and-sheri-white/taboo-special-issue/paperback/product-22778122.html
The printed perfect-bound edition is available here:
http://www.lulu.com/shop/stanley-riiks-and-ken-goldman-and-adrian-ludens-and-sheri-white/taboo-special-issue-perfect-bound-edition/paperback/product-22778129.html
10% off print copies for a limited period!"
Sometimes it's a simple miscommunication that brings about a meltdown. Something as broad ranging as 'social disability' may, on certain days, not be triggered by two shouting people in the street, but by one ignorant person.
I can confidentially say I was doing the right thing. And a nice thing.
I can assert that this first month in a job that requires 3 hours of commuting and resisting the urge to bang on train windows where restless or jump down onto train tracks 'just to have a look' is incredibly difficult.
Today I got on the bus home, a First Bus. The 36, if you're interested. I got on with my C+ pass. It was on time and not crowded. This was good. Two stops on a young girl got on and said, '£1.50.'
The bus driver growled, 'There is no £1.50. You tell me where you're going.'
The girl replies, 'Right near X Street. I've just finished work and I get this route every day and they always charge me £1.50.'
Him: There's no button for £1.50 and I've been doing this job for 4 years.
Her: Can you check?
Him: Okay. Do you wanna put money on it?
Her: What?
Him: Do you wanna put money on it?
Her: Look, what is it?
Him: £1.60.
Her: Oh, right. I thought you were going to say loads more.
Him: It will be if you're going further.
Her: I'm not. I'm going just by X Street.
Him: Just get on already. But I'm warning you, you get off when I say.
The bus goes on. At a stop that is...somewhere, the driver stops and orders her off. She stands and goes to his little cubbyhole of misery
Her: But this isn't where I get off!
Him: You get off here because that's what you paid for.
They argue. I start feeling squirmy, hot-eyed, like I want to bite my hand. I have a ten pound note and a five pound note in my hand.
I get up and approach girl and driver. I hold out my bunched-up notes.
Me: Hi. How much more does she owe? I can -
Her: [To me] It's okay, cheers, I have the money, it's just -
Him: Just get off the bus. [To me] You, sit yourself down. [Points arm back down the bus] Now.
I recoil. His tone was direct, an order, threatening. Will he throw me off the bus in the rain?
I don't sit. I lean against the pole, clutching my money and hugging my bag. I feel scared. My brain is losing its filter rapidly and I run a conversation in my head. I will explain that I was doing a good thing, that he was rude and that he shouldn't have said that to me. He will understand because he is human.
At my stop I don't get off, but stand by his cubbyhole of misery.
Me: Look [shows him the two notes] I was trying to help by offering to pay any extra she needed.
Him: She had money. She already got an extra stop, that one.
Me: But you didn't need to order me away like that. That was rude.
Him: I told her to get off.
Me: No, you were rude and ordered me away, which is wrong. You shouldn't be rude. It's not nice.
Him: You were interfering.
Me: [Holds up bright blue AUTISM ALERT card] I have autism and I was trying to help. Why were you mean?
Him: You were interfering. We'll leave it there.
Me: But -
Him: Get off the bus.
I have a high-impact job. I deal with chaotic, vulnerable and yes, occasionally hostile people. And despite my facial expressions, I do give a shit. Today before I got on my train to work, I checked in with a homeless man who looked like he was going over and made sure to warn him to stay away from town in the afternoon in case it kicked off post-match and to also find out what had happened to the others tenting out. Answer: they were burned out.
I deal with the stresses of adult life and obsessions and rituals daily with a consistent lack of Theory Of Mind - I assume everyone thinks and approaches all situations as I do. Brain scans of autistic people even show a difference in brain make-up. Yet in my personal life, I cannot 'pass' so well. At work, I act a role and it exhausts me. Personally, I may be emotionally mature as the average 14-year old.
Does this explain why after getting off the bus this evening, I put my hood up and actually cried the short walk to my house. Why, when I walked in and The Fiancé asked what was wrong the first words out of my mouth were, 'I'm a stupid fucking autistic freak' and ran upstairs to hide. I am 31 years old.
Since my diagnosis I have never referred to myself in those terms.
This was not a serious incident. Not a major assault on my personality or physical self. No one threw excrement at me or kicked me or called me a retard. Yet the mismatch between my want to do a nice thing and then being insulted and then finding further insult when I disclosed my autism stung more than anything else has in many months.
The Fiancé put it in simpler terms.
'Maybe he was angry because he missed the match. Or perhaps he had to deal with lairy fans all day. Or, maybe, just maybe, he's just a total twatwaffle.'
POSTSCRIPT: The blue Autism Alert cards have so far proven utterly useless.
Signs that perhaps your aspie nature and long-running obsession with health and illness is becoming wildly unmanageable (read: ridiculous):
You become so fixated on the number of viral infections you've had, which GPs gently explain are a fall-out from glandular fever (how can someone so obsessed with illness have been unaware they had GF? Weird) that you become convinced you have HIV and that is the only way to explain the mystery aches and pains and tiredness and recurrent infections. You even go to the GUM for a complete screening despite complete monogamy and no needle-stick injuries.
The results are, unsurprisingly, completely negative.
Shortly after, I start falling asleep on the train to work, when you've just eaten, when you cry, have strange dreams that you confused with real life on a daily basis and struggle to sleep at night. I then believe, confidently, I have narcolepsy.
The fatigue dies down when I forget to daily Google "narcolepsy symptoms".
All week in the stifling heat and humidity, I seemed to sweat more than others, my hands shook constantly, I cried in public when trains were delayed, swore I heard announcements at the stations that no one else heard, sobbed into The Fiancé's chest about how long it could be before one of us eventually dies, and smacked a purple bouncy ball between my hands so I didn't hit inanimate objects. My support worker texted me about autism and Heat Intolerance and how you can feel like you're going...well, insane.
Someone relatively high up at work teases you when you ask for gloves to pick up any rubbish outside work and you go into overload and begin biting your hand in a toilet cubicle and covering your hands with alcohol rub. The ball bounces endlessly against the tiles and by 3pm you say, 'Fuck this. I'm taking an early finish tonight.'
Then you do come down with a cold and take your temperature every half hour, find your glands are swollen and that puffs from The Fiancé's asthma inhaler is the only thing that relieves the closed-throat feeling. I therefore believe that years have smoking have triggered COPD.
Or have been infected by hepatitis.
Then. The night of The White Walkers.
The temperatures in the UK have shot up this past week, turning thrown away meat wrapped in bags and placed in the bin into a breeding ground for maggots. Like droplets of pus, they fell from the bin and when I shone a light on the yard, there was what can I only be described as a carpet of them heading for the house.
I used all the salt in the house, slug pellets, boiled kettles and checked through out the night that they had not squidged under the door. I spent hours crawling around the house picking up what turned out to be white scraps of tissue or dried rice grains. By 1am, I seriously considered setting fire to the bin as the ultimate solution.
The next day, The Fiancé and I mixed bleach and water and sluiced the yard and then poured the solution into the bin and taped up the bin with duct tape. Hot fumes would choke the bastards, Google said.
Afterwards, we ate a breakfast of bacon butties in front of Ink Master and enjoyed that strangely relaxing post-genocide euphoria that is perhaps shared only by serial killers.
All was well. Except for the rat that we discovered last week with the fur eaten from its skull, we weren't too worried.
Today, heavy rains had turned the rat into a flattened white 2-D outline. I heard next door's kid scream about something and the mother shout, 'Don't go near it!' I hope she was shouting about wasps. When I checked our resident corpse, its tail had been raised and draped over a slab. Like something had grabbed it and then been interrupted...
I spent an inordinate amount of time by the back door, eavesdropping on their conversations and could only relax when I heard snippets that seemed to relate to booking a last minute holiday. Maybe they weren't about to bang on our door and blame us for rats and maggots? I emailed the council and begged them to remove the bin.
I put down rat bait outside, chugged more Valium and The Fiancé stroked my head and admitted that it had been a particularly bad week and maybe I needed to see my support worker.
I nodded, flicked my fingers and told him I had an appointment in a fortnight. He frowned and, rare for him, advised me to gauge how I felt tomorrow before going in.
Then he grinned and said, 'How about you write a story about those white walkers?'
I'm marrying this guy for so many kickass reasons.
