I think you have Asperger's.

My sons were aged one and three when I started to realize something wasn't normal with me.  I was angry and nauseous almost all the time.  I tried to convince the doctor I was pregnant again (even though I had a tubal ligation during the same surgery for which I gave birth to my younger son and that was not possible).  Many tests and appointments later I had the names and phone numbers for psychologists I was never going to call.  I was too proud to call and to proud too acknowledge how intensely the anger suddenly flashed across me whenever my kids touched me.   I thought it was likely postpartum depression and would eventually pass.  As time went on, it took me longer and longer to calm down after each time I felt angry.  It was not getting better.  I decided to make the call when I had to start locking myself in a room to prevent them from touching me.  I told him why I was calling and my story detailing everything I was trying to ignore, and he replied, "I think you have Asperger's syndrome". 
Knowing you have something does not instantly make your life better, but it helps.  Sometime after my older son began attending preschool.  I was lost yet again trying to navigate the social demands of school and the parents of the other children.  I knew I needed more than just the medicine the psychologist gave me, I needed help knowing what to say to these people.  Through local resources, I found ASPPIRE and began taking social coaching classes in 2009 (about two years after I learned about my diagnosis).  After having not one friend and living in the same city for ten years, I made friends.  I wasn't the awkward woman standing in the hallway waiting to pickup my son while avoiding eye contact with everyone and staring at the wall.  I was able to make friends both inside and outside of my son's school.   I even joined a few different organizations to keep me socially busy so that I could continue to grow and succeed.
When I look back over my life, I realize how miserable and alone I was for many, many years.  If I had never found ASPPIRE I would still be in that dark place, struggling against myself.  Struggling just to function.  ASPPIRE taught me what to say, how to say it, how to deal with the anxieties I was too proud to admit I had, and so much more.  I have grown so much through the program I want to help others do the same.

The Art of Avoiding People

I got off the bus and walked down the sidewalk to the blonde-colored brick building where I attended Junior High.  Within the doors was the cafeteria where the students waited for the first bell that allowed them to go into the halls and to their lockers.  The floors were white formica squares, I stared at them as I walked past the rows of pale colored rectangular tables to the end of the cafeteria where my friends sat at the first of two round tables right inside the other set of doors leading to the halls.  When I was within a few feet of the table everyone stood up almost simultaneously, swung their backpacks on their shoulders and walked away.  I quickly lifted my gaze from the floor and looked around the room to see the rest of the students were still in their own worlds at the long tables behind me.  I stood there several moments watching them, then sat down at the table alone. 

Hillary, the tall girl with red hair and freckles, had decided this new game would be very entertaining.  She arranged for everyone to ignore me, all day long.  Her influence spread to every facet of school, including classes.  It luckily didn’t last long, but I remember how it felt to be so utterly alone.  That was the first time I considered killing myself.  That’s what bullying does.

Bullying doesn’t just end in junior high.  It follows you, and so do those thoughts you had in that junior high lunchroom as you watched your friends walk away.  Everything that matters to you can just get up and walk away at any moment, and sometimes you just relive it. 

Fast forward 20 years.

I walked through the doorway into the reception hall, greeted by dark wooden paneled walls and lights emanating from the corner of the dance floor.  The wedding party table is on the dance floor along the back wall.  That’s where Dave, my husband, will be seated.  It was his sister's wedding.  Long white tables lined the rest of the room, surrounding the dance floor.  I glance to my right and I can see Dave’s mom is seated at the first table closest door, surrounded by her family.  Her back is to me.  Her back was to me after the wedding too.  I also see there are no seats left at this table. 

I have a date, my friend from high school, someone to sit with.  She was invited shortly after the lastest fight erupted between my mother-in-law and I which I assumed would blow over as it always does where she pretends it never happened (and pretends she never told me she never wanted to see me again).  My friend and I both know she was invited because I wouldn’t be welcome sitting with a majority of the family.  She was nice enough to come anyway, maybe because she felt protective of me, or sorry for me.  Nonetheless I did not have to not have to walk into the lion's den alone.  Her and I move further into the room and pick seats near some of my father-in-law’s family who is also not seated at the family table.  They left around 7 PM.  My friend and I were on our own, no one to talk to but each other.  I knew others but they pretended to not know me, backs turned.

I could tell my friend was uncomfortable.  I was uncomfortable.  The entire family table chattered amongst themselves and we just watched them from two tables away.  Every time I came near or even looked toward my mother-in-law, she turned her back to me.  We left the room and moved seats several times.  We left the wedding twice.  When my husband’s wedding party duties were over, we joined him outside and stayed there. 

My kids eventually danced themselves into a coma, so we left.  When we got to her house I hysterically cried for a while.  I’ve never been so publicly embarrassed. 

Since the wedding in August, I constantly worried about how holidays would go.  I’ve avoided almost everyone simply because I have so much anxiety about socializing I can’t handle doing anything.  I’ve missed important things.  I missed seeing people on Thanksgiving, we stayed home doing nothing.  When I think of holidays I become very anxious worrying if I will be continue to be shunned or wondering if I will say the wrong thing. 

I feel so anxious thinking about Christmas you would think the day was so close upon me it might be tomorrow.  I hate feeling this way.

More Than You Think You Are

    So I have worked for a nonprofit business who provides social coaching to adults on the autism spectrum and/or have cognitive impairments.  Basically anyone socially awkward, like I used to be and I still am sometimes.  I actually took the class for three semesters; I'm the success story they use. 
    I love it.  I feel respected and appreciated...two things I have never felt working anywhere.  I push myself very hard too....I conduct social outings and host a Friday night social hour for everyone in the program.  During the summer I bump the social nights up to twice a week with a bowling league.  I feel like I have a lot of friends and have an impact on others' lives.  But I also hate it.  It's an obligation where if I'm not feeling up to socializing, I still have to do it.  Kind of like being a parent and all the obligations that go with it-moms don't get sick days and neither do social mentors.  Luckily I've been able to work through my anxiety and have never felt like a failure after the outings.  I'm not infallible though, and sometimes it hurts to realize that.
    One of the days this past week when I picked my kids up from school, some other parents were at the playground.  I haven't always felt respected in parent circles...not only because I'm autistic and sometimes awkward, but also because I am overweight.  Walking up to a group of skinny parents, one of which is a public figure who sometimes talks about fitness and diet, made me very nervous.  I've been avoiding a lot of contact with this particular group because I tend to receive a lot of unwarranted advice about my weight.  It seems people collate obesity with lack of intelligence.  Luckily, the rehearsed quippy lines gained some laughs and the conversation didn't last long enough to touch on any uncomfortable subjects because they had to leave. 
   Yesterday I saw one set of parents from the playground group at a birthday party which ended up running over by about an hour.  I was really hoping to execute an in and out maneuver at pick up but ended up waiting outside the party with them and my other son.  The last thing I wanted was to socialize with anyone, I was sooo not mentally prepared for it.  The father was the fitness guru I had been intimidated about and the mother was very social and very popular with the other parents at school.  I had been building some repertoire with the mother over the past year, volunteering at the kids' school where she also had been working for the five years we've gone there.  She talked me into playing glow golf as we waited.  I hate golf but she was very persuasive and charismatic and of course Eli wanted to do it as well.  The first ten minutes were incredibly awkward but by the end things were going a lot more smoothly.  I was able to engage in a lot of reciprocal conversation and even felt like we could all be friends.  I was shocked when she told me she thought I was outgoing.  I couldn't even remember what we were talking about or how that came up or what happened after that.  This person who I had been admiring for five years and even modeling a bit when socializing thought I was outgoing. 
   Put yourself out there.  No matter how awkward you feel.  Ten  minutes of torture may yield you no more awkwardness.  You might realize people aren't noticing what you think is as obvious as words written on your forehead.  When you think people regard you as 'less than' you will be surprised to know they think exactly the opposite.  You are 'more than' you think you are.

What We Have Here is a Failure to Communicate

I had graduated high school the previous spring and began attending college courses at the neighboring community college after my morning shifts at Sears.  One of my first college courses was in psychology (the field I planned to pursue) and I was vain with the knowledge I received, and eager to repeat it at every opportunity.  My freshman psychology professor claimed to know a rational psychological explanation to homosexuality that I found fascinating and was eager to share.  I don’t recall the details now (I switched to the mathematics field in my sophomore year) but at the time I was able to repeat the theory verbatim to several lucky listeners.

Working at Sears in the way early hours of the day provided a lot of idle time away from management eyes and ears.  My coworkers would spend time in between tasks, sometimes for hours at a time, just standing around talking about whatever was on their minds. Sometimes I would attempt to join in the conversation to get out of working (especially when my boss could be roped into an inane hour-long conversation about nothing that had to do with work at all).  What I didn’t know is that when you’re 18, the only way you’re going to learn about subjects you should and subjects you should not talk about in the workplace is the wrong way.

Jennifer was good friends with Tonya, who was admittedly gay.  I happened upon a conversation between her (Jennifer) and another employee which was of a religious nature.  Her expressed views on homosexuality overtly conflicted with the friendship they appeared to have and I blurted out, ‘but you’re friends with Tonya, how can you say that?!’.  I should have walked away from that conversation instead of thinking it was necessary to prove to her that she was acting deceitful.  Luckily my superior intellect wouldn’t fail me as I would attempt to convince her she was wrong using my professor’s vast knowledge on homosexuality.

Suffice to say I landed myself in the store manager’s office.  I don’t think I made eye contact once with that man, or even spoke once without stuttering during that meeting, yet I was somehow able to keep my job.

That was probably my worst social experience in my entire life.  I ended up losing two friendships (Jennifer had told Tonya I thought she had a chemical imbalance which made her gay but conveniently left out that she thought she was going to hell for the same reason) and I felt utterly defeated.  It took me a long time and many, many communications courses to move on from that failure.  I was afraid to put myself out there and try to talk to anyone for any reason work-related or not.  Luckily I could absorb myself in my work (I worked alone 90% of the time) and avoid my coworkers. 

Rules of Engagement.

I generally don't bring things up for discussion unless I have ample time to preselect my words. Many people got a glimpse today of what I was like for so long....and they were pretty shocked. I really hope I didn't lose any friends.
I know when I'm acting too autistic based on their responses...and that's when I need to move my eye brows, inflect my voice, soften my stance and act as nuerotypical as possible. On top of all that, I need to think of what words sound less aggressive and what will get my point across most efficiently. No wonder why its so exhausting. This is why we need social coaching, so we don't mentally break down after each five minute conversation. I have a headache now :(.

The Art of Self Loathing

I had spent 14 hours in bed from the night before to the next day, that’s when I knew things were getting worse. I hastily dressed and left the house before any of those self-defeating thoughts returned from the vacation sleep had provided to their distracting residence in my thoughts.

I meandered around the zoo, blindly following my children and avoiding the obtrusive sunlight. It was a distraction but still I remained melancholy and disinterested. Usually the zoo is peaceful and empty at the times we choose to visit, but even the small crowds brought by the uncharacteristically balmy weather (for March in Michigan) made it seem overwhelming. Before leaving, we visited the playground outside the gates, where I sat on a bench and watched everyone else in progress of living their lives, all of which seemed loads better than mine from where I sat. The sadness abruptly returned and I became regretful and depressed.

Parents were laughing, taking pictures, and encouraging their children down the slides. Another was by the swings pushing their child, who was clearly having a tantrum, but they seemed to take no notice. I wanted to shout that I didn’t care how much more time his sister had on the swing and to get off if he couldn’t handle it. He was eight, probably autistic, but he wasn’t getting any sympathy from me. Instead I kept my mouth closed tight and tried not to stare too long in his direction, absorbing myself in the lives I was wishing I was living at the moment. I longed for things that were impossible based on the decisions I had made in the past.

My children are getting older and I am finding it difficult to connect with them more. I avoid playing with them, talking to them and touching them. When I think about these things, I feel incredibly inadequate. I retroactively review things in my mind that I should have done different. When my child looked miserable with illness why did I not sit by his side comforting him and stroke his hair as they do in the movies? Why don’t I kiss them goodnight or goodbye? It’s not always like this, I know. When I’m stuck with these feelings, that seems to be all I remember and I cannot shake myself from dwelling on these thoughts. I hope this passes quickly, it’s not like me to be so ungrateful and regretful.

Oh, Mother

My mother sat back in her recliner, red faced and sobbing. Her body leaned to the right as she rested her elbow on the arm of the chair, her hand firmly pressed against her temple and forehead, shielding her eyes as if she was trying to hide them or divulge a secret to an invisible confidant. Her other hand was at her hip, and her shoulder jerked toward her chin with each sob. I could tell that she was trying to fight the tears that were streaming down her face. But I couldn’t understand why. She won. She won and I lost. She looked pitiful and I hated her because she won.

I watched her cry, perplexed, as the side of my face throbbed from the slap she had dealt me. I was silenced with that winning blow, but yet she seemed to be the one suffering the most. What had I done this time? Does it matter? Does anyone deserve to be forced to play such games where no one ever really wins? What a cruel experiment this was to become.

Fast forward a few years, where my hatred has combined with years of loneliness on the playground and being thrown into my own personal hell, junior high. My mother couldn’t hit me anymore for insubordination, so I took advantage and tortured her for the next eight years. She cried a lot and I pretended not to care. She would try to talk to me but I wouldn’t even look at her. When she would ask me a question, I would reply with ‘What?’ as if I hadn’t heard her. Every time she asked a question. Every time she repeated that question. She would get angry and throw the feet up on the recliner, tucking her arms into the sides of the chair beside her body while staring at the TV with malice. I could tell she wanted to strike, but she didn’t dare because at eleven years old I was five foot four inches and almost as tall as she.

When I was fifteen I had a job and soon after a car. When I turned sixteen I got a better job and when I was seventeen a better car. I had money and did whatever I wanted, and what I wanted was to avoid home as much as possible. Sometimes I would stay out until two in the morning, even though I had school the next day. When I was nineteen and in college I would go out until two, drink, drive home, and get up for work at five. I was making bad decisions and because of the distance I put between my mother and myself, no one ever told me.

When I was 23 I had my first child and I needed my mother more than ever. Still unable to forgive her, I began mending that relationship. When I was 26 I had my second child, I needed her less but wanted her more. I eventually learned how to forgive her, and that is the greatest gift I have ever received. To let go of all that hatred and have that weight lifted off my shoulders, thank you, God.