Hello my name is Aileen and I have Autism

It's true, I was poor growing up. It's true, if I had access to insurance of any kind I probably would have been diagnosed a lot sooner. Do I regret not being diagnosed? Sometimes. Am I angry about it? Not anymore. I think that's part of the denial phase of diagnosis. Sometimes I blame the lack of diagnosis for all the mistakes I've made and the people I've hurt, but mostly for pushing God away. I realize it would be selfish of me not to forgive myself when God easily forgives me and that makes things so much easier on me. I don't think He wants me to dwell on the negative, but look at the positive and make my lemonade.

There You Are

My father was 41 when I was born, exactly. He was older than most of the dads of the neighbor kids and the kids at school; I always attributed that to why we got along so well. Growing up, my father did construction work therefore I did not see him a lot in the warmer summer months when the work was abundant. I would monopolize his time on the rare occasions he was not working, running errands with him and just simply following him around like a puppy most days. I’m sure if he let me I would have went to work with him as well. He didn’t mind my constant presence. When I would hop in the truck beside him, I could see him smile off to the side, looking out the windshield of the rusty old ford as he waited for me to buckle. He never really looked directly at me even when talking (which was rare because he was a quiet man), and I enjoyed that. Eye contact is so intrusive. We would run his errands in perpetual silence, in our own worlds. Sometimes he would strain to make some inane conversation, but the little he did say to me I appreciated and gratefully reciprocated. How few words we would use to make a conversation was astounding. I knew how hard it was for him to communicate, because I knew how hard it was for me. Rainy days when there was no inside work for him were my favorite days. Sometimes he would be home on sunny days as well. I still did not have friends and I didn’t need them if I had him because it was far more fun to follow him than to follow the neighbor kids or my older sister (who was hardly around and almost always irritable). On the weekends, probably every other weekend or every third weekend when the grass was grown far too high to easily mow, he would get out in the hot son in his white hanes undershirt, jean shorts and his big straw hat that had a green sunvisor panel embedded in the front. He would also wear his gigantic sunglasses that fit over his normal glasses. He looked rather stupid. I followed him as he mowed too. I liked the deafening sound of the motor. I liked the routine in making a square as you mowed to the center. I would get rather annoyed when he would back up a few steps to bend the grass the other way (I did say it was way too long) and recut it. He would almost always step on my feet because I was moving behind him as if propelled by some unseen force.

On Sundays, rain or shine, summer or winter, we went to church. I really didn’t care what was going on there, I simply followed my father. My mother always stayed home and watched church on TV. She was perpetually sick and was content to stay home just the same as on the weekdays. I loved the routine, we would go to church, sometimes get donuts and always buy a Sunday paper from Dunkin Donuts, and then go home. I would go with my father to church every Sunday until the Sunday I heard the priest chastise alternative sexualities. I immediately quitted the Catholic church and never went back. I had never heard such hatred toward a group like that and I didn’t feel church was the appropriate place for hatred to breed or manifest. I didn’t care what anyone’s views were on the subject really and I attributed the same intolerance I witnessed there to every religion and eventually most everyone. So I pushed God away. This was not the God that I had learned to know and love. These organized religions are full of hate, and I felt they were listening to the wrong God. I needed to develop my own belief system instead of blindly following. Thus began my journey to class rebel Garber High school, class of 1998.

It took me a long time to find irrefutable evidence that I could not ignore or question. Even when I had my first son, this was the undeniable proof I needed but I was still too stubborn to listen. My second son felt different to me because this time I was married and having children was expected and encouraged. I was blending into society. Now I am 29 and realizing how much I have missed. How much love is there for me and how many things I can learn to let go of with His strength. You don’t want to accept my facebook friend request? That’s fine. I have other friends and I have Jesus. As my son says, Jesus is my best friend. My son, my six-year old son, taught me who Jesus is and taught me His love. All these years I was not listening, but I could hear. All these years I was not watching, but I could see. I just ignored it all.

Article

Well, it's out. You can read portions of it here. I can't believe it's on the front page.

Pop Can Nazi

My friends all think this is hilarious

Yesterday I went to return bottles that had been storing up in my trunk at the local grocery store. When I walked to the backroom where the bottle return machines are, I see a woman with a trash can in a cart blocking the machines because she decided she needs to use 3 out of 4 of them. I glare at her for at least 10 minutes and people are lining up behind me. She just keeps going about her business. I notice she had not been using the glass machine as much as the others, and I walk up to it print her coupon out for her and tell her I'm using it. I only had 5 bottles, she can deal with it. She cuts in front of me, declares she is not done and starts to use the glass machine. I tell her that it is rude to use all the machines and I'm pretty sure this is the point where she starts swearing at me so I get back in line and glare at the wall. I can still see peripherally she keeps looking back at me and I'm not sure if it's to provoke me but I just continue to glare at the wall because I had not wanted to rip someone's head off so badly before and I thought I just might do it. I knew any type of further acknowledgement was a bad idea because the anger and the words tip of my tongue were of the most offensive kind.

Throwing Rocks.

I tried very hard to be friends with the kids in my neighborhood, four of which were my cousins, and four or so others living within a hundred yards as well. I really only followed them around (mostly the girls), observing, mimicking, assimilating, trying to learn to be like them so that I could not only be their friends but to make friends at school as well. They weren't necessarily popular but as far as neighborhood cliques go, I very much found the breaks from solitude appealing and somewhat more comforting than those at school considering that half of the playmates were family. Family is an entirely different entity than the classmates who were unpredictable and mean. Not to say I wouldn't prefer the solitude, but there are only so many things you can do outside, by yourself, even with an unlimited imagination. My mother had always "encouraged" me to go outside. I think because I was pretty much an only child (my brother and sister are 13 years my elder) my constant pestering for her to be my playmate (adults were far more appealing than children to me) had something to do with this encouragement. Especially when the "soaps" were on I spent a lot of time outside.

So, I would go find my cousins, and follow them and the neighbors around to see what they were doing when I would grow bored of my alone play. Most of the time I was ignored, threatened and even attacked before I realized that these kids were not my friends and never would be. I had my bike tire slashed, kids would shoot beebees at my house, eventually I got the picture. The last time I recall playing with them was when the message was as clear as rocks flying at my face, I ran from their yard with blood and tears streaming down.

Rocks are now words. I don't see them coming, I don't comprehend what they are supposed to mean but they hit me none the less.

I am a slave to the autism. I feel on the outside of it all pretty much all the time. All kinds of jokes I don't get, things that most can read between the lines just slip through the cracks for me. I'm so sick of not having a clue what is going on around me or what is expected of me thanks to this. The thing that is the hardest is that I have no control over it and no way I can see of preventing it.

Sadness and Panic

Time just slips away so quickly. I constantly find myself brooding on whether or not I’m paying enough attention, giving enough hugs, or doing enough of what they wish me to do. What pains me so is when I hear my words reverberated back to me as I did just yesterday. “I don’t want to be touched right now,” Ian says. I say that. I try to be open and honest and tell my kids what autism is and what it means to me, but having it thrown back in my face like that-it’s an entirely different kind of pain. Now I feel inadequate and low. I can’t possibly ever do enough or be enough with this hanging like a raincloud over my head following me everywhere I go. Countless times Ian asks to see his friends, go somewhere, do something, and I just can’t. I know I have created this aversion in myself in response to my social shortcomings but I know how I am and I know how people see me by how they treat me. It’s torturous. I don’t fancy myself a hermit but I do avoid a lot of places where there is a lot of people, or noise, or sun. I don’t need to exacerbate my inability to function by adding more sensory issues. I just wish this was easier for me.

Insomnia

There are nights when I don't sleep very much and others where I make up for it. I can't pinpoint a pattern but I know I feel better when I add that pressure with a weighted blanket.