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.

Distraction Overload

I discovered I wasn’t the person I wanted to be about a year after I had my second child. As I sat distracted at the computer in the kitchen; a small, tentative hand had rested itself on my right forearm causing anger as fast as electricity to turn my vision red. I stared at the hand for a few seconds, in blind hatred, my eyes burning with an incredulous expression on my face at the audacity of the interruption.

The hand was attached to this creature that had unfamiliar blue eyes and smooth pink lips. Those lips were making noise…it needed to stop. I snatched my arm away and it fell to the ground, making more noise, louder noise. I shouted back more loudly but that only added to the chaos…which continued to build until I snapped and left the room to lock myself in a different one. At the door, my son knocked and screamed for me to come out. By the time I did come out he was hysterical in the need of reassurance that I still loved him. With my child sobbing in my arms, his face red and cheeks wet with tears, I turned my anger inward on myself. I hated myself. Feeling desperate and inadequate I entered the depression stage of that vicious cycle of anger.

Anger was my constant companion until that major turning point in my life where I was diagnosed and treated for autism as a result of this event. Anger had took the place of most emotions and earned me the labels of defensive, difficult, and empathetic. It effectively hid my autism from the world and hid it well. So well, in fact, it took 27 years to boil to the surface and hit its’ ultimate breaking point.

It wasn’t immediate, as change often is a lengthy process. The culmination of treatment and intense self-examination left me a shell. All the things that anger left in its shadow I now had to learn to handle. Confusion abounded. Simply because I cannot express those thoughts or thought processes leading to my people misinterpret my confusion and awkwardness for simple-mindedness. If you don’t know how my mind works what makes you think I understand yours any better so that I can explain it to you how you would understand?

Static

The morning sun would shine through the dirty windows at odd angles, because the kitchen faced the west and there were only a few ways the light filtered in indirectly. Through the utility room, you could see every fleck of dust as the sun poured in through the dreary and ancient once black and white checked curtains, spilling onto the dirty concrete floor. Through the entry that connected the kitchen and utility room, some of the sunshine creeped into the kitchen. The south facing window also brought the morning light that would bend around the garage that was attached to the house, from the sun peering above the trees in the woods behind the house. Father had already left for work and mother would begin the days’ chores and dinner planning after her morning coffee (black with numerous spoonfuls of sugar) and cigarette, which she took sitting at the kitchen table. My older brother and sister (by 12 and 13 years each, respectively) had also left for school, leaving just my mother and I. Gazing across the table out the aforementioned south facing window, she brooded holding her cigarette in the air with her other arm across her stomach, in a sort of slouch.

On days that required her to make dough, she would make extra to form me a tart using grape jelly as filling and would crease it closed into a half moon shape. I would watch through the steamy oven window as it baked, giving off the scent of promise. The pastry would come out of the oven warm and flakey and the jelly was always too hot on my tongue but I ate it anyway.

During the time it took me to process all of the sensory input as an autistic three-year old child, I could have been living. I could have been loving, appreciating, laughing, and doing. But I stared uncomprehendingly at everything I saw, memorizing it for me to remember like a movie 30 years later. I could have been making connections and learning how to trust others instead of pushing them away or seeing them as static and unnecessary (unless I wanted something, then they were tools). If I had been paying attention to things other than the tart baking in the oven, maybe I would be closer to my mom. Our conversations could consist of more than the current: ‘is dad there? When will he be home?’ Why didn’t she try to get my attention and spend that time with me? Was I ignoring eye contact so much that in my memory I only see glimpses of her amidst a plethora of scenery? I was only three, and even then I thought I knew everything just as a rebellious teenager would vehemently claim, I knew nothing. Nothing that mattered. I acted impulsively, irrationally, and I considered myself equal to the adults with which I exclusively interacted.

The Girl I should have been

Zoe is the girl I would have been if I hadn't hardened myself with defense mechanisms. She doesn’t hide. She sings loudly at church, she smiles and laughs louder than anyone else, and cries when she is sad. She has a strong family and the support she needs, which I did not have while growing up. Believe me, when I tell you it was hell. I learned all too quickly how cruel the world can be, so I shut it out. Left unmonitored, recess time becomes an opportunity to attack the kids with disabilities without consequences. Physically, emotionally, and verbally we are attacked. Eventually they didn’t have to attack me, the damage continued self-inflicted as I entered Junior High. The only time I got respite was when someone more disabled than I was there to receive the blows, which occurred for the first time in the sixth grade when all the area grade schools merged offering a higher selection of punching bags.

Even though entering Junior High was the worst kind of hell you could imagine, I found some relief from the boys who picked on me (although the girls upped the ante exponentially). In the sixth or seventh grade, I don’t remember which; I had an architecture class with Jason Nalazek and Denton Tackman. Jason was the angry, awkward and unpopular kid and Denton was the scrawny bully. Denton had something to prove and had been my nemesis since Kindergarten where he constantly called me ‘fatso’. The first time the teacher left the room I saw the twinkle in Denton’s eye as he looked at this gigantic cardboard pencil sitting atop some mailboxes on the left side of the room. I sat on the right, discreetly watching him, thankfully assigned a seat far away from Denton. Jason was not so fortunate and sat in the same row in the leftmost aisle a couple of desks behind Denton. Denton darted from his desk, grabbed the gigantic cardboard pencil, and swung it like a bat into Jason’s head. The thud was deafening. Denton simply threw the pencil back atop the mailboxes and slid back into his seat, while Jason sat in silence with his face turning the darkest shade of red. Thus began Denton’s new bullying interest and my sweet relief. Occasionally he would revert to some of that behavior and would jeer me in the gym where I played basketball after during lunch (avoiding the other kids and any social time I was forced to endure in the cafeteria). But I ended up being one of the tallest girls in our grade and he never seemed to grow at all and was quite easily placed in a headlock.

Eventually I couldn’t play in the gym anymore as the boys began to notice my body changing and weren’t afraid to say anything about it. Then I was thrown back into the wolves in the cafeteria where most of the girls sat in the round tables according to their social standing. I sat in the round table nearest the doors (offering the quickest escape when the bell rang) that soon would become my social circle for the rest of my school years, with those rejected from the other tables.