Only in Dreams..

Spandau Ballet are performing in my living room, but the concert is cut short when Tony Hadley suddenly flounces off in the middle of Only When You Leave. (Apt, no?) The Kemps are shaking their heads in disbelief and the audience are on the verge of turning hostile when in strolls Nick Rhodes from Duran Duran..

Nick takes Tony’s place as lead singer, which is Strange Behaviour (see what I did there?) because his place has always been behind his impressive organ keyboard. Whatever. I’m up for it because Nick is my life-long crush – a man whose wheelie bins I would lovingly trawl for traces of his DNA. (not really, M’Lud.)

So, what’s a stalker girl to do? I have to make my existence known to Nick or I might as well DIE!

Gets weird (er)

I find myself on an old-style double-decker bus trying to out-run a typhoon. (Typhoons in Manchester?) It’s during the confusion that I corner Nicholas and confess my love for him – especially during the years 1980-1987..

At this moment he pulls me towards him and kisses me!!

I don’t want this moment to end. Ever!

No doubt I was attempting to snog my pillow thinking it was Nick’s gorgeous face, but this was one dream that I did NOT want to wake up from – typhoon or no typhoon!

When it comes to dreams, most of mine are weird and not in a pleasant way, but then I’ve always been a bit prone to weird dreams..

I dream a lot, which is interesting as studies have shown that a lot of autistic people have poor dream recall. Other studies, however, have shown that people with Aspergers dream vividly and recall their dreams very well.

I’ve had anxiety problems all my life and severe sleep issues for the last seven years so I wonder if anxiety plays a part? Or the menopause? If I remember rightly.. my dreams always turned a bit funky when I was on my period – aka – minus the calming influence of oestrogen.

I would imagine that many autists have anxiety, so high levels of stress hormones in the body at night will no doubt affect the quality of sleep and influence dreams. I also know that If I have a nightmare in the early hours, I will have subsequent nightmares because the stress hormones have flooded my body – therefore there is zero chance of me achieving dreamless sleep.

I’ve also had premonition and visitation dreams.

No, I’m not a nutter. Well, maybe just a little nutterish?

See, there is a marked difference between your ‘bog standard’ dream and a visitation one because normal dreams are fragmented and make no sense – especially if you’ve been at the cheese. For instance, you might dream about your house, but the kitchen is a swimming pool and your back garden is a supermarket and a grizzly bear is chasing you with a wonky trolley that transforms into a sports car. How many grizzly bears have you EVER seen driving a car? These kinds of dreams are your brain trying to make sense out of the information it’s taken in during the day – often without you realising it. Visitation dreams, on the other hand, are rational except the people in it (aside yourself) are often dead. Or about to be, as many people dream of loved ones at the same time that they die. They often appear younger and/or in ‘good health’. You wake from such a dream convinced that you’ve experienced something far too real to be a dream. What’s more, you never forget it.

There are theories about visitation dreams, but I won’t bother with the ‘psychotic episodes’ one that pseudosceptics insist on peddling because the thought of an afterlife gives em the willies!

One theory is that it’s to do with the grieving process and that may well be true, except that many of these dreams foretell the future. In one of mine, I saw my dad sitting in the same crematorium where his funeral service had been held, with his arm protectively around his brother. I distinctly heard Dad tell my uncle that he would “take care of him”. The dream felt very real. I didn’t understand it at the time, but it made sense a few weeks later when we got the news that my uncle had died – just six weeks after my dad’s death!

I remember that dream very clearly – as is the case with visitation dreams.

Case in point: My Nick Rhodes dream has been sitting in my drafts folder for months. I’d written the details down within half an hour of waking up because I knew I’d forget them otherwise. As a rule, I don’t make a habit of writing about my dreams, but this one was about Nick Rhodes – the love of my teenage life. The man I used to daydream about pulling up at the school gates in a big limo and carrying me out of double-maths like Richard Gere in Officer and a Gentleman. The fact that I was a zit-ridden fourteen year old didn’t come into it, but let’s not get bogged down with the legal implications as it was only ever going to be a one-sided relationship between Nick and my adolescent mind, y’know?

The point is that this dream was special and a most welcome change from my usual Tarantino-esque offerings from my insane brain.

I had completely forgotten about the dream until I came across it one morning while I was looking through my unpublished posts. I read through it and honestly don’t recall any of it. I just know that it must have happened for me to write about it. In contrast, I remember visitation dreams in vivid detail, even though they happened years ago. I’m ruling out wishful thinking because if that was the case, surely I would remember every detail of my Nick Rhodes dream – especially the kiss part? Alas, I don’t remember it at all. 😦

Do you remember your dreams? Or do you wake up blissfully unaware of where your sub-conscious mind has been?

“I think we dream so we don’t have to be apart for so long. If we’re in each other’s dreams, we can be together all the time.” ― A.A. Milne ~ Winnie The Poo

 

 

 

 

Coping Strategies: What Can Help You Not To Mask?#TakeTheMaskOff

This week – how to be mask-less (ish) and survive with marbles intacto.

Firstly, no more f**ks shall be given.

By ‘f**ks’ I mean Not giving a f**k is living whilst BEING YOURSELF.

It’s time to be selfish and I know that for most of us autistics it’s a BIG ask because we’re so used to worrying about not upsetting those around us, right?

We’ve suppressed who we are, just so other people don’t feel uncomfortable around us?

Well, as my dear old mum used to say (frequently)

Sod THAT for a game of soldiers!

Or was it conkers?

Anyway, it’s time to take back what’s ours – which is our rightful place on this planet!

We need to be us.

Not a version of us.

Or someone we quite like off the telly.

Us.

And if people start giving us a hard time for being our glorious selves – we can walk away. We can also flick them the V’s, but why waste the energy? Haven’t we wasted enough precious time and energy on those toxic tw@ts?

Self Care

Self-care is essential for autists. You’ve got to know when to put yourself into recovery mode and not to try and override your brain when it’s telling you it’s about to malfunction!

If you are the overly sensitive kind of autist, you’ll need to steer clear of bad news or toxic people. It (and they) will have a detrimental effect on your mental health.

It’s also important to be mindful of how much time you spend on electronic gadgets and social media. The autistic brain often struggles to cope with copious amounts of information in one hit. This is why we get headaches and anxiety. Set yourself time limits and stick to them and don’t take your electronics to bed with you!

Electronics = Stimulating= Insomnia= Godzilla

To Socialise or Not to Socialise?

This is very much down to the individual. Some autists love to socialise. Others, like me, don’t. But sometimes socialising is necessary because people get married and die and stuff.

So what to do?

I have devised a plan.

Firstly, it’s OK to decline invitations. That event will go ahead without you and nobody will really give a toss whether you’re there or not once they’ve necked a few ciders!

Secondly, reserve the right to cancel at the last moment. Tell your host in advance that you may have to cancel. It’s up to you whether or not you disclose the reason why, but I am always honest about my anxiety and fibromyalgia.

With a bit of luck, this will put them off ever asking me again! Muhaha

Thirdly, don’t feel obliged to make small talk with people. Do what makes you comfortable and if that’s sitting in the corner with a massive slice of Victoria sponge and a pint of gin – sobeit.

Fourthly, you have the right to throat punch anybody who tries to drag you onto the dance floor to do the ‘macarena’ or any other dance that involves synchronisation on a mass scale. The reason is that autistic people are generally uncoordinated, innit. Then again, one can flourish the no f**ks given card and unleash your magnificent stimmy-moves along to Dancing Queen.

Dance or punch. The choice is yours.

Finally, leave when you need to leave – even if it’s after ten seconds.

When it comes to employment, you don’t have to go to works ‘dos’. It’s NOT compulsory. People invariably get drunk, make prats of themselves and spend the next six months avoiding every work colleague they propositioned whilst under the influence of thirty-six Pernod’s!

If the words ‘work’s do’ make you feel so anxious that you do a bit of sick in your throat, it’s probably best that you stay at home and watch Casualty in your Pokemon onesie instead!

Remind yourself that this is your world too. It might not feel like it, but it is. And we only get one shot at life (shameless cliche) so why waste time wearing masks that will only suffocate us in the end?

For what it’s worth, I do believe that masking has it’s place, but only as an occasional ‘aid’ that benefits the individual. Like everything else – when something is used to excess, all benefits are lost. In the case of masking – people develop mental illnesses because of the effort it takes to be someone else and subsequently the loss of their own identity.

All I ask is that people understand the consequences of long-term masking.

We need to understand our limits and for those rare occasions when we have to push ourselves into uncomfortable territory (such as weddings or funerals) we MUST practice self-care – before, during and after the event. The exception to this is our own funeral because if there is ever a time when no f**ks are given – it’s when it’s us who’s lying in the coffin. You get me?

Being yourself is hard after a life of masking. I know. But we were never meant to be ‘one of the herd’. (another shameless cliche)

In trying to be the same as everyone else we just end up standing out even more, but not necessarily in the way we’d want to.

Who do ewe think ewe are? (sorry)

I recently drove through Dartmoor where there were wild horses grazing among thousands of sheep. It was a breathtakingly beautiful place. It’s also a bit arse-clench-y when sheep wander in front of the car like they are some kind of death wish. Point is, the sheep vastly outnumber the horses, but they co-exist with them. The horses are not trying to be like the sheep. The horses are comfortable being horses and the sheep accept them and get on with the important task of grazing or having a poo.

That’s the kind world I’d like to live in.

Not the grazing and pooing bit. Obvs.

Then again..

I mean all autistic people living as autistic people.

Will that happen in my time? Probably not, but I really hope it will happen in my son’s lifetime.

The only way that can possibly happen is to #TakeTheMaskOff.

 

 

 

 

Diagnosis/Self Awareness – How Does That Affect Masking?#TakeTheMaskOff

 

Until the age of five, I didn’t mask. There was no need to. I was free to exist in my little world without fear of ridicule. I was happy with who I was. Then one day my mother took me to a strange place. This place was loud and scary and had lots of other children in it. It was a sensory nightmare.

My mother stayed with me for a while, then she got up to leave. I remember trying to leave with her, but she told me that I had to stay there. So I did what many children do on their first day of school – I cried.

The teacher sat me on her knee, but it didn’t comfort me because I didn’t like the closeness of her. She was a stranger invading my personal space, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t do anything to change the situation. A bell rang (loudly) and we were told to go outside where it was hot and the noise was deafening. It hurt my ears. I mean really. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, so I just stood in the middle of the playground trying (and failing) to process the sensory stimulus that was threatening to overwhelm me.

That was the first time I remember experiencing loss of control.

At that moment, a girl walked up to me. I thought she was going to talk to me. Maybe offer me some friendliness? But she didn’t say a word. Instead, she looked at me as if I was something particularly nasty. Like shit? Then she pinched me hard on the arm.

Whatever I was expecting it wasn’t that.

To the onlooker, it must have looked like I didn’t react at all, but inside of me all hell was breaking loose.

I stared at my shoes while my brain went into overdrive.

I remember wanting to run off home to be with the family who loved me unconditionally and the invisible friends who understood me.

I also remember that nobody came to help me.

Nobody.

How could nobody have seen this?

And why had my mother left me in this horrible place?

At the end of that first day of school, I went to collect my coat, but there was something else on my peg – a mask. I placed it over my face and I wasn’t me anymore.

I wore it for the next forty-one years.

In my forties I became ill. The mask had been slowly suffocating me and now I was struggling to breathe – to live.

During this time I saw a doctor who saw beyond my anxiety. He sent me to see a psychiatrist who sent me for an autism assessment.

Nine months later, I was formally diagnosed as autistic.

First there was relief. Then came the grief – not for being autistic, but for all the time I’d lost trying to be something I’m not and can never be. I grieved for the fearful child that I’d been, the troubled teenager I became and the adult who masked so much that she lost her own identity!

In the beginning, masking is helpful because it provides a way to fit in with everybody else, but over time the mask gets heavier because you lose energy and strength. The mask starts to suffocate you. But you’ve worn it for so long you don’t know how to take it off. Then, life has a way of forcing change upon you and it often comes in the form of mental illness.

Mental illness shrinks you. Literally, in my case. My clothes became loose. My skin lost it’s elasticity. My mask came loose. In the end, it came away with no effort at all, but it was because I was ill. I thought I would feel vulnerable without it, but mental illness takes you to the darkest place you could imagine. A place you NEVER want to be again. I would rather take on the world in it’s full judgemental glory than go back there!

I masked because the world didn’t want the real me and I needed to try and be like everyone else to survive. Being me wasn’t an option – certainly not when I was school in the 70s and early 80’s. It also meant that I flew under the autism radar.

Masking delays diagnosis. Boys are diagnosed a lot earlier because they are generally crap at masking. The example I can give is of my son and myself. My son doesn’t mask and he was diagnosed at 4 years old. I have masked for the majority of my life and I was diagnosed at 46 years old.

Since my breakdown and subsequent diagnosis, I no longer care what people think of me. I get to be me, now.

Epilogue

I walk out into the middle of the infant school playground towards the smaller version of me.

She looks lost, awkward and out-of-place.

She’s hurting, but nobody knows it.

I gently take her hand and whisper, ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got you now’.

We walk past the girl who is responsible for the bright red mark on my younger self’s arm.

We could use the law of retaliation and give the little bitch an eye for an eye, but this is about healing, not revenge.

So we place the girl’s image into an imaginary balloon and let it float up into the sky.

Then we walk off into the cloakroom where a solitary coat is hanging on its peg.

I remove the coat and replace it with a well-worn mask.

We don’t need it anymore.

We’re free.

We Are Not All ‘A Bit Autistic’

‘We’re all a bit autistic.’

I’ve heard this a few times. That, or ‘We’re all on the spectrum somewhere’. Whether or not it’s intended to make autistic people feel better (or less different) what it actually does is trivialize the problems that we face on a daily basis.

Autism isn’t a life choice.

When I talk about my difficulties, some people say, ‘Well, everyone’s like that sometimes’ – I have to stifle the urge to punch them in the crotch. (I’m not pervy – I’m just really small)

Key word: ‘sometimes’ – meaning occasionally, not ALL of the time.

People can’t be ‘a little bit autistic’. You’re either autistic, or you ain’t. Simples.

‘Well, we’re all different aren’t we?’

Yes, we are all different, but being different doesn’t make you autistic.

So let’s bust this myth by simplifying into a single sentence.

Autism, is a neurological difference.

And repeat it.

Autism, is a neurological difference.

Once more?

Autism, is a neurological difference.

Unfortunately, there are those who reduce autistic people’s struggles to things that can be overcome or, better still, cured. Some people claim that there is a cure for autism, like the parents of autistic children who genuinely believe that pumping bleach into their child’s bottom will ‘rid them of their autism’. These insane idiots call it ‘a cure’. I call it abuse.

This is the mentality we have to deal with.

People misunderstand. They are dismissive. Or they are abusive. They try to compare their occasional ‘off days’ to the struggles which affect autistic people every second of every day.

Day after day.

Week after week.

Month after month.

Year after year.

Decade after decade.

Until they die.

If everybody were a ‘bit autistic’, the world would be autism friendly 24/7, not just for an hour once a month in participating venues.

If everybody were a ‘bit autistic’, the word ‘autistic’ wouldn’t be used as a insult.

For Example: “Beach boys songs are all just autistic screeching” (Twitter)

Wouldn’t It Be Nice if people didn’t use the term ‘autistic’ as an insult?

See what I did there?

Alas , the author of the tweet doesn’t know that The Beach Boys are one of the most critically acclaimed, successsful and influential bands OF ALL TIME. Obviously, the tw@tspanner wouldn’t know harmonising if it bit him/her on the arse! God Only Knows what kind of crap they listen to. You get me?

Here’s another one..

Jenna Jameson“Meanwhile his legion of autistic, screeching followers make the most disgusting, sexist, hateful attacks on me because I happen to do porn in the past. #Hypocrites (Twitter)

A Tweeter replied: “Autism is not an appropriate word to use as an insult. Please reconsider.”

Jameson relied: “I said autistic screeching, stop looking for a reason to be offended”

Jameson picked him up on a technicality, but she’s missing the point, no? Obviously, she didn’t get the memo that it’s OFFENSIVE!

When it comes to ‘screeching’ – neurotypical girls win hands down.

Case in point: Three teenage girls at a well known fast-food restaurant (one milkshake between them)

One was pacifying herself with a massive candy dummy.

One appeared to be auditioning for BGT.

The other was downing the milkshake while the other two were distracted.

Then, in walks ‘Kenzie’ and they unanimously start screeching like bats.

Kenz? He didn’t know they were alive. He paid for his burger, fries and Coke and fucked off out again leaving the three girls finger-drawing ‘I heart you’ into the misted up window.

The point is..

Search Results

No results for ‘neurotypical girls screeching’.

See?

If everybody was a ‘bit autistic’, the abusive ‘autistic screeching’ meme wouldn’t be ‘a thing’.

Or this..

“A woman who has Asperger’s syndrome was “forcibly removed” from a screening of her favourite film by cinema security staff for “laughing too much”.

If everybody was a ‘little autistic’ would the audience member have reported her?

Would the security guards have thrown her out like a piece of rubbish?

Would other people have acted like total tw@ts?

She said that she frantically tried to explain that she was autistic but a member of the audience shouted “you’re retarded”, while another told her to “shut up b****”.(The Evening Standard)

FYI, If these things were said after she announced she was autistic – technically it’s a hate incident.

In comparison, those girls in the well known fast-food restaurant were being disruptive. They were playing music on their phones and it was louder than the music coming out the restaurant speakers, but nobody complained. Nobody got them thrown out.

When it comes to everybody being ‘a little autistic, one of the best analogies I’ve seen came from Facebook saying that it’s like pregnancy. Most people (including men) will know what back ache or throwing up feels like. Do we hear people saying, ‘We’re all a little bit pregnant?’ No, we don’t because it’s a RIDICULOUS thing to say!

If you’re a woman, you might understand the resentment one feels when husbands/partners attempt to compare something trivial (like a stubbed toe) with the pain of childbirth? You want to bludgeon them to death, right? Well, it’s like that. You hear someone say ‘We’re all a bit autistic’ and you start looking around for things to hit them with. Am I wrong?

Maybe when people say they’re a ‘little autistic’ it’s because they like the idea of the ‘quirks’ bit? That’s fine, but I’m guessing they wouldn’t want to be bullied for it? Or experience the mental illness that comes with trying to survive in a confusing world? Or the rejections in the workplace? Or the chronic conditions? Or the hostility from the general public? And I’m guessing they wouldn’t want to be wiped off the face off the planet for being a minority group, eh, Jenny McCarthy?

If you don’t know what I’m on about, Google the semi-plastic gobshite’s #endautismnow campaign.

When a person says ‘We’re all a little autistic’ they are either trying to show solidarity or trivialising a someone’s struggles – either way, it’s not appropriate or helpful.

To put yourself in my size 4s you have to have known fear, pain, humiliation and a disconnection from those around you. You need to have worn a ‘mask’ to the point that you no longer know who you are. You will have had two separate eating disorders and numerous episodes of anxiety and clinical depression until you completely and utterly lose your shit in your mid-forties. At the same time, you need to have succumbed to a physical illness that limits your already limited life and will do for the rest of your days. From that moment on you have to try to exist in this confusing world in an even more fragile and vulnerable state than you were when you were heaved out of your mother’s fanjo!

Not all autistic people have this kind of back-story, but most do, especially those who were diagnosed late in life. And let’s not forget those troubled souls who are no longer around to tell their story because their lives were ended at their own hands or by those whose duty it was to care for them.

The problems are not with being autistic per se – it’s more to do with how the world preceives us and it’s about trying to survive in a world that isn’t autism-friendly – such as being called a retard when you’re enjoying yourself at the cinema.

While I appreciate that everybody goes through difficult times (and people become ill) it’s not comparable to living life with a brain that processes everything differently. How can it be? Autistic people are born at a disadvantage to most other people, simply because of the way their brain is wired.

If you can’t identify with autistic people’s life experiences, don’t try and claim our identity and, please, don’t belittle the effort it takes for us to exist by saying: ‘We’re all a bit autistic’.

Remember, autism, is a neurological difference.

Stand beside us.

Stand up for us.

That’s how you can support us.

#TakeOffTheMask: How Does Masking Affect Mental Health?

According to the Australian Actors’ Wellbeing Study taken in 2015, performers are twice as likely than the general public to experience depression. Many report performance anxiety and high levels of stress due to work-related pressures.

What’s this got to do with masking?

Autistic people who mask are performers.

We play a role so that society will accept us and we can fit in.

The actor: Will I be convincing as Othello?

The autist: Will I convince people I’m the same as they are?

Either way, it’s a performance.

The problem with performing is that we’re not being ourselves. Whether it’s strutting about on stage playing Hamlet or standing on the school yard with the other parents – performing takes a great deal of mental effort.

Tonight Matthew, I’m going to be…

Some of us mask so much that we lose ourselves. The boundaries between what’s real and what isn’t become blurred. Then one day we look at ourselves in the mirror and are shocked to find that we no longer recognise what’s being reflected back at us. The person that we used to know is buried under the mound of characters that we’ve created over our lifetime.

When I mask, I rely on what I’ve learned.

I have to recall lines or appropriate responses.

I have to judge when to speak and when to stay silent and for how long.

I have to remind myself to look at the person from time to time.

I have to try to work out facial expressions, which is hard when you’re crap at non-verbal communication.

I have prompt myself constantly.

I have to try and deal with the emotional fallout when I get it wrong.

I have to do all of this while trying to cope with my sensory issues, like background noise or smells or lights.

It’s mentally exhausting.

Imagine having to do this EVERY time you socialize, even with a neighbour or someone in the street – every single day.

Imagine having to perform every time you walk out of your front door? Or, even in your own home?

They say that the world is a stage and from the perspective of a lot of autists – it’s true – except that YOU are the actor, the director, the producer, make-up artist, wardrobe stylist and, well, you get my drift?

I have always been scared of the world and most of the people in it – so I’ve worn a mask and tried to fit in. To protect myself. To survive. Except that a lifetime of pretending has left me mentally (and physically) exhausted. All these years I have performed in order to fit in, but the truth is that I no longer want to.

I no longer want the anxiety that goes with trying to fit in.

I no longer want to feel the fear of rejection.

All these years I’ve pretended to be someone I’m not and in doing that I have failed to honour the unique (and worthy) person that I am – that all autists are.

Reggie removed his mask to discover that he’d been awesome all along!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

#TakeOffTheMask: Stimming

I’m a stimmer. I stim to calm and to self-regulate. It is (and always has been) necessary for my mental health well-being.

One of my favourite-ist ways to calm myself as a child was to twirl myself around until the ‘butterflies dance’. Why? Because it blocked out all the shit stuff. While I was spinning, I couldn’t think of anything else except the fluttering sensations in my body.

Those few minutes allowed my brain to reset itself.

I didn’t know that I was autistic.

I didn’t know that I was stimming.

My ‘stimbox’ includes rocking, spinning and stroking tactile materials. It also includes me picking at my skin until I bleed. Then, come the scabaroonies which I will pick off time and time again. Scabs are the gift that keeps on giving, right?

If you happen to see me manically ripping the skin off my lips, I’m probably mega-anxious.

If you see me rocking gently, I could be happy, excited or apprehensive.

If I’m rocking like a psycho, it’s best to assume that I’m experiencing brain-snap, so I’d back away s-l-o-w-l-y.

When I stim, my brain overrides some of the stimulus that makes me anxious.

When I suppress my stims, stimulus (and anxiety) becomes amplified.

Lets get one thing clear: EVERYBODY STIMS. If you’ve ever chewed your nails, hair, pen-top, or shoved your finger up your nose and left it there longer than is necessary – you’ve stimmed. The difference is that non-autistic people’s stimming is more socially acceptable. Nobody gives a toss if someone bites their nails, right? Hand-flapping? Tosses are very much given and people turn into judgemental @rse-holes!

I used to be semi-successful at suppressing my stims. Just as I was semi-succesful at camouflaging myself, but since I burned out, I’m not so good at it because I don’t have the energy to suppress anymore. That and I can’t take medication for my anxiety disorder because I have Fibromyalgia – a condition which can affect how your body reacts to medication.

Stimming keeps me sane – literally.

I stimmed recently at my son’s school presentation day. It was necessary because the stimulus levels were THROUGH THE ROOF! It was a sensory nightmare – which is ironic considering the event was for an ASD specialist school.

I rocked gently, back and forth or from side to side. It calmed me enough for me to be able to remain in my seat. Plus, I fixed a mini-fan to my phone, which went down quite well with the lady who was sat next to me. However, the room was full of autistic students and their parents – some of which will have been autistic too, so I doubt that I stood out at all, but even if I did, I doubt that any shits would have been given.

When you mask, you suppress or adapt your stims. On top of having to think about what to say and when to say it, you have to suppress the urge to stim naturally. Maybe that will give you some indication of how social interaction can be so exhausting for autistic people?

With the controversial ABA approach, stims are literally shouted ‘out’ of autistic children.

‘But it works! Little Jimmy no longer flaps his hands!’

It works for you, but little Jimmy has turned into a robot. He’s been trained to obey.

You don’t ‘cure autism’ – you suppress an autistic person’s need to be themselves which could potentially result in mental health disorders.

“We’re not trying to deny kids the right to be who they are,” Dr John McEachin, co-director of the Autism Partnership, an ABA service provider,

Denying autistic kids the right to be who they are is EXACTLY what you are doing, mush!

Often, autistic people are unable to communicate verbally how they are feeling and parents/carers are too focused on trying to eradicate their stims to understand that stimming gives a clue as to how a person is feeling/coping in a situation. A change in stimming frequency (or intensity) might indicate that a person’s anxiety levels are rising and it would be wise to remove them from the situation. Understanding the role of stimming could help to prevent a full-blown meltdowns and improve an autistic person’s overall well-being.

What would people rather see. A child flapping his/her hands or a child running out into the path of a car because their anxiety has hit the danger zone?

Your homework for this week is to go out into the community and observe people stimming. Foot-tapping. Finger drumming. Doodling. Stroking hair. All self-stimulatory behaviour, but it’s only autistic people who get called out on stimming. The problem is that our stims are generally more visible and it makes people feel uncomfortable and we can’t have that, can we?

Some stims are simply not acceptable in public and in those cases it’s necessary to encourage more appropriate ones. For instance, some people firk with their crotch area when anxious. Nobody wants to see people firking around in their crotch areas unless it’s by mutual agreement, you get me?

Other stims are harmful, as with head-banging and other self-harming behaviours. To understand this behaviour, you need to know that when a person self-harms, it’s because their anxiety is overwhelming them to the point of requiring pain to block things out. I’ve never self-harmed in this way, but I’ve seen it many times and I understand that it’s a total loss of control due to severe anxiety. If it makes you, the onlooker, uncomfortable to see this. Can you even imagine what the person who is in pain feels like?

“Stimming is rarely dangerous. It can, however, be embarrassing for parents and siblings, disconcerting for teachers, or off-putting for potential friends and co-workers.” (somewhere on the internet, but I’ve closed the tab on the page and cba to trawl through my history)

I’d argue that stimming can be dangerous. Banging one’s head against a brick wall isn’t exactly soft-play, is it?

As for the second sentence in this quote..

This is the problem.

We make ourselves mentally ill so we don’t embarrass our families or make our teachers, peers and co-workers feel uncomfortable.

The worst it’s going to get for these people is to feel uncomfortable?

The worst it’s going to get for autistic people who suppress their stims is to be mentally ill.

Actually, worse case is premature death.

Instead of trying to force autistic people to conform to the detriment of their health, how about society adopts a more tolerant attitude to stimming?

OOH LOOK! A FLYING PIG!

 

#Take The Mask Off: What It’s Like To Wear The Mask

I’m an actress – acting is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done, but it’s not a profession or even a hobby. It’s survival.

I can pin-point the day that I realised that I was different. It was my first day at school. I was five years old. Up to then, I’d lived in my own world with occasional visits to this one.

I remember that I didn’t like this world very much.

I remember strangers talking to me.

I remember strange voices saying, ‘Aren’t you speaking to me?’

I remember voices asking if I was shy.

I didn’t want to talk to them.

I didn’t want them to talk to me.

It wasn’t shyness. It was selective muteness. That’s what happens when the world gets too much. I shut down. I stop talking. I become mute. It’s my safety valve. Without this ability to shut off, I’d totally (and regularly) lose my shit.

I started school in 1975 and the other children treated me differently from the onset. My first day was shit and it set the tone for the next ten years. Teachers told me off or ignored me. Either way, they didn’t understand me. I was bullied, as so many autistic kids are. Only I didn’t know that I was autistic. I just knew that I wasn’t like everybody else. Eventually I understood that I had to interact with people in order to fit in. I had to be more like them and less like me.

That’s when I learned how to perform.

So my life has been one big performance.

I’ve taken inspiration from many people. Some female, some male. All researched via TV, books or people I’ve come into contact with. I copied their voices, their mannerisms, their style (where sensory issues allowed) – so much so, that I lost my own identity.

I forgot who I was.

Was I an alien? Was that why I found it so hard to fit in?

Had I actually been birthed by a human being?

Or had I somehow landed on the wrong planet?

Performing. Chamoflaging. Masking. Whatever you call it, it means the same thing – NOT BEING YOU!

As the years have gone by, I’ve tried my hardest to be like everybody else, except that masking came at a huge personal cost.

One example of how I mask is with eye-contact.

I struggle with eye-contact, though on a good day, you probably wouldn’t guess.

I don’t like looking into most people’s eyes and I don’t like most people looking into mine. It’s an incredibly sensory experience for me – one which overwhelms and makes me feel vulnerable. Like they can read my crazy thoughts? Or I’m standing in my bra and pants. Either way, it’s not good. Then, in my mid-twenties I taught myself to look just above someone’s eye. I’d read it in a book somewhere. It helped, but the effort comes in remembering where to look and when it’s appropriate to look away. It’s in trying to take in what someone is saying while your concentration is elsewhere. There is this inner monologue going on reminding me what to do and when. It’s not natural, therefore it’s not effortless and the more anxious I am, the worse my eye-contact gets. When I’m really anxious, my eye-tic kicks in so people think I’m winking at them. *sigh*

I’ve fought against the mental and physical exhaustion that comes with trying to be something I’m not. Diagnosis helped me to understand who I am and why I experience the world differently and it took some of the pressure off. However, the diagnosis coincided with a nervous breakdown and though I wouldn’t wish one on anybody, it couldn’t have been more timely because I was unable to mask during my assessment. What they got was the real me because I had no energy to pretend otherwise.

Burnout is something that many autistic people encounter at some point in their lives. I did well to get to 46 before I broke down, but when I did break, the fallout was catastrophic. I didn’t know what the hell had hit me. I thought I was shuffling off my mortal coil. Or going mad. Or both. What I didn’t know was that my years of pushing myself beyond my limits had set me up for a chronic condition called Fibromyalgia. Look it up, it’s shit! At the same time, my life-long anxiety turned feral and my entire body started malfunctioning.

I was really unwell.

Masking had been draining the life out of me.

The only way back from that mental crap-hole was to be myself, not that I had any energy to mask anyway.

The only way back was to stop forcing myself to interact because it’s what society expected me to do.

The only way back was to be me.

I live with the knowledge that my health has suffered because of having to mask and it’s hard not to grieve for what’s been taken from me over the years. I didn’t choose to be autistic. I didn’t choose to be different. I didn’t ask people to be arse-holes to me. For most of my life, I considered myself to be the problem to be me, but I am not the problem.

I never was.

I can’t discard the mask completely. It’s impossible. There will be situations where I need to perform in order to get through them because not everything is in my control. Nor can it ever be. But I know that I can slip my mask on occasionally and draw from all those years of acting. The difference is that I give myself permission to leave when I’ve had enough and to accept that I will need recovery time afterwards and to lose the guilt-trip. Self-care is better late than never, yes?

My problems stem from trying to force myself to fit into a world that isn’t mine. Or that’s how it feels. Shove your size 4 foot into a size 2 shoe and it’s going to hurt, right? Try and walk in those shoes, every single day, and you’ll cripple yourself. You get me? The consequence is the damage to my physical and mental health. I’m basically f**ked and I can’t change any of it. I can’t rewind the clock. Not that it would help if I could because autism had a different meaning in those days. All I can do is be here as I was meant to be. As I am wired to be.

To help me to remember, I keep these words where I can see them everyday.

My darling girl, when are you going to realize that being normal is not necessarily a virtue? It rather denotes a lack of courage. Alice Hoffman ~Practical Magic

 

 

 

 

 

Autism: Highly Functioning?

There’s a label when talking about autism.

‘Highly-functioning’.

It’s a term intended for professionals, but one that is used generally. In this post I’m going to try and illustrate why hearing this term makes me scream inside.

You can dress yourself? You’re highly-functioning!

I can dress myself, but sometimes I wear those same clothes for days because the thought of having to put something ‘new’ on makes me anxious. I do change my undies daily though – in case you were wondering?

I have sensory processing issues and hate to feel constricted in any way – so neck-lines, waistbands and sleeves have to be just right or my brain snaps. Also, I can’t tolerate anything that isn’t almost exclusively cotton. How I survived the seventies with it’s obsession for nylon, I’ll never know. Maybe that would explain whay I was a little shit most of the time?

I can physically dress myself, yes, but it’s a sensory nightmare.

You can wash your own hair? You must be highly-functioning!

I can physically wash my hair (though it’s getting to be more challenging now with the fibromyalgia) but it will be 80% dry-shampoo by the time I do wash it – which will be when I can’t physically get a brush through it. Or my scalp itches -whichever comes first!

I have a mobile hairdresser who comes to sort my hair out a couple of times a year. Even though she’s lovely (and technically brilliant) and I always look forward to seeing her – I still get the inevitable migraine which comes with having to make conversation. Recovery usually involves painkillers and at least three hours sleep.

You can apply make-up? You’re highly functioning!

I’ve been wearing make-up since 1983, but it’s a mask. Without it, I feel vulnerable. Might as well be wandering around in my bra and pants, innit? However, my routine rarely varies. I use the same products every day. Even if I go completely nuts and buy something new, I invariably revert to my old stuff because it’s familiar.

I don’t like brushing my teeth as they are sensitive as hell, but my fear of having fillings and extractions overrides my sensitivity to brushing.

Just because I can do something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t cause me discomfort or distress.

I used to be the opposite way. I bathed every day. Sometimes twice a day. Occasionally, three. It’s a miracle I’ve any skin left! My hair got washed daily, sometimes twice. It wasn’t necessary. I was just a nutter. Then again, my personal care has always been more psychological than beauty or fashion.

You clean your house? You must be highly-functioning!

Again, it’s all about the realms of what’s considered ‘normal’.

I used to clean obsessively. I would clean the entire house (including hoovering) every single day. The living room carpet got hoovered at least three times a day. I mopped the kitchen floor just as frequently and disinfected everything that was wipeable. I mowed the lawns as many times as I thought I could get away with without coming across as lunatic, but I admit that I once mowed the same lawn twice in one day! That’s not gardening. That’s a bit nuts!

As soon as a dandelion reared it’s head, I was out there with my Flymo. Then I’d be on my hands and knees cutting round the edges of the lawn with a pair of scissors. Yes, I was that person!

The anomaly is that I love to see dandelions elsewhere..

I realise now that it was about control. The same way my eating disorders were about control. I just didn’t understand why life was so hard for me. So I’d scrub, disinfect and mow until the late hours. Then, I’d numb my brain with homebrew. As the Smiths song goes: “I was happy in a haze of a drunken hour but heaven knows I’m miserable now.” For a while, the world was tolerable. I could do this life thing, yeah? Then I’d overdo it. I’d vomit and the next morning I’d wake up to find the world was as confusing as it ever was.

Vomiting aside, my corner of the world HAD to be perfect to compensate for the chaos outside my front door and that inside my head. Nowadays, half an hour of light housework equals three hours resting on the sofa. I am completely the opposite way, but it’s not by choice.

You do your OWN shopping? Are you sure you’re autistic?

I’ve always found shopping difficult because of the social aspect, sensory overload and the range of choice. Choice, you see, overstimulates my brain and the more anxious I become, the more I am unable to make choices – even simple ones like between coffee or tea.

A super-functioner and I can’t make a simple decision between tea or coffee? What am I like?!

Nowadays, I have the added joy (not) of fibromyalgia which limits me even more. For the days when I can’t cope with the supermarket, I do online shopping.

You can drive? Super-Functioner!!

Fancy that, an autistic person with a driving licence!

I was determined to drive because I struggled so much with public transport. Lesser evil, right? With me, it’s always been a case of one fear overriding another. However, getting myself from A to B is a different matter entirely..

For example: Recently, a 20 minute trip to Hobbycraft involved me virtually ‘driving’ the route via Google street maps, even down to checking out the exit route in the car park. Who does that, right? It took me twenty minutes, but it was necessary in order to familiarise myself with the route.

Diversions bugger my brain up. I’m still dealing with a diversion from last week! I NEED to be able to get into my car and drive the same route as I always do, but life isn’t so simple, is it? It creates diversions and obstacles all of which have a knock-on effect with me.

I establish routines and end up going to the same shops and parking in the same places which makes my world safe, but small.

I’m also crap with directions and distance. My sat-nav’s most used commands are ‘When possible do a U turn’ and ‘Route recalculation’. Nuff said?

Some days I can’t drive at all due to brain fog. Better safe than sorry, right?

You can communicate verbally? That makes you highly-functioning!

I can talk. I had no speech delay that I am aware of. I love words, only I prefer to type them. I’m much better at communicating via the typed word. But even then, it’s not simple, as my need for perfection means that my posts are edited 35 plus times! I can’t just ‘knock’ a post out, like most bloggers can.

When it comes to actual speech, I sometimes become aware that my voice has become ‘monotone’ and I have to prompt myself to change pitch. When I’m excited, I talk too fast. When I’m exhausted, I talk too slowly and my brain ‘buffers’. As in, something gets lost between the thought process and communicating what’s in my head.

Then I have meltdowns where I have this kind of ‘verbal diarrhoea’ thing going on. Or I stop talking altogether. This is known as a ‘shut-down’.

Many of us have co-morbid conditions as well as being autistic. It’s life farting in your face, then following through. As if life isn’t hard enough, right?

I also have Fibromyalgia which means I am in some level of pain or discomfort all the time. I also have OCD going on, which is a pain in the arse.

Fibro what? Isn’t that something you take for constipation?

No. That’s Fybogel!

Having fibromyalgia means that I am less able to function than ever and I will have to learn to live within even more limits as this illness is chronic and life-long once it’s established. I also most likely have Dyscalculia (number dyslexia) which makes life difficult as maths is such a necessary part of it. I’ve probably been short-changed out of hundreds of pounds in my time. However, I stand by my argument that trying to learn algerbra was a waste of sodding time!

Ooh. You have a learning difficulty? That makes you low-functioning then?

I was in the top set for English. I scored 98% in my history mock exam because I was (and still am) obsessed with the past. I was also in the bottom set for maths. So, you tell me?

I give up. I don’t know what you are!

I’m an individual.

The term ‘highly-functioning’ belittles how hard it is to get through every day. Just because I don’t need help putting my knickers on, it’s presumed that I function ‘highly’? In reality, every day takes a great deal of effort simply to exist. I’m always in some level of pain or anxiety – even in my sleep. Some days I barely function as migraines wipe me out or I reach my capacity to cope with anything unfamiliar or taxing. If you’re wondering what fibromyalgia has to do with autism. The answer is – EVERYTHING! It’s relative because a life of anxiety makes autistic people prone to conditions like fibromyalgia.

Yes, I can physically do stuff, but it comes at a cost, both physically and mentally.

I get overwhelmed quickly. I need regular breaks from social media/internet due to information overload. What energy I do have is reserved for my role as a mother. It’s primeval, because despite my health, I ensure that my son’s needs are met. I know the days of obsessively cleaning are gone because I just don’t have the strength and that causes me considerable distress, but it means that my obsessions shift elsewhere – as I discovered when I developed heath anxiety last year.

The term ‘low functioning’ is equally as belittling because in labelling someone ‘low-functioning’, society lowers it’s expectations of this person. They are pitied, rather than respected. Or worse, ignored. Just because a person needs help with daily care, doesn’t mean they can’t contribute to the world in a meaningful way!

A highly-functioning person might barely be able to function physically (or mentally) on some days, but there are expectations of them because of a term which most people take at face value. This is why we burn out repeatedly until we become chronically ill.

Is this really functioning highly?

Some days I barely function at all.

I am spending more and more time in survival and recovery mode and if you don’t understand those terms, lucky you!

The term ‘highly functioning’ implies that I am successful at life. That I can do things with ease?

To those who take one look at me and say, ‘You’re autistic? You must be highly-functioning then!’

COME AND LIVE MY LIFE FOR A WEEK. THINK MY THOUGHTS. FEEL MY FEAR, PAIN AND EXHAUSTION. TOUCH MY F**KING PLUGS UMPTEEN TIMES BEFORE YOU CAN LEAVE THE HOUSE – THEN TELL ME I’M FUNCTIONING HIGHLY!

*hyperventilates into paper bag*

The point of this post is to show that being physically able to do something comes at a cost. I’ve reached the point where I’ve worn myself out and I now I’m constantly ill.

If you look close enough, you’ll see the exhaustion in my face. You might notice the way my body slumps with fatigue. You might even see a tear fall unchecked or hear a door slammed in frustration. These are hints to an inner chaos – a chaos I’ve known all my life. Only death will bring me any real peace, but I’m not suicidal. I’m in no hurry to leave this life because there are souls who that make this struggle worthwhile. Three of them call me ‘Mum’ and I’ll fight until my last breath to be with them.

And it is a fight. A daily battle to exist, but it would be a lot easier if people would only take the time to respect us for who we are.

High or low-functioning – the terms are misleading and unhelpful. What we are is individuals.

All images are in the public domain via Creative Commons

 

 

 

Autism: Fantasy Versus Reality

For the majority of my 9 year old autistic son’s life, he’s lived in a fantasy world made up of fictional characters. He becomes those characters. He believes in them. To him, they’re real.

It’s escapism. A way of coping with a confusing world and I understand it because I’ve lived in a fantasy world of my own, particularly as a child. One thing my mother picked up on was how I was never ‘here’. The reason for that was that ‘here’ was (and still is) overwhelming and causes me a great deal of anxiety.

As I grew older, I escaped into music and books. Music conjures up vivid imagery to me and my mood changes with tempo. It would seem that I am wired to physically and emotionally react to music.

Music provides me with the protection that my imaginary world once did with fictional characters. With music, I’m physically here, but mentally (spiritually) I’m elsewhere. Walking down the street becomes a tolerable experience with my ear buds in. I know that people can see me, but I am anesthetized to them and the environmental noises that make me anxious.

I need escapism. While it’s not the same world I inhabited as a child – my need for an alternate universe remains the same. The difference is that I understand what is acceptable (and what is not) of me as an adult. But make no mistake – when I listen to music or lose myself in a book, I am as far away as I ever was.

Being autistic, I don’t have interests, I have obsessions and one of mine is death and true to my autistic self, if I can find a way to weave my obsession with mortality into a conversation, I will, but don’t worry, I haven’t gone off on a tangent. It’s relative, so bear with me.

I don’t see my interest in death as being morbid. It’s something that is going to happen to me, so I need to familiarse myself with it because – the fear of the unknown, right? I’ve already planned my funeral and one of the songs I have chosen is David Bowie’s Life on Mars.

You see, Bowie knew a thing or two about misfits. He knew that they would identify with his style – visually and musically – thus making him a very rich man. Arguably, one of his best tracks is Life on Mars – a song which Bowie labelled, “a sensitive young girl’s reaction to the media” and added, “I think she finds herself disappointed with reality… that although she’s living in the doldrums of reality, she’s being told that there’s a far greater life somewhere, and she’s bitterly disappointed that she doesn’t have access to it.” For me, it’s reminiscent of own crushing disappointment with reality. I was the ‘girl with the mousey hair’ watching movies over and over (and over) again – wondering why reality could never live up to them. I know that my family will struggle to understand the song’s meaning, but if ever a song existed that was my song – it’s this one.

In fact, in my fantasy world – Bowie wrote it for me, innit?

A lot of autistics live (or have lived) in a fantasy world and if you understood how hard it is to live on a planet that’s not compatible with your needs, you would understand why this happens. The bottom line is this: Our imaginary worlds are where we have complete control over ever single thing that happens.

Control is something that we have little of in the ‘real’ world. It’s the reason we flounder through life – succumbing to mental illness. Some of us will take our own lives. Many of us will die prematurely from stress related conditions and diseases such as cancer and heart disease. The rest of us will struggle with chronic health conditions that won’t kill us, but which will impact our already limited lives. But inside our mind is a place where we can be ourselves. A place where we don’t have to fight to be heard or accepted. A place where we can be ourselves, without fear.

How sad that this is the stuff of fantasy, instead of reality?

This is our reality.

I know how crap this world can be. I know how unkind human beings can be, so I indulge my son’s need for fantasy because I understand his need for escapism. The real world disappoints. It hurts. It makes us anxious. I wish that I could spare him all of this, but I know that one day his imaginary world will no longer protect him. I dread that day, but I know that it will because this isn’t our world. It isn’t autism friendly. Not yet. Not by a long way. This is why so many of us describe feeling as if we are from a different planet. We’re aliens having to work exceptionally hard to try and fit in here.

In our fantasy worlds, we live, rather than exist.

In reality, we exist, rather than live.

Whether escapism is being a fictional character, or losing ourselves in the lyrics of a song or the pages of a book – it’s important that we do it and it’s important that people, especially parents, understand why.

“For a child with Asperger’s, especially a fantasy subtype, fantasy can become an obsession. If fantasy becomes an obsession, it may take therapy or perhaps medication to correct the situation. Do not hesitate to contact a psychologist for help if your efforts are unsuccessful. A child locked in fantasy is a child lost to reality.”

I came across this on a website specifically for parents of children who have Aspergers.  The last sentence in particular suggests ignorance of the importance of escapism and it’s function. Is intervention really in the child’s best interests? Or is it another example of autistic children being forced to adapt so that non-autistic people can feel more comfortable in their presence?

Our autistic lives revolve around escapism and obsessions. If a child’s obsession involves wearing a Jason mask AND nicking your kitchen knives, it’s probably best that professional help is sought – pronto. Otherwise, leave them be. Escapism is serving a purpose. It’s keeping them sane. The important stuff is going in. Nobody was more ‘locked in a fantasy world’ than I was as a child, but I do understand the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s just that reality overwhelms me, so I need to intersperse it with frequent visits to my fantasy world – medication not needed.

“Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?. If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” ~ J.R.R Tolkien

 

 

Autistic and Crap at Maths?

 

‘You can’t POSSIBLY be autistic unless you’re a maths genius!’

Another autism myth is that autistic people are mindbogglingly good at maths.

PLOT TWIST. I am autistic and I am mindbogglingly BAD at maths!

My dislike of maths started in September 1975. From the word go, it confused the hell out of me. Later on, the teachers started talking long division and fractions and my brain would go walkabout and fixate on shiny stuff stuck to the classroom windows. Or shoes.

Algebra. Sounds like a fungal infection doesn’t it? Or the green slime that furs up fish tanks.

I went to college in my twenties and scored high in English, but my maths score was THAT shit, they advised me to enrol in a maths workshop. I declined because the course I was taking was for working with pre-school children, so I had maths covered with my fingers and toes, but it got me thinking (and not for the first time) that maybe I was number dyslexic?

Dyscalculia

The condition is thought to be related to dyspraxia and dyslexia and occurs in people across the IQ range.

Typically, the signs of Dyscalulia are as follows.

• Confusing the signs: +, -, ÷ and x
• Inability to say which of two numbers is the larger
• Unusual reliance on counting fingers
• Difficulty with everyday tasks ie. checking change and reading clocks
• Inability to comprehend financial planning or budgeting
• Difficulty with times-tables
• Difficulty with conceptualizing time and judging the passing of time
• Problems differentiating between left and right
• Having a poor sense of direction
• Having difficulty estimating the distance of an object
• Inability to grasp mathematical concepts and rules
• Difficulty keeping score during games.

This pretty much describes me. I’d go so far to say that, in absence of a calculator (once I run out of fingers and toes) I’m pretty much fucked. Oh, and I do NOT know (and never have known) my times table.

Teachers have tried (and failed) to make me understand maths. My homework book had so much red ink in it, it looked like something from a crime scene.

notebook-2478554_640

I lived in fear of maths in general (double maths started my palpitations off) but especially maths homework. So much so, that I copied my friend’s once. Problem was, ‘Sir’ was so used to me handing in a pile of unintelligible crap that he instantly smelled Rattus norvegicus and instead of ‘See Me’, he wrote: Please bring your book to me in the next lesson to show me how you worked out the answers.

B.U.S.T.E.D.

Most maths teachers gave up on me. My ‘inability’ to learn combined with refusal to speak pissed them off – so they invariably left me to it.

One teacher tried more than most. I liked him because he was kind. He tried several ways to try and help me to understand mathematics, but each time I would stare at my paper or manically chew my pen-top. I can see his face now, turning around from the blackboard with a beaming smile, absolutely certain he’d nailed it this time..

Now, do you understand?

*vacant face*

He offered to give me lessons after school. As if THAT was going to happen? I think not!

So, he eventually gave up on me too.

This condition affects me in many ways, like driving. I can’t judge distance very well so I end up taking wrong turns. My Sat-Navs most commonly used commands are, ‘When possible do a u-turn‘ and ‘Route recalculation’. I also feel as I am going faster than I actually am. Or slower. Elsewhere, I have poor coordination – which explains why that step-class I took back in the 90s was a monumental embarrassment fest. Oh. The. Shame. *wafts hot cheeks*

Since my autism diagnosis, it’s become clear that I have many co-morbid conditions and I believe Dyscalculia is one of them, but at 48 (almost) is it too late to do anything about it?

I get by. Just. I use a calculator for the basics and for the bigger things, I ask someone else to do it. I’m not stupid, though I have been made to feel as if I am over the years. Someone told me I wasn’t very bright because I left school with no qualifications. That spurred me to go to college as a mature student and I passed my course (Child Care and Education) with merit, but I am undoubtedly impaired when it comes to maths.

Research shows that I am not alone. It is a difficulty that many autistic people have. It’s less common for dyscalculics NOT to have problems with reading and writing, but then I’m special innit?

I scored 86% in an online test, so it’s highly likely that I would get a diagnosis. I was offered support for this when I was diagnosed, so maybe I will take them up on it? I really don’t mind labels if there is some benefit to be had and in this case it would seem there is. If not for learning maths – the explanation for why I can’t do certain things. The latest being my son’s maths homework because it might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all I understand it, but I don’t feel quite so useless now I know there is a reason behind my struggles. It’s called dyscalculia.*

Hopefully this post has put paid to the myth that autism = maths genuis?

Dear maths, I am sick and tired of finding your “X”.

Just accept the fact she’s gone.

Move on, Dude.

* Dyscalculia on WordPress has red squiggly lines underneath it because it thinks it’s a spelling mistake and when you right click on it for options, you get ‘miscalculate’ which is pretty apt, no?