Twitter Primer for Finding an #Autism Community | Paleopix. When my son was diagnosed, I felt rather lost. I thought I understood what Autism was, but I was totally wrong ? overwhelmed by the misconceptions that a lot of people hold. I read blogs and browsed books, but it still didn?t help. A lot of […]Read More
|Choice (Photo credit: elycefeliz)|
Starting from a young age, when I was said to be “emotionally immature” in comparison to my peers, I have never fit into the same timelines as everyone else. And even that early label didn’t capture the full reality of my situation. For me, it’s never been a simple as “more mature” or “less mature,” really it’s been just “different.” Unfortunately, this doesn’t fit into the framework of the common narrative. We try to sort and classify everyone into neat little buckets comparative to a so-called “normal” timeline. So, growing up, depending on what aspects of my personality and development an adult saw, I could be classified very differently and very different situations.
It’s hard to classify how much of this variation is due to the ways in which I was socialized, versus how much of it is due to neurology. In some ways it’s very hard to sort one out from the other. In some instances, it was a combination of the two. For example, due to my neurology I struggled quite a bit in relating to children my own age, and that had very specific consequences. One of those consequences was that I sought out connection and socialization where I could — with adults. They had the maturity and patience to deal with my differences constructively. This affected me in many different ways, from the values I embraced to my taste in literature, music, and television. Socially, this set me apart from my peers and often made them brand me a “little adult,” or in kid speak, “weird.”
I was confused, and said so, with tears rapidly looming. My mother came to my side to explain. What I had said, she told me, was unusual for a little girl. Little children didn’t generally greet their parents’ friends by using the phrase “Ladies and gentlemen,” or refer to their home as their “humble abode.” It was old-fashioned and very formal. “We were laughing because we were surprised, and it was charming,” she said. I wasn’t completely sure this was the full truth — deep down inside, I still felt a blackness that said somehow, someway, I’d done something wrong. I couldn’t be sure that they were laughing with me, rather than at me. I feared being seen as ridiculous. Reading a book about a girl who made odd, old-fashioned speeches made me feel less conspicuous, and not alone. Maybe if Sara wasn’t ridiculous, neither was I.
My affinity for 19th and early 20th century characters and literature only grew over the years, and expanded into other areas. Visiting historical landmarks from the era began to feel like going home. A visit to a local museum to see the works of Degas, Monet, and Renoir was an event that resonated in my soul. An escape into another world. I began to find myself drawn increasingly to anything that reminded me remotely of these times. Lamps in the shape of antique hurricane lamps. My mother’s antique cameo necklace. A blouse with puffed sleeves, with all of the detail of a tailored Edwardian style. By the time I was a freshman in high school my association had evolved to a focus primarily on the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. A visit to my Grandmother’s the previous year had crystallized this, in part. By chance, she’d chosen to clean out her basement just the night before, and she’d found some things she really didn’t know what to do with — a couple of books published between 1900 and 1911, and a reproduction of the 1900 Sears catalog. I was taken. That evening, I gazed longingly at the catalog pages in the lantern light which flooded my little cubbyhole in the pop up camper in the field behind her house. If only I could still order the products in the pages…
|English: Pen and ink drawing of the Gibson Girl by illustrator Sarah Kaplan (Photo credit: Wikipedia)|
My infatuation went to such an extent, that had I had easy access to the clothing of the time, I may have even dared to wear it to school. But you couldn’t get Edwardian garb at the local mall, so I settled for what I could get, incorporating details as I could get them. I began to let my hair grow extra long, something that led to conflict with my mother. Not knowing the full scope of my Edwardian fascination, the only reason she could come up with for putting up with the aggravation of hair as long as mine was to impress boys. She wanted more than that for me. Little did she know my real reason — I wanted to look like a Gibson Girl. What teenage boy would be drawn to a girl who shared her fashion sense with her great grandmother’s peers? It turned out to be a moot point, however, as I’ve never actually been able to manage the style (although ironically, the 21st century technology of the internet has brought me closer to 1900s style than ever before).
I’ve never fully understood this affinity, which still dogs me all these years later. In my more fanciful moments, I’ve imagined that it was perhaps a product of a past life — one in which I was happy and treated well. That perhaps that the lingering draw of the fashions and customs of the time are some subconscious attempt to recapture that happiness. Or perhaps it’s just a romanticized yearning for escape, which is why it coexists with my liking for science fiction. Given my strong interest in social justice, at times it troubles me to be drawn so to a period of time in which so much evil was done to so many. I can’t ignore the full picture of what life was like in the time. I regularly remind myself that literary imaginings are far from the actual reality. And I find myself wondering, if I did live during that time, would I have seen the evils for what they were? Or would I be blinded to them, by the mores of the time? I wonder, too, what future generations will think of us.
While it’s easy for me to compare my life with others’ and question myself…the fact that I can’t ignore is that I have always been different. What made me happy has always been different than what made others happy. The reality is that the choices that led others to the lives they lead likely wouldn’t have fit well with my likes in this world. To make that fit, I would have had to change myself, who I am — and is that what I really want? There are many in this world that seem to assume that in order to have a successful relationship or connection with someone else you have to be “compatible,” often a euphemism for “likes all the same things I like and has all the same values that I do.” What does that mean for someone like me? My life has always been duality and difference, and the complexities that have always been in play in my development, my personality, and my likes and dislikes have always carried through every area of my life. I feel in constant contradiction within myself. If we are only meant to be friends or lovers with those whose lives and likes are the same as yours, then I’m not likely to be lucky. I don’t align with any group seamlessly, and never have. I am incongruity incarnate. It’s isolating, but I have to learn to live with it. I have no other choice. The question is, can others learn to understand it? Love it? Even embrace it?
I’ve spent years now trying to deconstruct why certain experiences and environments growing up affected me the way they did, pro and con. Activity came up again and again in those analyses, but I could never pinpoint exactly why. A recent blog post shed some light on why that is.Read More
Writing about myself is scary. Vulnerable. There are days when I wonder why I do it. But, I started doing so here on this blog eight years ago with the hope that it would help others. I like to think it does. When I get letters that tell me that it has, it makes it very worth it — yet there are times in between I still question.
There are still challenges. It can be hard to know what to share and what not to share, and so many conflicting reasons for doing so or not doing so. I felt it most recently in my Psychology Today series on trauma. Trauma is a topic that I very much believe needs to be discussed, and there are so many facets to it. But it’s also a “hot button” topic, and involves discussing things that are taboo.
I don’t know if I’ve gotten as far as I need to be in the realm of being comfortable in taking on taboo topics…which is part of why I started out the series in discussing my own difficulties in that area. I hoped that just opening the discussion might help, but the whole thing left me raw.
What’s been particularly difficult for me in writing about these difficult topics is that the most of the things that have been most traumatic to me are things that I have yet to write about. Some I’ve hinted at. Others I’ve not mentioned at all. So, in discussing this, I find myself using the one example that I have worked my way to feeling comfortable discussing — my first accident. Yet that’s not my most traumatic memory. Not by a long shot.
What’s interesting about the phenomenon of blogging is how far and fast your influence can grow. So many people begin blogs thinking of it as a glorified diary. Yet with the miracle of the internet, you find that what you post publicly finds it way into places you’d never expect. I’ve seen that bite more than one uncautious blogger, when their words got them into hot water. When I began this blog, I had no idea I’d be eventually blogging for Psychology Today. I certainly never thought it would lead to a book.
Now what does that mean? How does that increased exposure change my responsibility? What is my responsibility? To whom? I initially began this blog to tell my story, my reality as I’ve known it, and hoped that this would help others. But now I find myself facing issues of wider import. What if my experience serves to undergird a common stereotype of those on the spectrum? Does that mean that I should not share it?
Then comes the complications of what my life is and has been. My life is more than just autism. The experiences that have shaped me involved countless other things, and the reality is that some of those have had a much more pivotal role in shaping my life. Many of the experiences that have most shaped me are in a completely different arena. Yet, autism is a part of me, so does that mean that, if effect, it was a part of those things too?
The reality of my life is that I rarely fit into anyone’s box. I’m the person who’s both hard of hearing and sound sensitive. I’m a person who defaults to thinking very black and white, yet sometimes gets paralyzed because I see too much of all sides. The role model who sometimes feels like anything but. I’m the person who argues against parental blame, yet has to acknowledge how some parental missteps have scarred me, deeply.
There are lot of people in the community who are angry. There are a lot who don’t want to forgive the things people have done to them. I see that, and I struggle with it every day. There are so many things in my life that I want to forgive, yet struggle to do. Is forgiveness right, or wrong? In forgiving, am I a doormat, or am I something else? Are those who stand up for the right to righteous anger, and eschew forgiveness the ones who are really stronger? Are they right, or is it Gandhi, who wrote: “The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.“
If Gandhi has it right, I’m definitely struggling to be strong.
I’ve worked a lot to feel comfortable with disclosure, yet some areas I still can’t talk about. Some which I can, I really struggle with wondering if I should. I have tried so hard to focus on what people did well in my life, I’ve found it really difficult to talk about the areas in which they didn’t. Yet, those experiences have shaped me just as much as the positive experiences.
I’ve been extremely blessed with many of the people in my life, and I feel that there is a lot to learn from what they did with me. But some of them made very big mistakes. Is it a mistake to talk about those mistakes, if those mistakes are viewed to overshadow what they’ve done right?
Is there a time when we should just tell our truth, and let the chips fall where they may? I don’t know — but there’s a quote from Anne Lamott that I just can’t shake: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.“
What do you think?
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