This is autism

Last Monday, Autism Speaks told the world that autism is:
. . . living in despair
. . . fear of the future
. . . exhausted, broken parents
. . . lost, helpless, burdensome children

That kind of autism is not my autism. My contribution to the This is Autism Flash Blog.

I enjoy the sounds of the city around me, the strains of birdsong that I can hear even through traffic, the purring of my cat that almost but not quite manages to drown out all other sounds, the clicking of my keyboard while I’m typing. I hear the trains going past in the distance and I love getting sucked into that rhythm. When I listen to music, I become the notes, the melody, I can pick out the individual instruments and still hear how they work together to create a single sound. I sing along with the counter melody almost by instinct.

I have problems when people raise their voices, start yelling, even from a street away. I have problems with loud cars and motorcycles and airplanes, those sounds hurt my ears so much. Locations with lots of echo send me into sensory overload. Loud bangs, or even just someone clapping suddenly, frighten the life out of me.

This is autism.

I’m able to make the most outrageous statements in a completely neutral tone of voice and with a neutral facial expression.

My friends call it deadpan.

This is autism.

I’m unable to reach the highest shelves in my kitchen or at the supermarket without assistance. That means I either have to buy specialist tools like stepladders with my own money, or ask others to get things down for me. There are no services available. Sometimes I want to cry with frustration when I can’t get something from the top shelf on my own.

This is being 5’3″.

Autumn makes me happy because the piles of fallen leaves make me want to play in them, throw them in the air, smell the mulchy scent of them, hear the whispery crispy sound of them as they’re crushed. Fallen leaves make me feel like a child.

Winter makes me happy because snow is beautiful and shimmery and light. It gives everything a new shape. It’s soft and crispy at the same time. Snowflakes have the most intricate patterns. And having a snowball fight is so much fun, even though the sensory overload from having a snowball land in your collar is indescribable. Snowball fights make me feel like a child.

Spring makes me happy because there is no colour more beautiful than the green of new leaves. I stare up at them and see the sunlight fall through them. And I feel the wonder of new life, of seeing everything for the first time, the wonder of a child.

Sometimes I am able to shake off the shackles of social expectations and act like a child. I wish I were able to do so more often. Not being aware of social rules has its benefits.

This is autism.

I have to deal with people who don’t think like me every day. One of the greatest gifts that autism has brought me is connecting with other autistic people. Sharing the same way of thinking doesn’t automatically mean that we get along, or that we’re all good people. But there is an instinctive level of understanding that has eluded me for so long. Something that is lacking in the majority of people I meet. They don’t understand. And sometimes it seems as if they don’t even want to understand. That they don’t want me to be me.

I’m tired of being told I’m smart enough to figure things out myself. I’m tired of being told to fit in, to stop being so contrary and different. I’m tired of trying harder. I’m tired of getting fired for not being sensitive to office politics, for speaking the truth at the wrong time, for not understanding that sometimes words are more important than actions. I’m tired of having people angry at me for shutting down, for not looking at them, for not responding quickly enough.

This is not autism.

It is not autism that makes people treat me like this. And it is not autism when I’m hurt by how people treat me.