About autisticaplanet

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Welcome to a blog about an autistic adult woman in her late 30's using words and images to advocate acceptance as well as awareness of those with life-limiting sensory processing issues and resulting social and behavioral challenges. I write about inclusion ideas for those who remain in isolation due to their neuromakeup and share how my Christian faith keeps me going. Thank you for visiting.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Contrast

I was experimenting with the Pixlr app on my tablet and settled on this reverse black and white filter. It helped me to dramatically show the contrast between the flower and the leaves.
A few weeks prior, I came upon a dead bunny (whose picture I will not post) while walking in another forest preserve.
Nature is contrasted by both the beautiful and cruel.
God created a perfect garden and two perfect people. (Genesis 3)
Free will eventually changed that, but the beauty of God's creation will never be completely obliterated.
I am reminded that life will get better than this, that there will be a new heaven and earth to come with no sin in it.
May God bless you.

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Which part of me "doesn't look autistic"? Which part of me does?

I posted a side by side picture of myself on my FB page. One has me with no glasses, smiling into the camera. Another has me with glasses on and smiling, but my gaze is off.
I wanted to show through photography the rediculousness of telling someone "they don't look autistic" or that they must fit the stereotype when they aren't making eye contact, but making ever effort to be plesant. That isn't hard to do in nature.
I think the media created a stereotype at least over the past two decades that an autistic person must be white, male distant, apathetic and having a persistant, off gaze all of the time.
I do have a slightly lazy right eye. When I am stressed or very tired, the eye does move off center. That is also my migraine eye.
Sometimes, my ever buzzing mind distracts me right before a picture is taken. The smartphones can be hard to see exactly where the lens is, especially if I want a picture taken sans glasses. Sometimes, in the case of the selfie or groupie (I only do them to document where I go in any given moment of time and to showcase the effort that goes into looking presentable in public, not to post to get "likes"), it is hard for me to focus on just where the target is.
I don't make eye contact, even with people I've known my whole life. It isn't to be rude, it simply is too much information. My mind can't focus on the content of what they're saying. Looking at their feet or the top of their head is about it.
As a growing Christian, I practice ways to be empathetic. I don't lack empathy, but can miss others' cues that they need it. I listen to their words and tone of voice. What is the context of their speech? Is their tone indicating something is wrong even if they say, "I'm fine."?
I hope this gives someone reading better information about women autism spectrum disorder (ASD) that will disprove the media stereotypes. Maybe you are part of the media. This is one autism story that addresses one very misunderstood topic. Listen to ASD individuals, their families and friends. It is my hope that the stereotypes will begin to dissolve and a broader picture will form. It may take a little time, like a Polaroid picture, but I believe it can happen.

Tuesday, June 6, 2017

The ugliest word in the English Language/Superfly

The ugliest word in the English language

You know the ugliest word in the English language? Some think it’s moist. It’s NOT. The ugliest word in the English language is PUCE.
Puce. Why not PUKE? Well, might not sell at Sherwin Williams.
Dictonary.com defines puce as being “ of a dark or brownish purple” in color.
Ok. I get that. I never had a Puce crayon. Brown, purple, THOSE ARE COLORS. Not PUCE.
How about using language that describes the thing you’re talking about?
You know, adjectives and nouns.
“Honey, let’s paint the baby’s room a matte puce.”
Sounds a little gross and possibly nasty, too.
“Honey, let’s paint the nursery eggplant.”
And she says, “Oh, it’s so organic! I love it!”
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Superfly

So I’m watching the news and I hear this low pitched hum. Hoping it’s not a small aircraft poised to crash land on my roof, I get up and look around.
It’s springtime in the northern hemisphere, and that means the door gets left open on occasion. Spiders crawl upstairs, get into our beds when we are sleeping and bite us while we apparently and thankfully in such a deep sleep we can’t feel it’s little feet and fangs as it leaves its mark.
Then there are the garden variety. You know, ants, centipedes, beetles, bees, millipedes, lady bugs, boxelder bugs that managed to live through the winter-
All put to a sudden relatively painless death with the smack of a fly swatter or the cat eating them.
Not so this time.
Have you seen the movie “The Fly?”
Jeff Goldblum has nothing on this creature.
I look over by the window to see the droning coming from a species definitely of the insect variety, but bigger than a small bird.  
The cat looks at it with her usual feline enthusiasm, but hesitates. Normally, the appearance of an insect is all fun and games with a side of bug guts.
Her eyes enlarge in disbelief. Then, she rolls over and goes back to the way she spends most of the day-sleeping. Preferably on the remote control or my phone.
I am so grossed out by superfly and intrigued at the same time. I vacillate between ending its life or letting it live.
On top of this, I have another bug to deal with, my stomach bug.
I’m pretty wiped out from wiping, if you follow.
I decide to stay parked in my lazy chair and watch the Orange Cheeto on CNN.
Superfly, you will live to poo on the drapes, lay eggs and die an otherwise natural death.
Thank God they aren’t puce drapes. That would be a tragedy.
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Close call

Have you ever been talking to a friend on the phone? A friend who lives in the same city as you but apparently lives in a separate sector of the jet stream. Your friend proudly announces “Hey, it’s raining!”
And you say, “No, it’s partly sunny.”
Your friend protests exclaiming “NO IT’S NOT IT’S RAINING!”
Keep in mind that you both are around six years old. The world is a much smaller place at that age.
“It’s SUNNY!”
“It’s RAINING!”
BOOM!...RUMBLE RUMBLE, PLUNK PLUNK PLUNK ...
“Never mind, it’s raining!”
Your mom says, “Get off the phone before you get killed!”
I grew up in the day of landlines and cords, folks.
Today you might get cancer but back then it was electrocution.
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Foot Farts

Here are some everyday things I find interesting. They serve a small but important purpose-usually.
So here is my list:

Twistie ties
Those little hooks on plastic hangers
Lint, particularly of the belly button variety.
Caps on the end of shoelaces
Watching the test patterns on TV

And then there is my seasonal favorite, which serves no purpose apart from creating an awkward atmosphere.
Foot farts.
You say, “What the hell are foot farts?”
I’m glad you asked. After all, Summer is right around the corner.
I don’t know about you, but I wear sandals in the summer.
I like the kind that have the sling in the back so I don’t fall down and rupture my spleen in the process. I’m clumsier than a mule with two left feet when it comes to coordination, so no high heels, either.
Sometimes, I wear Crocs as well. You know, the plastic shoes that look like swiss cheese on top.
It gets humid and my bare feet begin to put out moisture. When coming in contact with the insole This causes a sound that is quite awkward if not a little embarrassing.
I call it a foot fart.
Some people, guys usually, get pit farts.
I played volleyball with a guy who had on a daego top.
Everytime he volleyed the ball it sounded like Steve Martin in the movie “Roxanne” where he makes the tennis ball sounds.
You can imagine the strength it took me not to laugh my ass off.
Hey, at least he wasn’t wearing PUCE and there wasn’t a big, hulking greenish fly droning around.
I mourn the days of my youth.
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Composed by Allison M. Kramer on May 23, 2017

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Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Autistic and inked

After a 2 decade hiatus, I finally did something I'd been wanting to do since my maiden voyage at age 18. I got inked again!
This is a repeat victory for someone who used to agonize over blood tests.
I had to get a lot of them when I was 17, as I was on medication that required periodic blood tests, particularly for Lithobid, which I am no longer on.
I was also hospitalized over 20 times (I stopped counting after 20), and blood draws are a part of the experience.
I had wanted a tattoo since I was 12. I used to get the stick on ones from Claire's. I saw a little butterfly on the sheet of stick ons, and I knew once I was of age (18 was legal for tattoos back in 1997) I would be getting a tattoo.
Being stuck like a pig definitely helped me prepare!
My dad would've been against it, but he had passed in 1994 (23 years ago today). My mom was cool with it-I got the second child privilege. By contrast my older sister couldn't date or get her ears pierced until she was 15. By the time I was 15, I had two pair of holes in each lobe.
My first tattoo took place in the only parlor around at the time. It was in a 1970's era tiny mall of only 3 shops. Olive green paint was peeling off the siding.
It was definitely a stereotypical environment at first blush. Biker dudes and dames browsed the designs hanging on the walls and metal blasted from the speakers. 
After a detailed conversation about needles and infection as well as what level of pain to experience, price and size/position of the tattoo, I felt assured enough to go through with my six year dream.
I chose a small pink butterfly for my upper left arm. Two more would follow over the next year, including a large Monarch. Bigger needle, so more painful.
After twenty years, I can honestly say I have "no regerts".
The little tattoo shop is gone, but you can still see the tiny white tiles of the old floor in what is now a resturant. It used to say "TATTOO" in contrasting black tiles until remodeling.
While doing my tattoo research, I was surprised to see how the parlors have changed. They are bigger, the atmosphere more like a spa or high end hair salon.
I began doing a Google search for tattoo salons near me. Today there are plenty of options.
I then contacted the ones that had an email or Facebook contact option.
It came down to two places. One told me they couldn't guarantee properly accommodating my sensory needs. The other promised me a day that had the least amount of traffic and the option to do the procedure in the piercing room, which is in the back and has a door.
I didn't want any unexpected noise to make me jump. Especially with a needle full of ink.
The price was not much higher than it was back in 1997.
More research told me that tattoo artists get tips. I'm so glad I did so much Googling.
It pays to prepare. I used sites like Pinterest to look for the pattern I wanted.
My sister facilitated the phone call to make the appointment.
8 weeks later (they book up fast), on Memorial Day Weekend, I memorialized my parents on my lower leg and ankle .
As far as pain goes, everyone is different. The smallest needle was used. I was given a fidget toy to spin (they actually had a fidget toy on hand!) while the procedure was taking place. I also brought my iPod and noise cancelling headphones, though I didn't need to use them.
It is a deep pressure procedure and scratchy at the same time.
The artist gave me plenty of breaks. His patience and easy going demeanor was much appreciated.
Yes, autistic people can get tattoos. Every individual is different. What can be tolerated on the skin and for how long as well as the area of the skin (forearms, tops of feet and thighs are highly sensitive spots to get inked) will determine what can be tolerated if at all.
You are not a "baby" or "wimp" if you can't tolerate the needle. I tell NT people this when they degrade themselves in front of me after getting into a brief conversation about one of my tattoos.
Be prepared if you are getting inked that you will draw attention from others. People are usually inquisitive "I like your tattoo! Where did you get it?"
They will also ask to touch it.
I usually let them touch them for a few seconds before drawing back.
One time, a sales clerk touched my large Monarch without asking. I felt slightly violated. She also treated me briskly while warmly chatting with other customers.
The artist wrapped my freshly inked tattoo in cellophane after rubbing some topical goo on it to keep it lubed and sanitary.
A good tattoo artist will discuss price and work within your budget. This was an early birthday present from family, so all I did was pay the tip, which I saved up several months for using money earned from my bracelet sales and monthly allowance.
The area felt much like a 1st degree skin burn, but only lasted 20 minutes upon completion.
I have begun putting Aquaphor on it, as the area is drying out and slightly itchy, which is normal.
My sister and I got something to eat and then it was off to the state park to snap nature photos.
This will definitely NOT be my last tattoo experience, but I will wait a few years, God willing I live longer, to do it again. I want to savor and plan.




Caucasian female's lower leg and ankle sporting 2 swallow birds. One is blue and orange and the other rose and pink.



The last thing I would add is to use a little common sense. Choose you location carefully. You may need to cover it up if you are employed in a conservative setting. Protect it from the sun with sunscreen as you would the rest of your skin. You may wish to cover it with a Band Aid if you are going to be doing any rugged sports or hiking through areas where rough brush and poison ivy is present. Remember, this is an investment.
I'm a Christian, so I prayed about this before getting started. There is that part in the Old Testament about not cutting the flesh, but some people take this out of context. What is means is not to cut your skin in worship to an idol. I assure you, I'm not worshipping the swallow god.