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| A Polaroid with light leaks and fade. Misconceptions and stigma associated (conceptual photography) |
"You're pretty high functioning," you say, shaking my hand (I can do handshakes),
I realize you probably want to make me feel good about myself.
Your image of an autistic person might be of someone non-verbal, perhaps in a wheelchair, whose focus is elsewhere.
You are correct-in part. A very small part.
I'm sure you have heard that autism is a spectrum. You've been made aware of autism, but you don't have a complete picture. Your concept is like a bad photograph where only part of the film got exposed and the rest is light leaks of yellow and red.
It isn't your fault. You aren't autistic.
What you likely know about autism mostly comes from the media, which often relies on doomsday scenarios filled with no light at the end of the story's tunnel.
"You seem pretty normal to me."
In the here and now. In this room, one of my favorite rooms. It is the living room, which my late mom painted a sea foam blue.
It is overcast outside, lightly raining. The lights are low and my DOHM white noise machine is on in the corner closest to the window where the rowdy neighbor dogs bark.
But they aren't barking now. Light rain is patting on the roof. You marvel at how quiet it is inside.
"My parents had thermopane windows installed in the spring of 1992," I say, rocking in my chair.
Maybe I seem a *little* autistic, but certainly not "low functioning", you think to yourself.
Take me out of that room. Take me to a shopping center during the Holidays. Stressful for everyone, right? Especially those poor, screaming toddlers who I'm sure are scared they are about to meet their doom at the hands of the bearded guy in the red suit.
Observe me now, noise cancelling headphones on. My posture is rigid. I'm probably rocking back and forth in place. I'm not answering when you speak. I can't hear you anymore. There is an angry expression on my face (I'm told I look angry when I'm stressed).
It's the same when we go out for lunch at a supposedly quiet restaurant in the afternoon. My stomach is in knots. I'm preparing for incoming auditory sensory overload. There is always that one parent who brings a child young enough to sit in a booster seat. At least one time during that visit, a squeal or two rents the air and I visibly jump.
Dishware clatters somewhere in the background and our waitress is there, but I cannot advocate for myself and we wind up leaving.
We walk along a street. A car honks. A dog barks and pulls at his owner's leash-one of those retractable ones that allows him to get too close.
All of a sudden you witness the woman you once met in the sanctuary of her living room screaming and hitting herself and wonder-is she just overreacting? Does she want attention?
If you wanted attention, would you publically humiliate yourself without premeditation?
I'm not in control of my body right now. I am not in control of my sanity. There is too much sensory information coming at me faster than I can process it.
I see you pull out your shiny smartphone and slap your hand until it clatters to the pavement. Cell phones and meltdowns mean one thing and one thing only: police. Police yell, shove and ask too many questions. Sometimes they put me in the back of an ambulance.
We eventually manage to make it to your car.
Three weeks later, I text (not call) you to thank you for taking me to lunch, for not calling 911. I explain that meltdowns are so traumatic to me that I can take weeks to return to a completely calm and logical person.
I'm sitting in my sea foam blue living room, rocking in my chair. I'm safe. I'm in control of my environment. I can make sense of things again.
We don't see each other again. "We are on different planes." you say. You thrive on a multiple sensory environment. You feel robbed if someone doesn't make eye contact with you while conversing. You live on your own and have a thriving career.
I live with my family member and cannot support myself.
You've had quite an education. The contrast between meeting me in my living room and the restaurant will play out in your mind for some time.
Maybe you will see a feminine, artsy woman rocking the boho look. She may have a friend or maybe it's her sister with her in a store or restaurant. Her fun, carefree adornments make her seem like me, back in my living room, before we went out for lunch.
Then, she begins to rock back and forth in place, crying. You notice other people whispering and staring as you try to avert your eyes out of new found compassion. You wonder why they're being so obviously rude, even though the lady can't see any of that. The other woman guides her out of the danger zone, not yelling or grabbing, but firmly announcing "Let's go get some air." Not a twinge of judgment in her voice.
You smile inside, your judgment dissolving. Maybe we won't see each other again, but you are better for the journey for having known me.
I have to believe that.
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| The author in Polaroid frame Misconceptions cleared up. |