Sensory Stuff

Our Autistic Expression

How did a Transformers movie help me to understand that I am neurodivergent, and put to rest an oft-voiced complaint about me in social settings? Read on to learn this, and other aspects of our sensory experience, in the latest edition of the ongoing series Our Autistic Expression.

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Because of our late diagnoses, and our tendency to ask innumerable questions about ourselves and about the world, once we both understood that we might be neurodivergent, we sought out indices of our own behaviors (and experiences, tendencies, thoughts, etc) for comparison. As anyone in a similar position will understand, we are endlessly self-aware and search for causal chains for logical explanations. We sought the wisdom of anecdotal experience, alongside reading mountains of evidence-based clinical research and white papers on neurodivergence & autistic expression.

Sensory processing is of great focus in both personal and scientific research. I had never considered my own sensory processing as unusual or atypical, and what I read forced me to think much more deeply.

A dawning moment that I was assuredly on the spectrum was sensory in nature, a realization as epic as the intent of the Michael Bay movie on which it centered. That a Transformers movie should be the catalyst for my self-awareness is both fitting and humorous.

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Like many, I often went to the movies, prior to the streaming age. I always enjoyed the experience but could hardly remember what I’d seen afterward. I couldn’t recall plot details or character names. I had always attributed this to my mind fixating on details it found more pressing – the choices the set designer made, how the composer created suspense, etc.

Despite my inability to nap (lifelong inability, you can ask my mom) and my inability to fall asleep in public, or sleep sitting up, during the biggest action movies, I always fell asleep. No matter how much I’d looked forward to seeing the movie, no matter how important it was to me that I remain awake, 30 to 45 minutes in I was dozing. I never made the conscious decision to close my eyes, never felt bored, tired, or disinterested, and yet, again and again, inexplicably, I was told by those accompanying me, “You passed out,” “You fell asleep,” “You were out like a light,” etc.

And just as inexplicably, I’d awaken during the credits. Star Wars episode 4 is my first recollection of this happening, but many people found that movie boring (sorry fans), so it didn’t surprise me. It happened again during action-adventure movies, most notably during one of the Transformers movies. (I really don’t know which one.)

I was sitting in the theater, excited and impressed by the intense special effects, digital art having come so far in such a short time. It was a magnificent take on the toys I coveted from the boys’ toy aisle as a child in the early 90s.

No less than 10 minutes into the movie, I was having trouble keeping my eyes open, despite the double espresso I’d had an hour before. I fought the sleepiness as long as I could. My body rattled and my skin buzzed from the voluminous surround sound, literally shaking and thumping along with every footstep and every collision. My body pulsed chaotically, deep in my muscles, entirely out of my control. My eyes grew heavier as the bright, colorful, highly pixelated action sequences penetrated my retinae. The last thing I remember before “falling asleep” was the sensation that my heart was going to race itself right out of my rib cage.

At the roll of the credits, my eyes popped open and I was awake. My skin no longer trembled. My muscles twinged, like I’d run a mile without stretching first, but otherwise I felt nothing but shame. The person I was with, someone I was dating at the time, was furious with me afterward. He’d spent money on these tickets, after all, and the least I could have done was tell him I wasn’t interested in seeing it. I had no way of explaining – I was interested!

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With the understanding that I might be neurodivergent, a decade later, this was the first experience that came to mind. I hadn’t been falling asleep out of boredom or exhaustion. And I wasn’t “waking up” at the credits because I sensed people moving around or heard the end roll in my sleep.

I was blacking out from something the community refers to as sensory overload.

The intensity of movies with rising action, incredibly loud sounds, and flashing, colorful images were literally overloading my body’s ability to keep track of all of the sensations it was experiencing. My body was overwhelmed with the inability to turn down or tune out the noise, so to speak. Consciousness requires a lot of neurological resources, and my body’s tendency in these rare and extreme situations was to conserve resources, by shutting down awareness and running on autopilot.

I was waking up at the credit roll because I was never really asleep. I was experiencing the entire movie without consciously having to process all of my sensations. The moment the sensory experience dulled, the light switch flipped, and I was ‘awake’ again, consciousness returned to me.

Likely, my inability to remember any movie is a facet of this as well. Storing anything in short-term memory takes resources too. I like the analogy of a computer’s RAM, or Random Access Memory. If all of my processing power is being used to touch base with my skin, muscles, sights, sounds, etc., then likely the resources (or RAM) available to also catalog memories during these moments is slim.

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I have no proof of this other than that of my own experiences. I don’t know if there would be a safe way to prove it. Now I just avoid Michael Bay movies and most of the trouble in this particular regard has subsided.

My desire to KNOW was strong and had been powerful in the past. Did my awareness of the issue remove the sensitivity? I wished to go willingly into the belly of the beast once more, having gained this knowledge, trying desperately to know myself.

I chose a 4D action movie, which purported to be a sequel to one of my favorite movies, starring Tom Cruise. (It was not a sequel.) In the 4D theater, the seats move to replicate the character’s experience on scene. If a character falls, the chair bumps. If a character leans over a railing, the chair tilts forward. Scents and sprays are directed at the audience to enliven the experience further. I figured, it may not be Michael Bay, but if I’m right and this is actually sensory overload, the added scents, smells, and movement should make up for the loud (if not abnormally loud) sounds and vivid (if not entirely digitally wonderous) imagery.

The moment before I blacked out, my back was crawling with sensation as rats devoured Tom Cruise in a London alley.

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It isn’t just movies. Concerts are a special sort of shock as well. When I feel the bass in my chest and see the lights strobing, there’s a chance I’m a goner. I remember the first half of an AC/DC concert I attended, and then my date forcibly shaking me and lecturing me all the way out to the parking lot about the stupidity of over-imbibing. (I’d had 3 beers, not a drunken black-out’s worth, but seeing me black out, he’d assumed many more.)

Sensory overload is truly a difficult thing to understand if you haven’t experienced it for yourself. It isn’t a headache under a bright light or the grating shudder when hearing nails on the chalk board. It is the overwhelm of sensory input combined with the inability to process all of the data coming through.  And it is exhausting.

In my daily life, I don’t experience sensory overload very often, and I have since learned how to manage my environment in order to cope.

  • I avoid movie theaters generally, and the rise of big screen TV has made movies much more pleasant. When I sense a movie is “too much” (eg a horror movie with a lot of blood and suspense), I sit sideways and casually watch the movie askance.
  • My office and bedroom offer a variety of lighting options, to stimulate or relax sensations, but in general I prefer yellow light to bright white light.
  • I prefer dark paint to light paint, especially in relaxation settings.
  • I’m discerning about the clothing I wear, textures in particular, so that I’m not adding to my sensory load by feeling an itchy synthetic draw on my neck or hips. More about my fashion-related autistic expression here.
  • I sleep with a mask to darken the room, cover digital lights with black tape, and have replaced a noisy air conditioner for one with a quieter motor.
  • I keep gentle, pleasant smelling essential oil or lotion with me at all times, in case an outside smell is nauseating.
  • After a long day, I sit in the dark to recover, with no screens and no sounds, just something to hold my focus, like a sketchbook.
  • I take frequent walks in nature, which only ever relaxes me.
  • I avoid the beach and its vastness.
  • I seek out hugs or personal space when the needs arise.

There are rare times when I need to turn the lights up, the sound on, and create an environment rife with multiple inputs. I’m not entirely sensorially wimpy, so to speak.

The Scientist can never get enough sensory input. Curiously, like me, he really enjoys nature but for different reasons. Pathways among the trees provide an endless amount of visually stimulating textures, colors, and random variations; the outdoors wrap his other senses pleasantly as well. His ideal day is spent on death-defying rollercoasters in the sun with loud music blaring. After a long day, he needs an unfathomable (to me) amount (say, all the lights on, loud anime, a handheld video game, a heating pad, & a fizzy drink). As partners, this makes our living situation interesting, and at times, challenging.

As always, with verbal cues and self-awareness, we do our best to make it work and keep it working.

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About the Series

I am neurodivergent. Neurodivergent is more appropriate terminology than autistic, a term which derives from the Greek word autos meaning self, a term intended to imply isolation from social interaction. While the definition of autism has expanded over time, I feel it’s more flawed and divisive than not (as labels typically are). While I do still refer to myself as autistic on occasion, I’m much more likely to label my notable traits as autistic, as in “this skill or tendency sets me apart”, and to describe myself generally as divergent.

My partner, also neurodivergent, feels similarly. We were both diagnosed later in life, in our mid-late 20s, after running the gauntlet of other health and human service concerns and crossing the eventual “must be autism if it isn’t these other things” finish line. I wouldn’t wish either of our journeys toward diagnosis for anyone, years rife with stress, mislabeling, depression, psychosis, serious medical ailments, and general social othering. The medical and psychiatric communities have already begun to recognize neurodivergence earlier, and with more sincere gender blindness, to provide individuals with the tools, resources, and assistance they require. To “make it” in our society as a person who falls many standard deviations outside the expected average on related scales relies on an individualized approach to education and healthcare. (A much larger conversation for another day.)

Sincerely,

Sunshine

Of Www.sunshineandthescientist.com

Creator of Kid Lit Motivates: a fledgling business on Long Island providing customized educational resources from a unique perspective of education

Author of Maddie Steiner, Fashion Designer

Following the Rules

Our Autistic Expression

Rules are meant to be broken, but to break them intentionally as the quote suggests, I have to know what they are.

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My ignorance is no defense, but just know by the stunned look on my face, the reddening of my cheeks, and the sudden lack of eye contact- if I broke some unspoken, unlisted, inexcusable rule, it was unintentional. I can always sense when I’ve erred. I don’t always sense how.

Mostly, when unspoken rules are broken, no reasoned explanation is given. To me, that’s the hardest part. That’s my neurodivergent itch to understand, to apply reasoned thought to everything.

This is one frame with which I view life. There are rules that we must follow, on which we can agree.

For most of my life, I lived for knowing (not always following) the rules. Every choice has consequences, so breaking a rule is a matter of weighing those consequences. The expectations in various situations vary, and there are usually a whole host of things not mentioned in the rulebooks on which I’m also being judged.

I can’t know for sure if neurotypicals consider this when they hold people to the unwritten expectations in any given scenario. I used to think they must. Now I’m fairly convinced its a rare trait in humanity in general. Like extreme empathy. Or virtuosic musicianship.

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There are rules everywhere. For everything. At all times.

Even friendships have rules (we call them boundaries) and they’re harder to distinguish. Friendships with the nondivergent are hard to cultivate for this reason. Sometimes they don’t even know what their own rules are, or they change, or they act a certain way because its raining, or some such. I can manage a few friendship like this at a time, but I require much post-hang-out processing to fully understand what I’ve experienced, out-processing interactions, the side eyes and nuances I saw in the moment but couldn’t process while also maintaining my focus on the conversation in the setting. When I said this, they said this, but then they slightly stretched their eye lids, and then immediately ordered another drink, before looking at me and smiling awkwardly. Was this my trespass? Or their internal measure? Are they even aware they did that? And so on.

At least with the neurodivergent, there’s a tendency toward self-awareness or self-pronouncement or clear-cut lines between okay and not okay. There’s an acceptance of variable needs.

There’s also the moral code. Our duty to one another to do our best and do what’s right. I have mine enumerated, but in sum it is “Do unto others” plus “Strive for wellness.”

As I’ve aged, I’ve had an easier time recognizing rules and boundaries. It’s a lifetime pursuit, an academic course of study, understanding what is and isn’t acceptable based on what has or has not transpired in between two people, within a given culture, for my lifespan and the lives of those whose counsel I trust. In many ways, the rules have changed a lot since I was a child, but that’s just a dynamic society acting and reacting, breathing changes.

When people act immorally, illogically, unreasonably, basically like people sometimes do, I’m flummoxed. What’s the motivation? Whyyyyy, I ask the ceiling of many rooms I’m in.

I thrive on rules and I always have. I set them easily for myself and pivot when I need to. It’s about health and wellness, feeling good at the end of the day, or as good as can be expected. It’s about minimizing discomfort, physical, mental, social, and otherwise.

Problem explicitly identified? New rule implemented. Change accepted. Situation improved. Wheel turns.

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Change is easy, easier than maintaining the norm. I get itchy sitting still, itchier still remaining the same. I’m fortunate to be engaged to a neurodivergent man of a similar nature — the Scientist and I will be changing together forever.

Here are my main personal rules (personal as in for me, as in I only expect me to live this way and pass no judgment on anyone else for behaving otherwise):

I never drink more than 6 alcoholic drinks in 4 hours, almost never drink 2 days in a row, and never drink before 4pm unless it’s a holiday where that’s typical. Alcohol creates a depressing self-interested spiralized hole in my mind that need continuous, verbal processing to refill. I put this rule first because it has an intense effect.

As a rule, I prefer a structured workplace with an ever-changing and expansive workload, and I seek these environments and situations out. I’ve been tasked with writing operations and training manuals at many of my jobs, and I’ve had many jobs because before I knew myself as autistic, I externalized internal events. At this point, I’m working from home, for a growing company, doing all sorts of tasks in the comfort of nonfluorescent lighting.

To that end, I prefer yellowish light to bluish, warm colors to cool, quiet situations to loud ones, though I love loud concerts when I’m expecting them. I keep my blue light filters on, I track my hours on a daily basis so I know I’m using my time productively, and I thoughtfully manage working my job, starting my own creativity-centered company, writing a blog, taking long hikes, playing pool, spending quality time with my cats, landscaping, and a host of other things. After I hit a personal low, prior to understanding I was autistic, I started climbing, filling my days, and set a rule to never let myself waste time. I sleep comfortably 6–7 hours a night.

I’m learning how to rest.

I have rules about what I’ll eat and won’t, what I’ll drink and won’t, and when and from where. I don’t often feel hungry or thirsty so I use the clock to prompt me at the same times each day. My food rules are based primarily on my experiences with an undiagnosed stomach disorder I had for the first 20 years of my life, a disorder which immediately got better when I stopped eating pork, meat, chicken, most fried foods, foods with heavy fat and oil content, almonds, raw leafy greens, Splenda, juice on an empty stomach, and full-fat dairy. I don’t expect anyone to keep track of these rules. I manage them just fine and I learned to cook so as not to rely on anyone else to do it for me.

If I’m a guest at dinner, I’m vegetarian. As long as there is a single non-meat dish, I’ll work around everything else based on my internal signaling. I’ll bring my own meal if they cook exclusively with lard. I never settle for an upset stomach, but I never offend a host who is sharing their table with me.

For that matter, if prompted, I will describe in polite or graphic detail the agony of bacon, the indigestion of orange juice, the nights I spent literally on the floor screaming… best not to ask at the dinner table, because I will indulge them for their edification. No, bacon does not go with everything. No, I don’t miss the feeling that a small gnome with a giant pick-axe is trying to cut his way out of my intestines. (The imagery helped me cope when I was a kid. Now it makes people chuckle.)

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I prefer when friends can speak the truth, about me, about themselves or otherwise. The truth does set me free. I can accept self-denial from friends, but insist on an open-book, self-aware model from me outward. So what if I’m blunt, awkward, and keep myself to impossible standards? I’m also kind, generous, and supportive. I’ve crossed a lot of bridges, and I’ll help anyone cross theirs too.

Do I drive over the speed limit? Sure. The speed signs in my area were posted in the 1940s and 50s, when anti-lock breaks and power steering were nonexistent, when cars were giant metal boxes with no safety equipment, boats on wheels, so to speak. So I may drive 5-10 over the posted limit, but … what are those drive 30-40mph over the limit thinking? It’s dangerous for us all. Everyone. It’s not an oppressive rule, it’s a matter of civic duty and safety. Survival.

We all have rules in society and we all know them to some extent or another.

There are rules about when to water the lawn. If it’s 2pm on a hot day and the sprinklers are on, not only are they breaking a rule in my neighborhood, but they’re actually boiling their grass from the inside.

Rules about right-of-way on the road.

Rules about hygiene.

Rules about equity, and equanimity.

Rules about greetings and parties and phone calls and comments and the pandemic has made all of these rules entirely unique for everyone, which is just a field day for my mental filing system. If they tell me what they expect from me, I’ll file that away too. Make a mental preference note.

When I learn a new rule, I ask why, what for, unless the reason is obvious.

Do the nondivergent NEED to know WHY it’s a rule? I’d say most don’t acknowledge how many rules they follow, let alone why. People in the herd for one thing or another. Others exist in a world of their own making, with no structure, and nothing but this moment to guide the next. I’m guessing, of course. I have no idea how they think. I just know that its nothing like me.

I’m all for mindfulness, but also learning from experience, mine and others, always learning, and planning for a healthier, safer tomorrow. Growth mindset. Keep growing.

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About the Series

I am neurodivergent. Neurodivergent is more appropriate terminology than autistic, a term which derives from the Greek word autos meaning self, a term intended to imply isolation from social interaction. While the definition of autism has expanded over time, I feel it is more flawed and divisive than not (as labels typically are). While I do still refer to myself as autistic on occasion, I’m much more likely to label my notable traits as autistic, as in “this skill or tendency sets me apart”, and to describe myself generally as divergent.

My partner, also neurodivergent, feels similarly. We were both diagnosed later in life, in our mid-late 20s, after running the gauntlet of other health and human service concerns and crossing the eventual “must be autism if it isn’t these other things” finish line. I wouldn’t wish either of our journeys toward diagnosis for anyone, years rife with stress, mislabeling, depression, psychosis, serious medical ailments, and general social othering. The medical and psychiatric communities have already begun to recognize neurodivergence earlier, and with more sincere gender blindness, to provide individuals with the tools, resources, and assistance they require. To “make it” in our society as a person who fall many standard deviations outside the expected average on related scales relies on an individualized approach to education and healthcare. (A much larger conversation for another day.)

Sincerely,

Sunshine

Of Www.sunshineandthescientist.com

Creator of Kid Lit Motivates: a fledgling business on Long Island providing customized educational resources from a unique perspective of education

Author of Maddie Steiner, Fashion Designer

To ID or Not ID, That is the Question

Part 2 of Our Autistic Expression

I’ve only just found out myself!’

If you’ve been searching for an answer that you finally possess, with whom do you share and why? Your acceptance at the table is not proof they are acknowledging you for your authentic self. Sometimes they prefer the mask.

For those who were not diagnosed when we were younger, who struggled with facets of our true selves that seemed at constant odds with the majority, and who wrestled with metaphysical questions or shrunk from the crowds, the later-in-life Autistic/Neurodivergent label was a breath of fresh air. Some of us had already mastered masking techniques to blend with our nondivergent peers and some had pursued professions which intentionally played up our uniqueness. This might have been at cost to our self-esteem, mental well-being, physical health, or financial stability. The autistic label helped us find community, inclusion, coping mechanisms, strategies, and ways to verbalize who we are, really. For me, it was the puzzle piece I’d been obsessed with finding, not a missing piece but an explanation.

Photo by Sigmund on Unsplash

I’ve identified as neurodivergent (or autistic, to match familiar vernacular) for 5 years, and in that time, I’ve seen such huge strides for those who are just like me, personally and socially. We may quibble over exactly what labels are most fitting, but it is undeniable how we’ve been benefitted and more openly free to find comfort in modern society. Women, in particular, are finding more of a community than ever before, as masked stand-offish “mean” girls come to terms with their nonconformist beings and are thereby more accepting of their nonconformist peers.

So the question then becomes, now that we carry this encompassing idea of who we are, at what point and for what reasons should we identify ourselves to others? In this second installment of Our Autistic Expression, I’ll discuss my rationalizations and the reactions I’ve received in return.

Photo by John Noonan on Unsplash

From pleasantly surprising to entirely misinformed, the responses I’ve heard have dictated the platform on which I currently stand.

Response 1: Like Minds

‘Are you like me?’

On our first date, after a few hours of an incredible, stimulating, and engaging conversation, my partner (the Scientist) and I sat with one another in awe. It was more than an instant connection — it was a mirroring energy and understanding.

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you,” the Scientist intoned. I was rapt. He could have spent the next hour explaining all of the cell organelles and their function, or describing the many burrito shops in his home town, or pitching his groundbreaking idea in materials engineering, and I would have been present for him entirely. “I’m neurodivergent and I’m different than most people.” He glanced at me sidelong awaiting my reaction, until I squealed, “Me too!”

The conversation that followed encompassed our categorical labels, the ways in which we feel different from average, and the respective searches we’d undertaken to find what fit. It bonded us in an incredibly deep way.

When we find people that we jive with, there’s a certain rhythm to the conversation and an unusually high level of acceptance for experiences and opinions. We identify because we want them to know us and interpret our intentions correctly, and in these instances, nearly always, they identify in return or reveal that they’re on a similar path.

We identify to acknowledge instantaneous acceptance among the like-minded and be known fully for who we are.

Photo by Dulcey Lima on Unsplash

Response 2: Clarity

‘I have so many questions. Someone I know is also autistic.’

Once I’ve identified, and hear this reaction, I’m open-minded to the questions at hand. Perhaps I’ll be able to enlighten this person or help them find common ground for an extended communication with their friend or loved one. Sometimes, ‘for a friend’, I’m really just helping them make peace within themselves. With the combination of my training, passionate pursuit of the subject, clinical experience, and self-awareness, I do feel qualified to answer questions or direct the person toward the information they need.

Recently, I was approached at a pop-up show by a woman in her 50s who was very interested in the social skills-based educational resources I create and the events the Scientist and I coordinate. I explained my perspective that typical and divergent children alike are not necessarily learning social skills in a translatable, accessible way. I’m on the spectrum, I explained, so I tend to have objectively different approaches to solving problems. Her eyes lit up and she responded, “That’s wonderful. I’m dating a man who’s autistic. We’ve only been together a few months, and I’ve learned so much, but I have so many questions. He’s still learning how to communicate what he needs and I’m learning how to listen to those needs.” I encouraged her to email me, outside of the brand and the merchandise, to initiate a conversation, in case I might be able to assist her further in any way.

We identify to build community with our neurotypical peers and help them to understand the cultural transition that is occurring.

Photo by Shane Rounce on Unsplash

Response 3: Disbelief

‘That’s not funny, and it’s really offensive to autistic people.’

Unfortunately, the outdated and traditionalist view of autism is that akin to definitions of incapacity, inability, and unsociability. The stereotypes of an autistic person being incapable of learning complex tasks or communicating in a typical way (either ‘high’ or ‘low’ functioning) have been challenging to break down. There are those who even still believe that autism should not be considered a spectrum at all, that it is a limited disability and not a wide-reaching subset of the population which requires and cultivates differences, individuals existing on the farthest points on some of the many bell curves of society’s averages. There are others who would happily put an autistic label on anyone if it meant funding their healthcare or developmental needs. The scope of misunderstanding is maddening.

When someone responds to my statement with disbelief or disgust, I do my best to maintain perspective. I always double down, explain that it was something I struggled to fully comprehend, something others noticed but couldn’t describe, a revelatory light bulb that burned brighter than nearly any other I’d experienced. “But you’re so…” something, they’ll say, and then I usually feel forced to describe my downtime and the kinds of constructs and boundaries required for me to maintain being “so…something”. I dislike being put in a position where I need to describe the downsides of metacognitive spin, catatonia, apathy, melting down, or cognitive rigidity. Even describing these things esoterically becomes a potential difficulty to surmount, but in my experience it’s the only way to inform a person that meets my truth with disbelief.

We identify to appropriately broaden the public’s understanding of autism, with knowing risk to our well-being.

Photo by Vlad Hilitanu on Unsplash

Response 4: Tone Shift to Ghost

‘I don’t know what to do with that.’

A disquieting silence or physical retraction is not uncommon upon hearing me identify. The tone may shift from pity to silence, as though whatever social connection was brewing before is now not worth continuing in light of the new evidence. There have been those who could not maintain a friendship once the identity was clear, once the masks were off. It’s typically when I am at my most comfortable, most free and open in someone’s presence, that they manifest distance and disappear. I am a lot — I am challenging, driven to succeed, held together by strict guidelines I set for myself alone, and prone to using comedic banter to fill the silence. I very rarely advocate for myself with direct, social confrontation. I’m a quick study and a terrifyingly good mimic, and it’s these traits among others that seem to put people off the fastest.

Photo by Martino Pietropoli on Unsplash

In these instances, we identify to communicate unusual or extraordinary needs, feelings, or experiences, and to ask for adaptation or patience. My actions might require an explanation, and when it’s given, it’s discarded along with my friendship. A hard truth to accept is true nonetheless, and a friend is only a friend if they can befriend the you beneath the surface.

Our Autistic Expression

For some people, I suspect increasingly more people, the urge to announce their neurodivergent nature is growing. For others, I’m sure the desire to remove all labels for fear of isolating or facing the misinformed masses is prominent.

I have wavered on when to tell who what — is it something I keep secret and let them figure out? Is it something I announce after the conversation turns in that direction, or after an uncomfortable moment that was brought on because of it? What will be the social cost to identify or not identify? Do I rely on the person seeing my social posting, my brand identity, or my blog in order to understand me fully? Will knowing I’m neurodivergent change anything about our interaction for the better? I don’t know, but I am thinking about it.

In the meantime, while I’m still fitting the pieces together and understanding my own meandering, I would only ask of you compassion, for myself and others like me. If someone identifies as autistic or neurodivergent, listen to what they’re saying and consider why they’re telling you. They may still be figuring it out too.

Photo by Tim Marshall on Unsplash

We’re all going to figure it out together.

400 Words on Verbosity

The first of “Our Autistic Expression”, a series intended to inform interested parties about our observations and experiences. Rather than a sweepingly broad brush of neurodivergent averages (an oxymoronic idea), we wish to present very particular, brief, unique-to-us-yet-hopefully-relatable vignettes. We write to the curious, the empathetic, and the open-minded, regardless of where and if on the spectrum they identify.

Climb the aged ladder to the attic of our minds. Pull the chains attached to the singular, incandescent bulbs. Squint for a dim, noncomprehensive view of whatever thoughts are nearest the doorways.  

Sunshine & the Scientist
Photo by Naveen Annam on Pexels.com

400 Words on Verbosity

Sunshine’s View

I have always been labeled as highly verbal, aka talkative, chatty, too chatty, the arbiter of big words, the little professor from the earliest age, the know-it-all, the curious questioner. Even before I could talk, I mimicked basic sign language learned from children’s television to communicate with my parents. Then, I absorbed language with an unquenchable thirst, reading at a higher grade level than my peers by a factor of two. In my school years, teachers remarked simultaneously how proud they were of my talkative nature and my incredible vocabulary, and how disappointed they were of my inability to sit quietly or be challenged by the assignments and activities they presented.

For most people, a few minutes’ conversation is usually enough for even the least discerning individuals to notice that I’m…something. My partner has much the same effect. He often gets called a genius, brilliant, wonderous, which are all likely accurate. I, in comparison, am mistakenly labeled as conniving, manipulative, or domineering –all code for smart lady in a patriarchal society. In my view, the assumptions about my partner and I are not based on the content of our conversations, but rather our specificity of words, our lengthy speech patterning, and our penchant for being able to cite facts and figures, dates and names, with relative ease and accuracy. We also, unlike many we meet, will typically identify when we know we don’t know.

Because of the speed at which I process language, and the adoring deliberateness with which I communicate, I am full of puns, jokes, call-backs, accents, regional dialects, song lyrics, doubly- and triply-layered innuendo, and metacognitive observations. I may move too fast to be followed, making fewer connections aloud than I realize. My jokes fall flat for the uninitiated. My references seem scattered and my intentions mysterious. For other neurodivergent folk, I am a gem, if a bit overwhelming. For the non-divergent, I am a pariah, a handful, a witch, or an existential threat.

I am fortunate to have found my partner, who can follow and extend the conversation with unmatched precision. We can chat for hours and our attics are endlessly vaulted, a bit dusty, infrequently accessed, and jam-packed with interesting anecdotes and artifacts. We both developed with an intense passion for learning and for communicating, and it bonds us in the ways it sets us apart from others.

To the little professors, past and present, I see you.

Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com

About the Series

I am neurodivergent. Neurodivergent is more appropriate terminology than autistic, a term which derives from the Greek word autos meaning self, a term intended to imply isolation from social interaction. While the definition of autism has expanded over time, I feel it is more flawed and divisive than not (as labels typically are). While I do still refer to myself as autistic on occasion, I’m much more likely to label my notable traits as autistic, as in “this skill or tendency sets me apart”, and to describe myself generally as divergent. My partner, also neurodivergent, feels similarly.

We were both diagnosed later in life, in our mid-late 20s, after running the gauntlet of other health and human service concerns and crossing the eventual “must be autism if it isn’t these other things” finish line. I wouldn’t wish either of our journeys toward diagnosis for anyone, years rife with stress, mislabeling, depression, psychosis, serious medical ailments, and general social othering. The medical and psychiatric communities have already begun to recognize neurodivergence earlier, and with more sincere gender blindness, to provide individuals with the tools, resources, and assistance they require. To “make it” in our society as a person who fall many standard deviations outside the expected average on related scales relies on an individualized approach to education and healthcare. (A much larger conversation for another day.)

Sincerely, 

Sunshine

of www.sunshineandthescientist.com

Creator of Kid Lit Motivates and educational and therapeutic resources, downloadable on TpT

Author of Maddie Steiner, Fashion Designer (and, with support, future picture books)

Photo by Khoa Vu00f5 on Pexels.com

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We prioritize community, growth mindset, and neurodivergent inclusion, and we truly enjoy the conversations that arise from our openness.