Autism Inside And Out

by Eric E. Cane

You won’t be believed, I was told. The people who know you, who admit to trusting you, respecting you — they won’t believe you. What they hold in their head of you, what they’ve shaped from their experiences with you, cannot accept hearing that word.

Autism.

Or the phrase, “Being on the spectrum.”

I think the double-edged sword of the neuro-diverse mind (Autism spectrum) can be a detriment at the time of revealing. Because of how it adapts. How it can help make “regular” people (neuro-typicals) believe you aren’t that different from them. That you don’t have challenges — sometimes massive challenges — they might not understand in your efforts to appear like them.

This is especially so when the revealing comes later in life. When you are diagnosed with something that makes you cry with relief because now you understand all the anxiety since childhood. I remember at three years old standing outside the house on the grass in my loose overalls in the dark trying to find mom. The feeling then isn’t much different than now. I just understand it a little better now.

My being on the spectrum means I hear, feel, smell, taste, see so many different things all at once and can only get away from them through profound focus that shuts off the world for a time.

For a time.

But then I exist in my head deeply on one track. At those times, people and other children get a peek. Like in middle school when a teacher was suddenly standing before me asking if I’ve been listening. I had been staring blankly and was unresponsive. I was aware all the other kids were quiet. I mumbled, “Yes.”

Of course, I hadn’t heard her. Or any of them.

I just had gone away for a while.

What was in my head I could control. There was some peace from all the noise, all the pressure against my back from the hard wood desk with the steel arm support and the metal screw heads with slight burrs on them because someone hadn’t machined them down properly, the humming bright lights overhead, the smell of chalk, the shifting and whispering students and their motions, my own shirt collar and its pressure around my neck among other things.

All these were normal. But the other kids, the other adults, didn’t seem to have a problem with them. Sometimes a less-than-thoughtful teacher would slam a ruler down on his desk to startle everyone. We all jumped. I felt the pain of that sound all the way to my core. I was angry, while the other kids were laughing. It was enough for me to stop repeatedly touching the sharp screw head under the desk. The one that felt so good and was calming. The one that allowed me to focus away from the other noises that were so disturbing.

And then that bright, crisp slap on the desk just added up to all the other things that made me hate school.

I had always thought I was just studying people all my life. Even from a very early age. Being acutely aware of little things they were doing when they thought no one was looking or when they were in groups of other people. I now realize I was studying them. It was to understand why they moved a certain way or how they suppressed certain movements such as facial expressions, arm and leg positions and posture to fit in so the others wouldn’t pick on them for being different. I also paid close attention to the words they used, especially words attached to feelings. I remember hearing myself laugh too loud or not enough or that my hands were not in my pockets like the other kids. I corrected this, of course. When I remembered to do it. When I wasn’t in my head or focusing on something else hard enough to get away from all the other things I was feeling, hearing, seeing, smelling.

That was training, though. The study and then the masking we all do to some degree to fit in. I didn’t realize other people like me study others all the time. All the time. We have a difficult time shutting it off. And it isn’t always just to fit in, but because some of that stuff “normal” neuro-typicals do just doesn’t make any sense. At all. We (spectrum types) can’t get our minds around the why of certain conventions, but we are capable of mimicking them.

Mostly.

Sometimes.

I care less about fitting in now that I’m an adult, but I am still very aware of too many things at once. That’s part of the anxiety. That constant pressure from adjusting my body and words so that I don’t repeat actions or movements over and over again, which makes other people think of me differently. How they focus on that difference rather than just letting me be. The difference is highlighted. It’s why I always sat in the back row when possible. I could be more me when no one was looking in the back row of life.

I’m clever about how I hide this. I’ve had decades of training. I’m passable. My very close friends look at each other when I start to talk excessively about a certain subject and seem to have an unlimited number of details about it. Even with them, I catch myself at times early enough to say nothing. They may not be that interested. I have to remember that and shut up before I start. Sometimes I’m successful.

But talking about the subject helps drown out some of the stress I’m feeling from being too aware of the noise or the feel of clothing or…

Well, I don’t want to go on and on. It might bore you.

There’s no doubt through all the years and experiences with people, they find me different. I’ve been told as much. There’s something about me that isn’t quite like other people they’ve encountered. I’ve tried to mask it all, but some gets through.

Each of us has unique qualities. I know. I’ve studied. Even many neuro-typicals suppress good things in themselves in order to be accepted by others who are doing the same suppression. Simple things like creative ideas or likes or dislikes they won’t dare tell their friends because they might reject them. They might not be invited to parties to exist happily in the noise of other people they enjoy.

I’ve never needed that type of acceptance. Where I must renounce my likes, dislikes, or creative interpretations in order to be accepted by people who are just more intimidating, loud, boldly expressive or seen as successful by some ill-defined measure. Many want to be like these people because they present a particular confidence and ease as they move through life — qualities that seem desirable. Natural.

But we who’ve studied and practiced masking all our lives know different. We see some of the things these people are hiding. They slip up. Sometimes, all it takes is a tiny glimpse.

I’ve never wanted to be anything other than who I am. I just don’t want to be denied for who I am. I have too much anxiety with all the sensory stuff going on to add that to the pile. So that’s why I and my brother and sisters on the spectrum work to “fit in.” Not to be like you, rather not to be attacked or denied for who we are.

When I finally told some people about my being on the spectrum, some simply didn’t want to hear it. They’ve seen me being “normal” with above average ability in some areas. I did not give off any “autism signs” or display the exaggerated behaviors popularized on TV and in movies. I had to misunderstand or had some other ulterior motive.

What they don’t see is my repeatedly pulling at the hairs on my leg or the many other actions or mental processes I keep hidden to help dim the clamor of my senses or the intense daily anxiety that only deep focus or stimming can overcome.

So, for those who don’t want to hear it, I shut up. I keep it to myself and remain the mimic they know. My discovery (and relief) after all these years isn’t for them. They can keep their image of me in their head. We don’t all need a glimpse into the inner workings of each other.

Though I can’t imagine why having more knowledge is a bad thing. In fact, I think it’s like reading a good book. The more we read, the more we understand experiences from people other than ourselves. We gain empathy and know more about the qualities that don’t have to be highlighted or singled out — they just don’t have to be attacked, denied, or treated as something other than what they actually are. Only more knowledge helps us in that.

But ignorance has its rewards. I have a feeling it helps reduce some people’s anxiety about the real world (not the one they only created in their heads) and the diversity we all share to one degree or another.

This was difficult for me to write. It’s even more difficult to share. But I’m told it’ll help others out there. I’m still coming to terms with being neuro-diverse and the image of myself I created after all these years.

Seems we all have some work to do.

And to accept who we are.

Eric E. Cane also has a podcast on the individual and creative expression here.