In My Own
World
How can I
explain to you through this foggy mist that surrounds me and obstructs my own
mirror, what it feels like to exist in an abandoned junkyard filled with things
I have no names for? I am the only one here, the only witness.
A discarded, empty pop bottle clatters, rolls
to my feet. Empty like the depth of my reasoning, like my worthless words, incorrect
and failing in every way.
An
incident recently occurred that gave glimpse to my Inner World and the fence
that hems me in and keeps all others out. I wrote a book and gave a copy to my
therapist. I asked her to read it, in an attempt to understand Autistic me.
After reading, I asked her about it.
She stated
that she didn’t know that I had difficulty with being handed objects, appointment
cards, newspapers, a letter to mail, anything that can transfer from hand to
hand. As my therapist of seven years, she has handed me dozens of little paper
cards with appointment times and dates all the while not knowing…but I thought
she knew. I was sure she knew.
I remember
the first few times that she handed me an appointment card. In my head, I
remarked to myself that “oh, she must she how brave and courageous and full of
strength I am as I can take this card from her hand to mine.” I was so proud of
myself as I had to mentally push and pull all of my effort into cerebrally “agreeing”
to extend my hand and touch something foreign, something that was not mine,
something I wasn’t sure would not hurt me. There was nothing easy about this
seemingly trivial, ordinary gesture. By strength of will, by extreme force and focus,
as if a bulldozer striking mountain, I had to leap over my apprehension, my
hesitant fear and make my arm move in such a way as to reach the extended
paper. And the therapist, why, she didn’t even hesitate to hand it to me. I
didn’t understand. For the next few years, the struggle to extend my arm was
there, maybe not on every single occasion and maybe on some occasions only a
little, but the reluctance to be handed a paper card was alive and well in my
little world.
As a trained
counselor, I attributed knowledge to her that only existed within my head. I
thought that all therapists would be acutely aware that I was being asked to do
something vehemently against all my instincts and nature. My hands do not like
moving away from my body. They just don’t. It is unnatural for me to partake in
those ordinary neurotypical gestures such as waving, pointing, or even, giving
the finger (well, that is just vulgar and gross and also involves my arms
having to move away form the center of my body.) I thought that all people were
like me. I also believed all counselors knew that accepting something handed
was a monumental achievement for me. But therapist did not clap or smile or
even acknowledge my grand feat. Strange she is, I thought. But alas, it was me.
It was not
until this past week, when the therapist remarked that she did not know about
my “being handed something” difficulty, that I realized having that difficulty
was odd, unusual and not something she had ever encountered. I term this odd
condition of feeling “chirophobia” meaning “hand fear”. It made me wonder if
this is an Autistic trait shared with others on the Spectrum? Or is it an
oddity of me alone?
The
miscommunication or, rather, misunderstanding within my own thinking was
two-fold. One, other people do not think the same way that I think. Others may
or may not have difficulty being handed objects. Two, therapists do not
inherently know more or know my problem areas. They do not know what I am
thinking or why I do what I do. I thought they did. I gave them superpowers,
apparently. In no way am I attempting humor.
Trying to
describe Aspergers is like a fish trying to describe water. It has just always
been there, always been this way, and I struggle to understand what it would be
like on dry land, breathing air and feeling the sun.
I am awash
in sensations, feelings, emotions, and thoughts which are vapors, formless,
clouds adrift, waters that run so deep there is no bottom or color. It is a challenge
to understand things outside of my personal experiences. I do not comprehend
what the masses do, how they think and behave and what they do or do not
understand.
I am a
cavedweller amongst skyscrapers. The only light I understand is the fire I
light myself at my own hearth. And no one can get warm here but me. My light is
my own. I understand each crack and crevice of this cave but I cannot cross the
street without looking each way three times. I trust the dirt under my feet
more than I trust the direction the crowd is moving in.
My mind is
truly my own. It is both blessing and curse. I am on a constant journey to
understand my inner workings and I realize no one can help me unless I find the
words to ask for assistance. I need assistance each day. Ah, but I have said too
much now. My privacy more paramount than my opening the door so others may see
my dysfunction and dire.
I am learning
that what I think, others are not. I am learning that I have no idea what
another person is thinking.
I walk alone
in the dark with a burned out candle and I do not know how to ask for a match
or even that matches exist.
I am
Autistic, yes.
