My Own Little World on the Autism Spectrum, Misunderstanding and Miscommunication Explained

 

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.