Autism is weird. Finding out you have autism in your 40's is even weirder.
I've been autistic my whole life, but I only found out a few years ago. What a life changing revelation that was. Holy shit! A lifetime of memories had to be re-processed and re-defined. A lifetime of experiences had an entirely new context. A lifetime of wondering what the fuck was wrong with me now had an answer.
NOTHING! Haha, that's a lie, I'm all sorts of fucked up. But at least now I understand why. That helps more than you might realise.
I always knew my brain was different. It was very obvious from very early on. Everyone is different, but I was differenter. Differently different. DIFFERENT. A bit weird. A bit awkward. A bit prone to saying things out loud that other people apparently thought were not the sort of things you said out loud in polite society.
Also a bit prone to having ideas that no one else seemed to have, and some people seemed to like. Some of the time. The big problem was never knowing in advance which ideas were the likable ones, and which people were the likely to like them type. It got very stressful.
I spent much of my teens and 20's learning where the boundaries lay by studying the looks on the faces of the people around me. There is a horrified look that I came to understand meant "that was a thing you don't say out loud." There is a bemused look that means "I like where you're coming from, but I don't know how you got there." And there's a nervous kind of laughter that means "I wouldn't have said that, but I'm glad you did." There's others, but they are the ones that mattered the most. I saw them a lot, in varying shades.
I spent a lot of energy trying to avoid making people make those faces. With occasional success, and constant stress. They call it 'masking' in autistic circles. I called it trying to fit in. And trying to get laid.
I found some friends who would let me take my mask off. I tried my hardest to keep them, and succeeded some of the time. They're good people. I'm glad I have them. I'm sad I lost some.
I found some women who would let me take their clothes off. I tried my hardest to keep them too, but always failed, eventually. Relationships are hard.
I tried lots of ways to make a living. My first job was in retail, but not the horrible parts of retail: I would never have survived in groceries or fashion. I worked in a book store. Autistic heaven. I worked very hard to keep that job. I bought a lot of books, and I stole a lot more. I don't feel bad about that, it was a long time ago, I was an undiagnosed autistic kid with impulse control issues and an obsessive streak. I worked hard for mediocre wages, and there was no way I could afford to buy all the books I needed to own, and they were making tons of money (it was possible for book stores to make tons of money back then). And I always donated the books I'd finished to Lifeline. I was the Robin Hood of literature.
I tried a lot of other jobs too: office cleaner, pizza delivery driver, telemarketer (I'm so sorry), charity koala, marketing consultant, creativity trainer, community grant writing consultant, door-to-door sales person (I'm very sorry for that too), copywriter, online marketing consultant, and online marketing manager.
A whirlwind romance, a twin pregnancy, an interstate move, a couple of job changes, a third child (three under 16 months - not recommended), not a single full night's sleep for the best part of 5 years, a still undiagnosed neuo-divergence, and a shit-ton of stress later and I nearly lost my fucking mind. Several times.
Eventually we said "fuck this shit" to all of that and I quit my job, we sold our house, and bought a motel in the country. It was a very good decision. Everything got better. Except the relationship. We separated, but kept the running the motel together. That was hard, but we made it work.
I wouldn't be where I am today without Angeline. She was the one who found the perfect motel to buy. She was the one who worked out I was autistic. She was the one who sub-divided the block of land that we later sold which gave me enough money to buy her share of the motel. And she was the one who gave me the three little people who mean more to me than anything.
But we were a terrible couple.
I've been autistic my whole life, but I only found out a few years ago. What a life changing revelation that was. Holy shit! A lifetime of memories had to be re-processed and re-defined. A lifetime of experiences had an entirely new context. A lifetime of wondering what the fuck was wrong with me now had an answer.
NOTHING! Haha, that's a lie, I'm all sorts of fucked up. But at least now I understand why. That helps more than you might realise.
I always knew my brain was different. It was very obvious from very early on. Everyone is different, but I was differenter. Differently different. DIFFERENT. A bit weird. A bit awkward. A bit prone to saying things out loud that other people apparently thought were not the sort of things you said out loud in polite society.
Also a bit prone to having ideas that no one else seemed to have, and some people seemed to like. Some of the time. The big problem was never knowing in advance which ideas were the likable ones, and which people were the likely to like them type. It got very stressful.
I spent much of my teens and 20's learning where the boundaries lay by studying the looks on the faces of the people around me. There is a horrified look that I came to understand meant "that was a thing you don't say out loud." There is a bemused look that means "I like where you're coming from, but I don't know how you got there." And there's a nervous kind of laughter that means "I wouldn't have said that, but I'm glad you did." There's others, but they are the ones that mattered the most. I saw them a lot, in varying shades.
I spent a lot of energy trying to avoid making people make those faces. With occasional success, and constant stress. They call it 'masking' in autistic circles. I called it trying to fit in. And trying to get laid.
I found some friends who would let me take my mask off. I tried my hardest to keep them, and succeeded some of the time. They're good people. I'm glad I have them. I'm sad I lost some.
I found some women who would let me take their clothes off. I tried my hardest to keep them too, but always failed, eventually. Relationships are hard.
I tried lots of ways to make a living. My first job was in retail, but not the horrible parts of retail: I would never have survived in groceries or fashion. I worked in a book store. Autistic heaven. I worked very hard to keep that job. I bought a lot of books, and I stole a lot more. I don't feel bad about that, it was a long time ago, I was an undiagnosed autistic kid with impulse control issues and an obsessive streak. I worked hard for mediocre wages, and there was no way I could afford to buy all the books I needed to own, and they were making tons of money (it was possible for book stores to make tons of money back then). And I always donated the books I'd finished to Lifeline. I was the Robin Hood of literature.
I tried a lot of other jobs too: office cleaner, pizza delivery driver, telemarketer (I'm so sorry), charity koala, marketing consultant, creativity trainer, community grant writing consultant, door-to-door sales person (I'm very sorry for that too), copywriter, online marketing consultant, and online marketing manager.
A whirlwind romance, a twin pregnancy, an interstate move, a couple of job changes, a third child (three under 16 months - not recommended), not a single full night's sleep for the best part of 5 years, a still undiagnosed neuo-divergence, and a shit-ton of stress later and I nearly lost my fucking mind. Several times.
Eventually we said "fuck this shit" to all of that and I quit my job, we sold our house, and bought a motel in the country. It was a very good decision. Everything got better. Except the relationship. We separated, but kept the running the motel together. That was hard, but we made it work.
I wouldn't be where I am today without Angeline. She was the one who found the perfect motel to buy. She was the one who worked out I was autistic. She was the one who sub-divided the block of land that we later sold which gave me enough money to buy her share of the motel. And she was the one who gave me the three little people who mean more to me than anything.
But we were a terrible couple.
All I ever really wanted to be was a writer. But I was scared.
THIS ALL SUCKS
LESS WORDS, MORE FUNNY
If you fail as a writer, you get nothing. If you fail in middle management you lie on your CV and get a higher paying job. If you are a good liar you can do this until you become a CEO and the company goes bankrupt.
Well some can. I couldn't. Because the psychological toll became unbearable. I hated middle management with a passion that I now use in more productive ways. People said it was brave to quit my job and buy a motel. It wasn't brave, it was essential.
The urge to write has been there for as long as I can remember. I distinctly remember a moment from my childhood that suggests it is hard-wired. I was 10 I think, or thereabouts. We had homework back then, even at that age. Our homework was to pick 5 words at random from the dictionary, and use them in a sentence. I was in tears. I'd been at it for hours. The problem wasn't that I couldn't do it, my problem was that my sentences weren't good enough.
My mother tried to help. She tried to explain that my sentences were probably just fine. She tried to explain that I could hand in OK sentences and the world wouldn't end. She tried.
But the sentences weren't good enough.
I wanted to write perfect sentences. I've always wanted to write perfect sentences. I still want to write perfect sentences. But I don't know what a perfect sentence is. So I'll just keep writing the best sentences I can until one of them says "Hi, I'm perfect". Then I'll stop.
I hope that doesn't happen before the story is finished. That would be sad.
THIS ALL SUCKS
LESS WORDS, MORE FUNNY
If you fail as a writer, you get nothing. If you fail in middle management you lie on your CV and get a higher paying job. If you are a good liar you can do this until you become a CEO and the company goes bankrupt.
Well some can. I couldn't. Because the psychological toll became unbearable. I hated middle management with a passion that I now use in more productive ways. People said it was brave to quit my job and buy a motel. It wasn't brave, it was essential.
The urge to write has been there for as long as I can remember. I distinctly remember a moment from my childhood that suggests it is hard-wired. I was 10 I think, or thereabouts. We had homework back then, even at that age. Our homework was to pick 5 words at random from the dictionary, and use them in a sentence. I was in tears. I'd been at it for hours. The problem wasn't that I couldn't do it, my problem was that my sentences weren't good enough.
My mother tried to help. She tried to explain that my sentences were probably just fine. She tried to explain that I could hand in OK sentences and the world wouldn't end. She tried.
But the sentences weren't good enough.
I wanted to write perfect sentences. I've always wanted to write perfect sentences. I still want to write perfect sentences. But I don't know what a perfect sentence is. So I'll just keep writing the best sentences I can until one of them says "Hi, I'm perfect". Then I'll stop.
I hope that doesn't happen before the story is finished. That would be sad.
