If I did begin to lose me, I knew how to get me back. Under my bed, I had a wonderfully symmetrical alcove made from the form of my headboard. The alcove was no more than three feet wide by two feet deep, and in it I could always find myself. Whenever things became too fuzzy or too loud or too distracting; whenever I began to feel as though I would come unraveled, I knew I could crawl into my alcove and crunch up into it until I felt as square and symmetrical as it. I could squeeze my knees and pull my thoughts back into my bones so they could end their flight through my blood and rest for awhile. I could plug my ears shut with my index fingers and grit my teeth and clamp my eyes closed and drift about in the stillness of it all. Then, when I was ready, I would open my eyes and there I would be, all safe and sound.
By the time I was approaching my second year in school, I had developed several public appearance coping strategies. Unlike some children who find success through a well crafted offensive, I preferred to retreat and rely on a quiet defence. If things grew too uncomfortable or confusing for me, I simply drew back and seethed. I’m certain there was nothing charming about my behavior, but I do know it brought a more positive connotation than raging did. Not that I didn’t have temper tantrums. I did, and apparently quite often if my babysitting aunts tell the truth. According to them, I could turn on a dime from being a calm, collected and rather quiet child, to one that seemed filled with the energy of a roaring tornado. One moment would find me calmly working on a project — typically building houses and towns out of paper or cardboard boxes — and the next I would be stomping the hard work into piles of scraps. My aunts were never certain why I flew into a rage; I never told them my reasons. I suspect I flipped the moment my sensory system became overloaded. I don’t think I knew how to diffuse myself when I was caught between something I really wanted to do and the problem that came from my sensory integration dysfunction. I imagine I just held on as long as I could and then, unable to realize when enough was enough, I let loose with rage and tantrums.
I’m not certain why I never allowed myself to tantrum in public, but I do have an inkling of an idea that might offer an explanation. I remember watching other children as they threw fits. It was horrible to watch them, to see their little bodies twist into odd contortions and their face turn red and sometimes purple, just as their lips made their way to blue. They were no longer children. Right before my eyes, they became molten, hot and savage. Maybe my horrified association with that behavior became a catalyst for self-control. Maybe I just knew that so long as I kept my rage at home, I would not be in jeopardy of becoming that misshapen creature from the grocery store.
I realize my early childhood might sound cheerless, even strangely foreign, but it wasn’t. Not to me. Images came to me like motion pictures on the screen and I enjoyed the sensation that came from thinking life was something set forth for me to enjoy at my leisure. I could jump in when I felt like it, slip away if that fit, or sit back and observe as a wandering passerby would. It never dawned on me that other children were reasoning with the world far differently than I was. It never dawned on my parents either. I think my peers knew I was different, but they were far too young and unsophisticated to care much either way. I knew how to find safety and warmth when I was a little girl. I often wished, as I grew older, to return to that time and place. I often wish that now.
Looking back, I can easily see why my parents, my psychiatrist and my pediatrician dismissed my actions as precocious or creative alternatives to the norm. Thoughts of anything related to autism would have been the farthest thing from their consciousness. Children with autism lived in a world of their own. They often hurt themselves, shrieked, raged and never spoke. They were institutionalized, with no hope for a better tomorrow. So everyone believed. Thoughts of a simple learning disability would also have been far from their thoughts. I was gifted. Gifted children did not have learning disabilities forty years ago. So too did they believe.
Now that my parents understand AS, they are able to describe my childhood with the help of an entirely new perspective; one that makes the choices I made then, as well as the choices I make as an adult, seem far more focused and clear, perhaps even more correct, given the way I perceive the world. Today, when we discuss yesterday, there are many «ah ha» experiences. Lots of «So that’s why…» discussions. Some «We just assumed…» conversations. There is no guilt, no blaming, no wondering about «what ifs». Today, there is harmony. There is order. There is cohesiveness.
2
The Gap Widens and Wondering Why
I do not suppose the teenage years are smooth for anyone, but for me they were enlightening and intriguing times, if not always easy and carefree. It was a simple, yet rich experience; a big box of riddles wrapped up in innocence. Cognitively, I know that I was aware of the unique attributes I apparently shared with no one, but somehow this reality never hurt my heart nor bothered my mind. I did not care that I lived within a different set of assumptions and neither did my friends. The art of friendly acceptance gave us each a warm canvas to explore.
I recall my high school classmates had at least three general groups we could identify with. I imagine there were others. As I think of them now, it occurs to me each was defined according to shared interests, a dream come true for AS people. I can easily bring to mind the group I was in. My crowd was filled with athletes, cheerleaders and student government leaders. I had fallen into this particular group while I was still in elementary school, years before we had any inclination of who we would be or what we would do in high school. Our friendship was a known quantity. It was something safe and dependable, qualities that can be in short supply for teenagers. We were the outspoken group, the one that asserted itself on everything both tangible and intellectual. Nothing went by us without first having to circumvent an opinion or ideology that we had planted squarely in its path.
It was easy for me to give my opinions on things, virtually all the time. I was by far the most blunt and outspoken of our group, even when my friends suggested I had gone too far. I never knew how far was too far. Even now, I cannot find one reliable reason for keeping my thoughts to myself. The world seems fickle on this point. Sometimes people want an opinion, sometimes they do not. Sometimes they say something so incredible an opinion has to be given. Other times they sit in silence seemingly unaware of the situation that lies before them. The entire dichotomy is too confusing. I do not see how anyone can ever know with any degree of certainty when they should voice their thoughts and when they should keep them silent. Sure, I often find myself wondering if I have said too much or worrying that I may have been misunderstood. Sometimes I even wish I had not said what I did. But I realized long ago that it would be easier for me to stop a dog from going after a bone, than it would be for me to stop my thoughts from escaping my mouth.