AutismRocks's blog

There are some classic misconceptions and stereotypes about autistic people that come and, for some, go with fashion. I fit none of them, except, maybe, when I’m having a nervous breakdown.

When I was little and first diagnosed, in the early ‘50s, the diagnosis was extremely rare. In my case, it was stated in the adjectival form, as in "autistic" behavior. Another virtually interchangeable term in my case notes was "schizoid". Back then, autism was seen as a personality disorder caused by a withholding and cold mother. In those days, so many conditions were blamed on the mother.

I write this on June 18, 2005, which is none other than Autistic Pride Day, a glorious day redolent with thunder, lightning, dou-ble rainbows with intercalaries, cloud formations and shadow play. Mark this day on your calendars next year, if you haven’t already.

I’d be attending a choir party tonight or discussing philosophy in some dank church basement if my life were the same as it was before coming out with my autism almost five years ago. Contrary to the DSM stereotype, I, like so many autists I know, am extremely social. Being a social autist forces more personal growth than staying true to the asocial stereotype–so untrue to my very nature.

“I doubted my ability to contribute anything useful.”

May 4, 8pm, Vet's Club Ballroom, Eugene, Oregon

Etouffee - swamp rock

DJ Elien - all kinda dance tunes

Queen Holly GoSlugly - Hosting

Only $15 per person

snacks, contests

raffle, silemnt auction

fun photos

more info, and tickets, here: http://www.kindtree.org/calendar/events/prom

Autism has become a pervasive topic lately, leading to increased public awareness, both informative and misleading. The very topic has evolved into a veritable “special interest” in the media.

This is quite a contrast to 1987, when I started to educate myself about my autism by paying a visit to the University of Iowa Psychiatric Hospital, where my grandparents had taken me 47 years prior for regular checkups to see if I was ready to return to my parents and siblings, who were living in Beirut.

After a short meeting with one of the psychiatrists who had seen me as a small nonverbal child, I asked the hospital to send me my psychiatric records from that time. I received a smattering of notes from various childhood visits. The psychiatrist, then retired and in his 80s, wrote that he saw no more evidence of my autism, though he noted my “quick, bird-like gestures” and nervousness.

“I held my Dirty Little Secret of being autistic
close to the vest”

In August of 2000 I met my first fellow autists, at KindTree’s autism retreat. My memory flashed on friends who probably had been struggling with autism their entire lives but didn’t know it. I say “struggling” because living with autism without an autism community is like living undercover in an alien culture.

My first autism retreat, where I was invited to speak about my autism, was a spiritual awakening for me. I was phobic of public speaking. Being an exhibitionist and show-off did not make me a public speaker. Though I had acted and sung solos from second grade through college, I could not speak coherently in a group situation.

My first talk is veiled by a merciful amnesia. I think I rambled and derailed a lot. Keeping on track while keeping going--and in real-time, no less--was next to impossible for me back then. Steve Brown, who was KindTree’s president back then, had the sagacity to facilitate it the following year, which made for a better talk.

Even more profound than my debut into public speaking was meeting those first autists. I felt a telepathic kinship with all the autists there, except one little boy who was having difficulties.

In May 2013, the American Psychiatric Association will be publishing the DSM-V, an updated version of their Diagnostic Standard Manual (DSM). The DSM describes the criteria that medical professionals use to make a diagnosis. I think there exist additional criteria that are known to everybody else in the autism field––teachers, case managers, care providers, and autists themselves.

When I was five, I vowed no longer to be autistic. My momentous decision took place in kindergarten, during the Christmas pageant. Though I was nonverbal at age 3, when the pediatrician advised my mother to institutionalize me and cut her losses, I must have fully understood what he was telling her well enough to be ashamed of the dreaded "a" word two years later.

For the next forty years, my autism was a dirty secret I divulged, almost as a passing afterthought, to only my closest friends and, much later, to parents of newly diagnosed kids.

People they told either said I was making it up, since I am not only verbal, but loquacious; or they felt vindicated in their suspicions that I really am a little off.

Whenever I alluded to my autism, it was always in the past tense. That is not to say that I didn’t secretly devour what little I could dig up about my "former" condition, as a part of me must have known that autism doesn’t just evaporate.

Variety Show!!

Every so often, I find myself whiffing the underside of my elbow and the back of my hand, checking in with my nose to make sure I don’t smell too off. Sometimes, I exhale heavily onto my hand, to make sure my breath isn’t too rank. I try to have at least some sweet smelling lotion on hand.

At age 24, I got fired from a Baskin Robbins for subtly (I thought) rubbing my fingers against my under arm and sniffing them on a steamy summer day to make sure my deodorant was still working. I don’t remember my conclusion, just that I was fired shortly thereafter, for that plus a medley of other autistic faux-pas.

I am presently marooned "between" protective scents. Like the glamour girl who cannot leave home without a full mask of makeup, I¹m feeling mighty naked. Today, I spent a good hour squeezing and pouring testers at a local health food in a vain and desperate quest for a hand lotion I had recently discovered but whose name I can’t remember. My holy grail is the security blanket of the perfect scent.

Variety Show!!