Autism Feelings: Hope for an Easier Life
In which I write a letter to Autism Santa
Even in the Beginning
Even when I had my hunches but could only sit and wait for a specialist to come along and open my Schrödinger’s autism box,
Even over the days and weeks that followed my formal diagnosis,
Even before the election,
Even then, I knew.
I knew that I couldn’t predict how learning that I had autism would or wouldn’t make my life any easier.
Series Note
This essay is part of an ongoing series in which I explore each of the feelings that washed over me when I received my diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) at forty two.
In the Immediate Wake of the Diagnosis
I learned only that it had gifted my brain a coop full of chickens. Sure, over time, the brain chickens could prove beneficial to my mind’s emotion farm. Who doesn’t love a good serenity egg now and then? But at what cost in the short term?
At first, the coop was just overwhelmingly chatty and messy. The brain chickens seemed to require a great deal more maintenance and continued education than I’d signed up for when I’d signed up for not brain chickens.
In hindsight, the hope that came out of that time was more of a wish list than a hypothesis. But a wish list is something. It’s not nothing.
I tend to approach these Autism Feelings essays with a not-always-intuitive yet more-than-most-folks-would-bother-with structure in place. I like this tendency. I think it’s fitting.
For this essay, I summon a wish list to Autism Santa as my scaffolding.
Dear Autism Santa,
We’ve all had a bit of a year. I know none of this has been your call. I know you’re just here to help—to spread a little good cheer. But Jesus Hunger Games Christ, dude. What a bleak fucking world.
Anyway.
Thank you for your continued service to the neurodivergent community in spite of the darkness. Thank you for specializing. Thank you for focusing. Thank you for looking closely.
Lifted by the spirit of Autism Diagnosmas, I have prepared my wish list for you in the manner outlined so clearly in the High Council’s helpful little trifold brochure:
I would like to make a bunch of new friends as soon as possible. I assume that by joining the autism club, I will rapidly, readily connect with my people—that friendship writ large will become much easier for me.
I would also like this diagnosis to somehow make things easier for me at work. I haven’t really thought this through at the nitty gritty level, but it really feels like it ought to be true.
I would like to become self aware enough to subsequently become less rigid when I butt horns with call center workers and other maddening professionals.
Finally, I would like this diagnosis to somehow—magically if necessary—make all of my other day-to-day social interactions go more smoothly. It follows that I would also like to spend less time perseverating on how I must have fucked those interactions up.
If granted, those four wishes would indeed make my life meaningfully easier. So, please. Do what you can.
Do you want to hear a joke?
Q: How many autistic reindeer does it take to fly Autism Santa’s autism sleigh?
A: The reindeer is classified as Rangifer tarandus. Interestingly, the caribou is also classified as Rangifer tarandus. However, studies suggest that Rangifer tarandus should be split into six distinct species. The Sámi word raingo…
And then you just keep talking about reindeer for as long as you can. It’s very funny. Situationally, I mean. If the other person doesn’t laugh, that doesn’t mean it isn’t funny.
At any rate, again, thank you for all that you do. I’ll take my good cheer wherever it comes from these days. Any ship in a storm, as they say. If you’re a port.
Happy Diagnosmas to you and yours,
Paul
At This Point, It’s Been a Few Months since I Snail Mailed My Wish List to Autism Santa
And it feels like the right time to check in on my wish fulfillment progress bar:
I would like to make a bunch of new friends as soon as possible.
This has sort of happened? First, I found a subscriber chat here on Substack where I’ve been getting along swimmingly with other folks who have ASD and with some allistic folks who are open minded and are welcoming of neurodivergence. This is lovely, and I’m really grateful for it. It’s a good start. But the spirit of the wish is: New adult friends in real life. Friends to talk to about everything any nothing. Friends to go do stuff with locally.
The ASD diagnosis hasn’t given me that on a silver platter, but in just a few months, it’s given me reason to reach out to some old friends. As an ice breaker, it’s led to a handful of rekindled friendships, though, to date, these have been medium-to-long-distance friendships. Thus, unfortunately, they have not transmuted into many chill hangs.
Still, overall, not too bad! I give Autism Santa a B- in fulfilling this wish. Honestly, I think the rest of it is up to me. It’s hard for any middle-aged parent to make new friends. But I’ve got leads. And I’m feeling uncharacteristically optimistic.
I would also like this diagnosis to somehow make things easier for me at work.
This might wind up as its own essay someday.
If there were a blog called “Autism at Work” where someone narrated their ongoing saga with masking and unmasking at their job, I would love to check it out. Please do comment if that blog exists and drop a link. And please do DM me if it’s your blog.
From where I sit, all I can say about whether my diagnosis is making my life easier at work is that it’s coincided with the dismantling of our federal institutions. And, nota bene, I’m a government contractor living and working in DC. People are afraid and angry and not always sure what to say to whom. People are also still trying to do good work and complete projects as though the sky were not falling.
Based solely on vibes, I’m going to give Autism Santa a D+ for their fulfillment of this wish. I didn’t tank the grade any lower because I’ve had some really supportive one-on-one exchanges with my boss. He’s been great about it.
The grade is all the way down at D+ though because the professional climate is such that I’m really afraid of asking for any kind of special treatment right now. My foray into sharing my diagnosis with HR went way more awkwardly than I imagined it would, but that was merely sharing and it was merely way awkward. I’ll refrain from passing judgment for now. At some future date, if the rubber hits the road, and suddenly it’s time for HR to really step up, we’ll see whether they rise to the occasion. At present, I only know that I feel scared. Uneasy.
The end of democracy aside, my newfound knowledge—about masking, about unmasking, about burnout—has not yet made my life at work any easier. Within my own head, it has made work harder for me. I’ve learned enough about myself to feel a heightened awkwardness, but I have yet to deploy any new practical skills that could make my professional life any easier. This is something I’m still hopeful can change over time.
I would like to become self aware enough to subsequently become less rigid when I butt horns with call center workers and other maddening professionals.
Imagine Greta Thunberg being righteously angry, but instead of it being about climate disaster and directed at the UN, it’s about “principles” and it’s directed at the person on the phone telling me that Toyota won’t cover a failed shock on my car under warranty.
My diagnosis has not helped me with this tendency. I’m still supremely ethically rigid and quite bad at seeing when it’s time to be flexible. I’m still particularly maddened by capitalism’s deformed nerve clusters—the trigger points where two otherwise friendly people are nudged to temporarily hate one other over some impossible transaction.
Nope. Sorry, Autism Santa. You get an F for your “fulfillment” of this wish. Maybe Therapy Santa can help with this someday.
I would like this diagnosis to somehow—magically if necessary—make all of my other day-to-day social interactions go more smoothly.
To respond to this wish, I would like to quote my own “Relief and Joy of Feeling Seen” essay if you’ll allow it. It’s the part where I fantasize about making a “Hi! I have autism!” T-shirt, and then I become a supernaturally social parent when bumping into other parents at preschool.
Such a beautiful morning! So good to see you! You’re a lawyer? And your partner is a lawyer? That’s so great! I have autism! Why am I staring at your shoes? Because I have autism! I know! I am very handsome, thank you so much! Good noticing!
That was fun for me to write. I really did find joy there, imagining some new future, fully aware of how silly it was.
But the reality at present is that one hundred percent of the time, I still say nothing to my peers in these quasi-social spaces unless someone says something to me first. I still avoid eye contact. I still beat myself up for avoiding eye contact. I still perseverate on each interaction. I still spiral into anxiety over it. I’m still up at night wondering what people must think of me.
I still sometimes wish I were someone else. Sometimes, I’m not even at the wishing-I-could-unmask or the wishing-I-could-take-it-all-in stride stage. I wish only that I were not me.
So. Yeah. Unfortunately, that’s another F, Autism Santa.
I feel bad for giving you so many bad grades. We were off to a decent start with the B-, but…
Listen, I still appreciate what you’re doing. Frankly, at least two of these wishes probably shouldn’t have been directed at you. Not right away at any rate.
But wishes are wishes, you know? Hope is hope. Can you blame me?
In the orbit of my diagnosis, I thought, “Oh, wow. Autism. Fuck.”
What would that diagnosis mean if it were true? Would it let me give myself a break sometimes where I wasn’t giving myself a break before? What if I could tell other people? Could that help too? Could having an explanation for some of the ways that I’ve struggled help me struggle less? Could the explanation itself make life easier? When making friends? When interacting at work? When dealing with confrontation? When representing my family as Dad?
Well, yeah. At least, I do think it’s made it easier for me to form new friendships—that was almost immediate.
And even though I gave fulfillment of the “easier at work” wish a D+, I think the self awareness that stems from my diagnosis did indeed have great potential to help me at work. And it might have helped quite a bit more if I were at a progressive workplace under less tenuous political circumstances. The potential is still there. I’m not giving up on this one.
And the two F’s? Getting along better with the wider human population? Feeling more at home in my community? Even those wishes, I think, can be still fulfilled indirectly by embracing the diagnosis in the long run. For those wishes to come true, it won’t be as simple as knowledge itself yielding change, but self awareness will still play a crucial role in the bigger picture. There are more steps I need to take. Self esteem and trust don’t grow back over night.
So, please, don’t feel bad, Autism Santa. I look forward to seeing you year after year.
And hey, check out these sunbaked cats in Viejo San Juan. No matter what, remember that they’re there. All the time. Take comfort in your awareness that whatever is going on in your mind and in the world, these slack and toasty little guys are doing life completely, effortlessly right.
