The Slow Leak

Navigating through a “normal” day is completely exhausting, and often a losing battle, for those of us on the spectrum. The sensory bombardment of commonplace stimuli is like a full-on physical and mental assault. The energy and effort to be social and observant of social interactions and then “act the role” is like a constant game of mental chess, necessitating careful calculating, analyzing, and emulating catalogued behaviors. Tasks that should be simple can be monumental undertakings: getting gas, grocery shopping, lunch with a friend in a bustling cafe, a medical appointment. Mundane, unremarkable, or even calming situations for neurotypicals can, for autistic individuals, completely overwhelm the thalamus—the brain region that processes sensory signals. As a result, the thalamus sends dire fight-or-flight signals to the amygdala, which interprets the sensory overload as a threatening and fatiguing situation. The body is under a constant state of perceived stress and imminent danger, as if prepping to run from an oncoming lion attack, only there’s no lion: it’s just a quick trip into the post office to mail a package.

Lights, noise, temperature variations between indoors and out, smells of perfumes or cheap plastic products are all summative offenders so that by the time 2:00 or 3:00pm rolls around, I’m relegated to a limp sprawl on the couch with dark curtains drawn and soft blankets around me to decompress from the day. Sometimes I can’t even talk, I can’t tolerate noise, and my skin feels so irritated that my own seamless clothing feels like it’s digging its invisible nails into each sensitive inch of my body.

I equate this daily drain to riding a bike on a trail studded with broken glass and rusty nails. With the exception of the hazardous topography, the path is beautiful and goes exactly where I need and want to venture. It feels nice to be out and about, attempting to enjoy the environment and interact in a normal way, but suddenly, I get a flat tire—a sensory or social intense effort for my brain to process, assimilate, and handle. With a sufficient break and the employment of sensory toolkit strategies, I can recover enough to reset the cognitive madness back closer to baseline. This is analogous to pulling over, getting out my spare inner tube, and repairing the tire enough to keep going along the path. This time, instead of covering a decent distance before an issue, with just a few smooth pedal strokes, yet again, my tire springs a leak. Perhaps it’s even the other tire now—the back wheel—which is more difficult to change. Either way, the second puncture was inevitable given the surface I’m traveling on. Now, I’m out of spares. I do have a patch kit and a couple of CO2 cartridges, so I remove the wheel, pry the rusty nail out of the rubber (like removing myself from the exhausting sensory or social onslaught) and glue a patch on, inflate the tire (to try to relax and rejuvenate), and get on with my ride. However, now I am relying on the weakened equipment. Within just a few seconds, my tire has sprung yet another leak.

And so it continues. I can keep trying to cobble things together enough to ride, but eventually I will run out of patches and the possible cycling bouts between subsequent deflations become increasingly short. Eventually, my tire has so many holes that it remains flat, no matter how much I try to pump it up. The only solution is to get off the hazardous path: retreat to the comfort and sensory and social safety of home. I’m done for the day and I have to cancel any afternoon or evening plans. I just can’t get there. I won’t be able to repair enough to handle it. After all, I now need to buy a whole new tire at the bike shop and even get my rim repaired; riding on the flat tire too long damaged my bike. They have to work on my bike, order a new wheel all together, and it may be a few days until I’m able to get back on the bike. In fact, this is the reality of the magnitude of the impact of autism and sensory fatigue on my stamina and my ability to function. It can take days to recover from seemingly typical and casual encounters. I become a hermit as my body suddenly feels it must go into survival mode and conserve all physical and mental efforts to recuperate.

To extend the biking analogy, after my failure on the path, I try to research more well-maintained paths (places that are less overwhelming or social engagements that are less taxing) while I lie at home in the self-inflicted isolation and exclusion from society around me in order to heal. I find that, yes, there are some paths touted to have somewhat superior surfaces (perhaps stores that are more sensory-friendly, friends that are willing to just meet for a short mid-morning walk in the park, or ways to avoid doing errands all together by ordering online). Such paths are reported to “only” have shards of glass (but no rusty nails!), which is certainly an improvement, but obviously still damaging. What’s more, these routes cannot replace my desire to ride on the main beautiful path, which is the sole option to travel in the direction of my desires and interact with the world in the way that those around me whom I love and would like to join are gliding along with puncture-proof Teflon tires.


Here’s a secret I haven’t told anyone: After I got attacked, I refused to look in a mirror—clothed or naked—for about two years. I’m finally now working on it.

Unfortunately, I also seem to have an internal dialogue that believes that somehow my opinion doesn’t matter as much as someone else’s. I think that’s the predominant mindset of someone, like me, with low self-esteem (and boy, is that hard to change!).

Recently, I’ve started doing an admittedly embarrassing exercise to combat these issues. I hate the phrase. “killing two birds with one stone;” I prefer, “getting two for the price of one.”

When I go downstairs in the morning, it’s totally dark and still. It’s usually approaching 4:00am and the house has just a slight hum from the fan. I turn on the bathroom light and look in the mirror at my face. Out loud I say, “I am brave.”

In the moment, it doesn’t feel cheesy. Of course, documenting it in writing exposes me in a way that makes it sound beyond lame, but I’m admitting it because it’s something I need to do for myself. I try to make eye contact with my own reflected eyes and hold it for 2-3 seconds. This may sound trivial and easy, but I struggle with eye contact in general and have to make a very conscious, and often uncomfortable, effort to do so. It seems equally hard, if not harder, to hold eyes with myself. After the two years of feeling utter disgust and repulsion with my own body and employing a concerted effort to always avert my eyes to prevent myself from the disgrace of my own skin, it’s incredibly daunting and foreign to simply look at my face. If 2-3 seconds is all I can handle now, it’s still a big step, and I will recognize that.

The first day I did this, I didn’t even use the light, just the glow from my phone. I simply looked in the mirror for a second and said nothing. Then I walked away in shame and got on with my day.

After a few days, I mouthed the word “hi” to my reflected self and thought nothing of it. As I approached the living room to see my dog I thought, why did I just say hi? Then I realized: it was the first time I was re-affirming myself as someone that matters, as a person to respect, as someone to greet. It was like an introduction to or a formal acknowledgement of this person I’ve become since literally picking myself off the floor after my attack.

So then, I had a few days of mouthing “hi,” which slowly progressed to a whisper. One day, a “good morning,” then: “you are brave.” On that morning, I stared back for a second, trying to lock eyes in the mirror. I wondered, when I’m talking to my mirrored self, should it be you are brave or I am brave?

I walked away, worrying that any over-analysis would make me too self-conscious and drop the practice all together.

I fluctuate now. I’d like to say: “I am brave” but mirrors have always been weird to me (is this an ASD thing?). Either way, I’m hoping this practice will translate into an increased comfort in looking at my own face or body and slightly better self-esteem and confidence. I have a long way to go but I think this blog coincides with my self re-introduction and both are small steps toward validating my existence, my strength, and my ability to contribute something meaningful to some piece of this world.


Autism Awareness Day

It’s Autism Awareness Day. April is Autism Awareness month, but today is designated even more singly the “day.”

I don’t know where I land on this. Autism Awareness Day/Month is actually somewhat controversial in the autism community. Some feel that there shouldn’t be focused on “awareness” since it Autism isn’t a “disability” but a “difference.” Others, specifically are anti-Autism Speaks, which leads the awareness campaign.

I don’t know where I stand yet, because I’m newly aware that I’m part of the autism community. I’ve been an oblivious card-carrying member my whole life. It’ll take some time to fully settle in. At that point, I’ll be able to weigh in from a more informed manner.

Right now, I land in the middle, in some ill-defined gray zone. I tend to fight my tendency toward black-or-white thinking. A lot of things aren’t wholly good or bad. I can certainly think of plenty of things that are all bad: racism, homophobia, xenophobia, classism, abuse of any type, hate groups, torture, bullying, rape to name a few. Things that are completely good are equally easy to name: love, kindness, learning, compassion, acceptance, peace, etc. As I make these lists, I notice the first things that are coming to mind are intangibles. I’m not sure if this is because I don’t think many tangibles are either purely good or bad, or if it’s just a reflection of how my brain thinks

Anyhow, save for small collections of truly good or bad things, most things seem to have some qualities of each. A lot of times, my own ignorance imparts a pre-judgement bias but once I become informed, I find both sides have some salient points and also expose holes in the other seemingly “right” or “wrong” viewpoint.

I think autism awareness will continue to fall somewhere on the good/bad continuum. It may hover near one extreme, but I doubt it will be one of those truly good or bad things. Autism is now part of my identity and becoming a lens with which to better understand myself. Part of me is glad there is awareness because it may help with earlier and more accurate diagnosis, which could reduce some of the depression and pitfalls I’ve experienced due to lack of self-awareness, understanding, and tools to better facilitate my needs. I’m also glad there’s awareness so people think about differences and invisible battles that some face. Sometimes it is hard to exhibit compassion when someone looks fine and just seems like a weirdo or complainer or an annoyance. From the outside, we are often not privy to the inner struggles or even the “disabilities.” (not the autism is necessary a disability, but I’m speaking in general terms).

From what I know about Autism Speaks, I certainly understand the controversy and the resentment that many people in the autism community feel towards the organization. I feel like that’s also a topic I’m not yet informed enough to attempt to explain. I worry that the funds raised by Autism Speaks aren’t appropriated well and may even go toward research treading way too close to eugenics territory for my comfort and support. Instead of actively boycotting them yet, I personally choose to support alternative autism groups such as the AANE and ASAN.

So where do I end on all of this? I guess that right there is the point: I don’t know yet. I’m very glad for my own relatively recent autism diagnosis because it has increased my awareness about myself and has honestly begun to inform my mindset, decisions, and view of myself and my place in the world. I no longer feel like such a weirdo, an outsider, a mistake, a freak, a loner, an enigma, or worth less than others. I embrace my differences as simply that and look for ways in which I can feel better about myself and my life. I try to reflect on and understand my challenges, and in doing so, if I discover that there are steps I feel that I can take to ameliorate some of the pain or difficulty, I look to taking the steps. I’m also trying to connect more with people of all types, instead of isolating myself to hide my “weirdness.” We all have something positive to offer when we operate with integrity, compassion, and good intentions. How beautiful diversity really is. I don’t want to hide the various colors I bring to the vast and brilliant spectrum in our world. I want to boldly step out of the shadows and be my authentic self and enjoy the richness that I, and everyone around me, radiates when living with confidence, authenticity, and love.


I face-planted today. I was at physical therapy trying to walk with an iWalk, and I literally toppled prone onto the floor like a stiff board. (I probably should have been in the parallel bars while testing it, right?)

Let me back up. I recently broke my foot and I’m to be non-weight bearing for 8 weeks while it heals. I’m on day 3. As an avid runner and someone whose coping mechanisms involve movement, this is not a brief nor welcome prognosis. I’m already falling off the rails a bit. Because of physical issues, I get injured a lot, but this is different because the world becomes much more limiting on crutches. So, the doctor suggested an iWalk. As I mentioned, I clam up and become nonverbal in appointments, so I was unable to ask any questions about this device. While I can certainly see how it would be a useful ambulation aid for most healthy adults who are able to balance, it could not be a more mismatched tool for my safe mobility. The Amber-iWalk incompatibility stems from three six crucial issues (all of which could have been addressed had I advocated for my needs and asked questions at my appointment!):

  1. Balance: you have to have normal to good balance to use this thing. Essentially, it’s like a prosthetic lower leg that sits on a small foot with a platform for the injured foot to remain perpendicular to the ground. Since the base of support is smaller than one’s normal foot, it’s hard to control. As I mentioned, one of the primary issues with sensory processing disorder (SPD) is significant difficulty with balance.
  2. Size: it’s meant for adults 4’10”-6’5″. While I do fall within this range, albeit close to the minimum, it’s still too big for me. We were unable to tighten the straps sufficiently around my leg without maxing out their available adjustments. The therapist tried sticking a towel in there to bulk up my dimensions, but the thing still kept rotating around my leg. That doesn’t work when you’re trying to control an artificial leg. Take it from me: I spent two years earning my MS in prosthetics & orthotics, a degree that I don’t use for my vocation, so I might as well apply it to my own life situations! Prostheses need to have as intimate of a fit as possibly for control and comfort. This loose fit resulted in a device that was neither comfortable nor well-controllable!
  3. Body control, kinesthetic awareness, and coordination: sensory processing disorder issues manifest in poor coordination, and proprioception, body control. I’m somewhere between a pinball and a snowball rolling down a big hill. The laws of inertia do not necessarily seem to apply to my movements. I tend to go faster and faster with unintentional reckless abandon once I get moving and I can’t seem to control the movement of my limbs or coordinate limbs and trunk. The one exception is running. Running seems to iron out my kinks and turn me into a relatively graceful, well-oiled, unified machine. It’s always been my magic.
  4. Lack of interoception: (so, I guess there’s another reason; this is now #6). I mentioned in my first post that I have difficulty with detecting and processing internal body signals like hunger, temperature regulation, and when I have to use the bathroom. Females, or anyone wanting to sit when using the bathroom, can’t really have the iWalk on. It doesn’t allow you to comfortably flex your knee and hip appropriately to squat down. It’s also not that easy or quick to remove. Therein lies the problem. The operating window of time that I usually have between realizing I need to use the bathroom and when I will start peeing hovers around 90 seconds to 2-minutes. This works well for someone who is home and can ambulated normally, but strap on a device that’s stubborn to remove, a broken foot, and a big open physical therapy gym with a long walk to the bathroom and you’ve got yourself a free two-minute slapstick comedy show. While everyone watched the panicked and desperate struggle of two PTAs and a tech careen my awkward gait like a baby giraffe, all the patients at their respective tables or exercise stations stopped and watched. Once inside the stall I yelled, “I made it!” Ah…why do I exacerbate mortifying situations? I hate when I get anxious and blurt stuff out.

After I face-planted trying to walk with the iWalk, I lay silently on the ground thinking to myself: Wow, can this be any harder?! I have all these challenges and pains and now my foot kills, I can’t run, I can’t even walk, and more and more is taken away from me like I’m on some sort of slippery slope to doom. Thankfully, the pity party of one lasted less than two seconds. I rolled onto my side and got up using my arms and my good leg in a strong single-leg squat before the PT was even able to catch up with me.

“I was going to help you up!” She exclaimed.

“I know, thanks. But when I fall, I get back up.”

And I do, and I will.

The iWalk is getting returned. Some tools are just not suited for a particular job. You wouldn’t use a staple gun to saw a board! It turns out my insurance immediately agreed that a knee scooter was medically necessary, given my risk factors with using the other standard devices and my injury. I’m sure that’ll be another adventure, but I’m up for it.

Just like the strong callus that forms over the fracture line of a healed broken bone, strengthening the new bone beyond that of the original bone, I become stronger where I was weakest. I fall and I rise up braver, tougher, wiser, and more determined. Sometimes it takes just a second or two; other times it has taken a couple of years, but I commit to myself that whatever is thrown at me, I will face, I will fight, and I will overcome.


Am I in a Wax Museum?

The emergence of my nonverbal behavior always frightens me. When my ability to verbally communicate is swallowed, I feel powerless. Our world is not set up to facilitate nonverbal communication. This makes me feel like I’m at a dead end when I’m in a situation where I’ve lost my voice.

Sometimes, I’m not even aware that this has happened. I just stare stunned, nearly catatonic, blinking, perhaps nodding (if I’m lucky), otherwise, just like a puppet crafted without a mouth. The world moves around me and I feel like I’m standing still, the central axis pole of a merry-go-round with all the people and horses, music and lights bobbing up and down with carefree purpose around me. Sometimes I just watch in awe, oblivious to my nonparticipation. Other times, I feel like I’m my own statue in a wax museum, standing in a soundproof glass case around the action. The walls are sometimes a one-way mirror: I know people can see me, but they can’t hear me; or other times, I feel like I see everything but I’m concealed to the masses.

When I’m aware that I’m in a nonverbal spell, I feel like a scared child. I want to tuck myself into a ball and be carried away by a parent to safety. I want to be hugged and shielded. I become afraid that I will not stand up for what I want, or especially for what I need. Perhaps it’s my trauma background, but I sometimes get anxious that I’ll agree to things I don’t want to do. I’m not specifically referring to physical/trauma things, but less severe things that I still don’t want to do. It’s happened before: I’ve silently agreed to job offers, plans or commitments with others, giving people things that I didn’t want to part with, helping people in situations that seemed unsafe because they asked for help. A small shrug or nod “yes” seems to be a defense mechanism when I’m stunned or overwhelmed and can’t talk, even when I don’t want to agree. Thankfully, doctors usually have their patients’ best interests in mind, so that’s not typically an issue there, but I don’t get my medical questions answered, which usually sets my already-pervasive anxiety into a consuming tailspin! But like I said, I can’t take steps forward if I don’t even know they need to be taken, so this is a good starting place. I am now operating from a place of increased awareness of this issue so I can begin trying to navigate these aphasiac spells with a game plan that makes sense, which will hopefully instill some much-needed confidence to handle normal activities like medical appointments.



The Weight of Waiting

I hate waiting. I especially hate waiting for doctors because I’m usually nervous for the appointment for one reason or another, yet I imagine I spend nearly a week of every year in cumulative minutes waiting for doctors. With my bevy of health issues and the frequency of appointments, I wish I could rack up frequent-waiter minutes for free copays at the very least. Although I’ve never administered any sort of global survey, I’m confident that no one likes waiting for doctors. Every appointment has at least a three-tier wait: the weeks or months you have to wait to actually get the appointment on the books, the initial waiting room once the appointment day has arrived, and then the wait in the room after they’ve narrowed down the field to the top three.

Sensory processing disorder carries with it a multiplicative factor that exponentially increases the pain of waiting. The close proximity to other patients gives me a headache. Invariably, some woman is wearing perfume or is reading a magazine that contains a fragrance sample that wafts out with every page flip. The lights are always fluorescent, which bothers my eyes, and they have a constant buzz, which drives my brain crazy. It’s becoming more and more common for offices to have a TV in the waiting room for the “comfort” of the waiting patients. They’re always either too loud, or more often, playing some emotionally disturbing video: at my latest appointment, there was a violent movie; before that, I was at an office with a dramatic soap opera, which stressed me out. And then I have that weird empathy issue (empathy issue): If other patients in the waiting room are displaying physical pain or discomfort, I feel it too. The minutes drag on while my body mounts a mirroring pain response, reflective of what I see around me. The temperature is never right. It seems like it’s one of either two extremes. I have very poor thermoregulation, so I arrive equipped with various layers so I can try to self-regulate, but I’m always under-prepared, as the thermostats in these places must be set outside of what I consider to be the plausible range.

After all the waiting, I finally get to see the provider or someone on staff. This is where “bizarre-o nonverbal Amber” decides to assert herself (which is ironic because in doing so, she prevents “normal Amber” from being assertive!). No matter how much rehearsing or memorizing I do, outlining or even scriptwriting I bring to reference, or how much I’ve had to say about my issue prior to the appointment, it’s like I’m suddenly just a nodding, shrugging, and otherwise single-word utterance speaker. I think the stress of the appointment, the sensory overload of waiting, the pressure when it’s finally time to talk swallows me in a wave of stage fright, and the concern that my problems will suck up too much of the doctor’s time (I hate to be the reason others have to wait even longer) all combine in the least helpful way and transform my typically communicative and expressive self into a shadow. I recently told my autism therapist this after she asked how a particular appointment that we had discussed and “prepared” for. The need for the appointment had come up in our discussions the few days before the appointment. I admitted to her that I was particularly nervous for this appointment but I was not sure why. After some probing and exploring, I admitted that I was nervous that I would fail to be as proactive and assertive at the appointment as I intended to be and that I’d be overly passive and quiet and my needs would end up not getting met. After all, I venture to guess that most doctors aren’t mind readers and as mentioned, most are very busy. They aren’t going to stand there waiting in silence for the patient to form some semblance of additional information to impart on the discussion!

It turns out that it’s actually somewhat common for normally verbal (or even loquacious!) autistic people to have periods or situations where they are rendered non-verbal for one reason or another. I had no idea. I’ve discussed, and fully admit, that even on my best days, I’m not the most effective oral communicator, but I can usually get some number of words out, save for times I’m particularly scared or anxious or shy. Well, now after tracking the pattern, I see this does not hold true for appointments, which is a shame because you really have to be proactive in our physical and mental healthcare system on this country to get the help you need. My therapist said to either bring written notes that I directly give to the nurse, PA, or physician or go with a companion (interpreter).

This experience and revelation about what happens once I finally get my window of time with the doctor has me considering if there are other regular situations in which my ability to speak becomes significantly reduced. In fact, I’ve already identified several other routine occurrences where “nonverbal Amber” takes to the director’s chair. One of the primary functions of this blog is to help me identify and understand my various challenges so I can try to work on them. This seems like a more superficial one to chip away at when I need a little break from the elbow grease demanded by some of the more critical and challenging issues. And hey, I already said I go to appointments all the time; I’ve got an endless number of opportunities to practice!

“YOUR Autistic”*

* Before I begin, I just want to note that I’m using some direct quotes from another person in this post that I disagree with content- and grammar-wise. Not that I don’t make plenty of my own grammatical errors, but I just want to set the record straight that I know the title of this post (and several other instances in here) are incorrectly written as “your” (or in her preferred style, “YOUR”) instead of “you’re.”

I have a short rant today. I’m a member of an online support group for adults on the spectrum (well, I’m a member of quite a few, but this story pertains to just one of these such groups). Unsurprisingly, none of us seem particularly well-versed or comfortable in casual conversation, so the group moderator, a licensed social worker who works with verbal adults on the spectrum, often poses a question so we have a launching point from which to form a discussion. Yesterday’s question centered around the challenges experienced for those of us in an ASD/neurotypical mixed relationship. It’s actually a great question with many varied responses and something that warrants further exploration and attention to explain, but that’s for another time.

What bothered me was that a neurotypical woman in the group (who has a husband on the spectrum) jumped in with her usual negativity and finger-pointing at the shortcomings of her husband with his “impossible ASD behaviors and impairments.” She further argued that it’s impossible (across the board) for mixed couples to be happily married and maintain a healthy, mutually-beneficial and enjoyable relationship. I wholeheartedly disagree. While my husband and I have had, and do have, our share of challenges, not all of them stem from differences in neurology, and even those that do are not insurmountable. Moreover, the reason she cited for saying that neurodiverse (mixed ASD/neurotypical) relationships are doomed to fail was that “autistics are unable to have any emotional awareness and desire to care for others.” This made my blood boil because not only do I disagree, but I also feel like attitude puts the onus of every relationship issue exclusively on the ASD partner. Instead of heeding to my normal passive, wallflower approach in an effort to prioritize avoiding conflict, I stuck my neck out to question her assertions and defend my viewpoint. I also asked her to explain what specific behaviors or issues her husband exhibits that she finds particularly offensive or incompatible with a successful mixed relationship.

My prediction was that I was possibly misunderstanding (since that is engrained in my psyche from frequently misinterpreting verbal and non-verbal communication as well as intentions and customary behaviors at large) and that after I probed with clarifying questions and tried to poke holes in her stated argument, she’d explain and soften her stance.

I was wrong! She jumped on my response and said, “Of course you’d think that aspies or autistics are capable of knowing their emotions and caring about someone else, YOUR [sic] autistic!” First of all, I don’t like the term “aspies,” and not only did I find this to be a pretty immature and finger-pointy response, but it also didn’t feel kind or respectful of my opinion and it didn’t answer my request for specific examples.

I didn’t respond.

About two hours later, she added, “If your [sic] impaired yourself, you won’t understand.”

That prompted me to again push myself out of my comfort zone and confront her. I said, “I wish you wouldn’t make such sweeping generalizations about the ability of neurodiverse people to be competent partners. I feel that it unfairly places limitations on what you actually are able to see in the capabilities of people on the spectrum because your mind is already closed to any possibility that perhaps some of us are able to be good partners.”

She replied that there is no need to keep an “open mind” when the “facts clearly point in one direction.”

The truth is that I have no idea what their relationship is actually like, what her husband’s strengths and weaknesses are, and what her past experiences and expectations of relationships are. However, I can only imagine that she may also be somewhat limited in her communicative abilities, her patience and understanding, and her ownership and self-responsibility of any issues in the relationship. She seemed to carry a “holier than thou” attitude and my concern is that that may blind her ability to look introspectively at how she might be contributing to relationship issues and similarly, her self-efficacy in improving any of those issues and shaping and guiding the relationship into the direction she so desires. Making blanket statements about an entire group of people (or type of neurology) is inherently flawed and I’m suspect of anyone’s position if it makes such gross generalizations in a black-and-white fashion. I can only hope that she was either having a bad day or coming to the forum on the tail end of a big argument and thus, blowing things in her relationship out of proportion (we’ve all been there!). I also hope that her husband is self-aware and cares for her emotions and needs, but that there is reciprocity in her participation as a partner.

It also made me acknowledge that I’d rather carry the challenges that I do with my “spectrum brain” and still be the best partner (and person) I can be despite those challenges than be neurotypical and perhaps a “better” partner on paper, but lacking the awareness, interest, or diligence of being my best self. No one is perfect. No relationship is perfect, but I certainly don’t think that neurodiverse couples can’t be mutually happy in a healthy relationship. I also think that the first step in being in a positive relationship is reflecting on your own weaknesses and role in any observed problems and working to improve those. If you’re having trouble identifying these, it is likely that your partner can fill you in! It is never the wrong time to admit that you have things to work on and dedicate some attention and thought into self-improvement. One last thing and something I’m personally working on is having the courage to stand up for what you think is right, despite discomfort, especially when something poses a conflict with your morals or the rights and respect for other people.

Shades of Gray

The other morning, my husband and I got into a small argument (disagreement? me being stupid? I never know what word to use). In a nutshell, more frequently than I’d like, I say things that hurt his feelings or frustrate him. Anyone who knows me, or us, hopefully knows that this couldn’t be further from my intention, but it is the reality. Of course, Ben’s feelings are valid, even when it’s not how I expected or wanted him to feel.

The issue seems to stem from the fact that I don’t see how the way I say things is more _____ (insert word: mean, rude, harsh, critical, etc.) than the alternative that Ben suggests as a “better” way to say it. For example, for this particular morning spat, I asked Ben what he was doing while I was out. Somehow my tone or word choice conveyed to him that I was criticizing his choices or thought he was wasting time. (I didn’t. I wanted to know how he had filled his last hour because I missed him.) When you’re a couple, the relationship reminds me of nodes of Ranvier on nerves or the simultaneous graphs of sine and negative sign. Since some people may not be as nerdy and strange as me, I’ll try to make a less geeky analogy. A relationship in my mind looks kind of like links in a chain. When you are physically together, your experiences and conversations likely overlap. Perhaps it’s a Saturday afternoon and you’re watching a show together, maybe you’re on a date at a restaurant and talking, or you might be walking to the library together. Either way, you are privy to at least an idea of what the other person is doing, thinking, and feeling. These are points on the chain links where the loops come together (or the intersections of the periodic functions). Then, there are the times that you diverge. Different responsibilities and expectations, varying interests and commitments, pull your paths apart for some time. Sure, you can surmise what the other partner’s experience was like during that time, but you don’t actually know unless you talk about it when you converge together again. What went on? How did you feel?

I asked Ben to teach me how what I said was “wrong” and what I should have said, given my intended meaning. I’m doing social skills therapy with a professional but I am all about pulling out all the stops. Why not get 24/7 coaching when possible, especially from the person I am most interested in communicating with. This happens frequently and he’s always able to rephrase it. The difficulty is my reception of what he’s trying to teach me (and what prompted this blog post).

I don’t see a difference. Sure, I hear different words actually being strung together, but I am completely blind to which is “better” or “nicer.” Both the differences in word choice and apparent tone are completely imperceptible to me. The analogy I made to him is this:

We can consider the colors black and white and then understand that besides just this dichotomy, there is gray. I can hear that the two sentences are different. But instead of being black and white and a shade of gray, it’s like the scale changes for me. In my nutty brain, there are so many, many, many, many shades of gray between the black and white sentences. Imagine getting the big box of 256 crayons. Inside, instead of all the vibrant colors, there is one black crayon, one white crayon, and 254 varying shades of gray crayons that ever so gradually span the difference in hues between black and white. Instead of the two possible sentence choices falling on opposite ends of the spectrum, or even relatively far apart, they are two adjacent shades of those 254 shades of gray with such indistinguishable minutia between them that their difference is invisible to me. To keep with the crayon analogy, I can roll the crayon on its side and read the color name and then try to match it to its designated order, but unassisted, I have absolutely no idea that they carry different meanings and especially, no clue as to which is better (or kinder).

This creates a very frustrating cycle, both for me, and I imagine, for Ben. Because I don’t understand the difference in social phrasing, and especially tone, I can’t learn the pattern or the “rule” and therefore, I can’t learn (or even program!) myself to correct my behavior before it happens. Why is it that I can learn about so many things that fascinate me (and even those that don’t) quite readily, but when it comes to communication and social behavior it just doesn’t stick?

I never want to say something harsh or hurtful, especially to someone I love and respect so deeply. For now, all I can do is harness my frustrations in my social blindness and deficits and try to divert it to improving the synchronicity between my intentions and my communicative abilities. For Ben, my family, my current and future friends, and myself, I will try as hard as I can to learn the social skills so that I can express verbally what I feel in my heart. It is with such pain, heaviness, and anxiety that I carry this insufficiency. It even prevents me from getting close to people or reaching out because I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid or confusing. In my own autistic brain, the words carry a different meaning. Why is it that I can sing and play instruments with a full appreciation of different tones and pitches, but when it comes to speech, I am completely tone deaf? I often struggle to interpret and differentiate different tones and moods. It’s amazing how many gaps exist in language comprehension when you miss or misinterpret the layers conveyed by tone. (For example, sarcasm is completely lost on me.) What can I do? Keep trying my best to figure out this puzzle, keep communicating as clearly and honestly as I can (sometimes writing is best for me!), and keep asking for patience and understanding from those around me.

Empaths: I Feel What You Feel

There’s a fair amount of controversy, confusion, and misunderstanding surrounding the relationship between empathy and autism. Of course, autism is a spectrum and there are as many presentations of it as there are autistic individuals, but one of the classic and traditional diagnostic criteria assessed empathy, with the notion that autistic people lack empathy. I don’t feel qualified or informed enough to comment on any sort of “autistic population” at large, but I do know that there is a subset of autistic people, particularly women, who are extremely empathetic. This is sometimes speculated to contribute to the frequency of females evading proper diagnosis at a younger age: the screening tools employed are looking for one thing (significant lack of empathy), while the characteristic is radically different. This makes as much sense as a taxonomist deciding that in order to be classified as a mammal, an animal must lay eggs. Sure, there are a handful of mammals that do (platypus and echidna), but many (and most) don’t.

It might surprise you to know that the adult females that I’ve met who have autism spectrum diagnoses tend to consider themselves to be overly sensitive and empathetic. My occupational therapist describes us as Empaths. Besides just understanding the emotions of others, we feel them, viscerally and emotionally. If someone is frustrated by a situation, we feel frustrated too. After the death of a friend’s loved one we may not even know personally, we cry because we know they cried. If someone is depressed, we absorb that emotion and join them in that place of heartache and sullen heaviness. It can even extend to physical mirroring, as I call it. In this context, as someone else describes or exhibits physical pain or discomfort, we may feel it as well. This is something I frequently experience, which is both bizarre and uncomfortable, both socially (embarrassing) and physically (who wants to experience additional pain?). If I’m trying to be a good listener and sympathize with someone’s discomfort or burden, my job doing that is polluted and challenged if I’m empathizing instead of sympathizing. It’s their time to complain and express; it’s my responsibility to be a supportive listener, keeping the story in their narrative instead of entering it as a participant. Instead of feeling fully engaged and focused on listening and showing care, I find myself expending significant mental energy to fight the pain I’ve taken on by imagining I’m them and pretending I’m completely physically fine as I should be. It’s distracting and frustrating; it’s already hard for me to understand language and communicate socially, so the last thing I need is additional roadblocks. This “physical mirroring” happens to me most often with people I know and care about, but also sometimes with characters on TV or in books, especially with animals and children.

This weird empathetic phenomenon can even extend to inanimate objects. When I see things that look like they should be alive, I panic when they look trapped or damaged. One of my favorite little annual traditions when I lived in New York City was browsing the Christmas craft village at Columbus Circle: a bevy of unique artisans displaying their products in rows and rows of tents. I am obsessed with lions and I went with mom my last year in NYC and we bought this stuffed aromatherapy lion who had a pouch for a microwaveable scented heart that was supposed to aid relaxation with a calming lavender aroma. Well, the woman selling the lion tried to remove him from the plastic packaging he was in. His head was out but his body was ensnared in a flimsy clear plastic box to help display him. She started wrestling to get him out, holding him by the head to pull his body through the neck hole, and I had a MELT down. I totally freaked out, crying and crying, telling my mom he was hurting. My own neck started feeling strangled and I felt the weight and pressure of a confining enclosure around my limbs. It was real and it was admittedly embarrassing: a 26-year-old in a puddle of tears and a coughing fit, yelling “don’t hurt him!” over a stuffed toy. Passersby most likely misinterpreted my behavior to be a grown adult throwing a toddler’s temper tantrum over my mom saying “no.” I could feel the rise of body heat that comes with shame as it battled my compassion for the lion’s painless pain; after all, I’m fully cognizant of societal norms for adult behavior and I was violating all of them (I’m also aware that a stuffed animal is not actually in pain). Mom had to interpret through my halted gasps and tears that yes, we wanted the lion, but no, please do not continue to remove him from the box for our inspection; he looked just great. I don’t think it was a matter of too many read-throughs of Corduroy as a kid, either. It’s just the way I’ve always been and I can recall many similar incidents.

What I’m trying to say is: challenge and question stereotypes, and operate from a place of curiosity and compassion when you encounter something you don’t understand or that contradicts your previously established thinking. Don’t assume that someone is a certain way or doing a certain thing because they are “autistic” (or any other diagnosis, race, religion, or any other categorization). Many disabilities are invisible, but everyone has a story and everyone, for the most part, is doing their best. Don’t assume autistic people don’t care about your feelings or thoughts; don’t misinterpret their responses as a lack of compassion or inability to empathize. Like all groups of people, we are all different and some of us absolutely care, more than you could know. We just may lack the ability to communicate or demonstrate that compassion in the “normal” way, or we may be caring “too much” and don’t want to overshadow your needs.

Autism, like all the labels I carry, does not come with a uniform. We don’t all look, think, feel, or act the same. We are like you and very different from you. Many of us, like many of you, are looking for connection, compassion, patience, and understanding. When in doubt about our (or anyone’s) intentions or behavior, just ask. After all, isn’t it interesting to learn about someone else’s world experience? Don’t let “differentness” or confusion prevent you from connecting. Let those with differences into your world and shatter whatever stereotypes you may consciously and unconsciously hold; let us be missionaries of love and understanding, students of human nature and of each other.


This is a tough one for me to write so I’m not sure if I will stay on topic or even get through it because I’ve started and abandoned it several times over the last few weeks. I think my best bet is just to try to remain direct and speak straight from the heart. Someday, hopefully, I’ll look back on these entries with little to no critical lens and just be glad that I documented some of my thoughts, challenges, and triumphs.

I’m putting the meat of this entry into that last bucket: I’ve finally started lifting weights again. It’s only been a couple of weeks so far, but I’m confident that I’m back into a habit that will stick. For anyone that knew me as a young adult, this probably comes as a shock. I’ve always loved working out, especially running. While I certainly have not abandoned the running and it continues to be a big part of my life, strength training has completely ceased for about 3 years. I can’t think of something more ironic (and shameful!) than a personal trainer refusing to lift or spend time in a gym. In fact, my previous blog was entirely fitness-based and a place where I shared exercise tips, information, and motivation for my clients and friends. Removing my content and deleting my site was just surface stuff; I also stopped my fitness routine outside of quite a few weekly road miles.


I don’t have a reason that likely makes sense to anyone but myself (and in hindsight, it makes little sense to me too) but it’s my reason so I’m going to own it and share it: I felt like strength training played a role in my attack and I thought that by stopping such activity, I would be safer and avoid another rape. My opinion is that some sexual assaults or violent traumas make us do things that don’t make much logical sense and that have certain faulty thought patterns and decision-making processes behind them. Trauma seems to aim its tranquilizing dart at some sort of rational thinking center in our brains, muting their normally helpful messages. Things that may make sense to a healthy person or even to that same person pre-trauma, no longer seem like the best course of action and instead, “fear-brain” is born and all she does is recognize rather noxious stimuli as anxiety-riddled situations and the only message she gives, she screams, and that is that everything is scary and you are hurting, you are broken, and you are at fault. Therapy alone doesn’t tame her. Support from family and friends can quiet, but not silence, her wrath. Time and unduly caution can take her dictatorship down a peg, but doesn’t get her to abdicate the throne. I can’t speak with authority on what does; unfortunately, I’m not there yet.

She still breathes when I breathe, she still regularly plays violent flashbacks of that morning no matter how many new memories I create, she still makes my heartbeat triple when I hear someone at the door and makes my ears ring as I fight passing out when someone surprises me from behind. And she still does her best with her domineering nature to prevent me from feeling “normal” and free.

As incorrect as the logic may be, I became afraid to work out because I didn’t want to get raped again. I knew the man that attacked me. In fact, I’ve heard this is often the case and in one survivor support group I was in, all but one of us did. How creepy is that? I think at least some of those other women didn’t choose to let that person into their life initially. It’s not their fault at all. It may have been a family member, a babysitter, a parent’s boyfriend, etc. Me? It was my choice. This person was someone I talked to at the gym, someone I worked out with, someone I gave fitness advice to, someone who told me I was attractive because I was strong and lifted. And there you have it.

While I thought nothing of that comment at the time and completely dismissed it, it clearly worked its grubby little hands into my subconscious. Once the acute aftermath of the trauma had subsided and I was pretending to go on about my life, that little message would not stand to be silenced. All of these months later, I still have been heeding to her crippling advice. I have not lifted a weight, not done a push-up, and denied myself from the strength training I enjoy in the hopes that my weakness will make me ugly (I should say uglier since I’ve never felt pretty), and protect me in the ways my muscles and strength did not the day I was so horrifically attacked. I think that’s another reason that lifting (and even personal training) has been so unappealing to me since that day. I felt like a fraud. I had this self-image that I was a strong, fit young woman certainly able to defend her body. But I wasn’t. When I needed to call upon my strength, it failed me. He did pull a knife on me, so “logical brain” says I couldn’t have defended myself because I couldn’t try, but “trauma brain” tells me I did try and I failed hard. I can’t say that she’s right because I couldn’t fight back, either from paralyzingly fear, shock, or the drawn knife blade but part of me still listens to her and hates my body for letting me down. That part has gotten its time in the sun for too long. And so, I choose to be courageous. I choose to lift.

While my emotional and mental strength has grown since that day, my body has weakened. I am nowhere near my old benchmarks, which is humbling and somewhat humiliating, to say the least, but I’m doing it, I’m loving it, and I’m taking back control.

I wish I could say that conquering this milestone has put evil “trauma brain” to rest and extinguished her fire. It hasn’t. It’s barely just the start. I’ve been working hard in therapy for a couple of years now to shake her but she’s clinging on. Hopefully, this step is one of many and someday, she’ll fade out like the last candle on the cake that stubbornly keeps flickering back up with each blow, finally ceasing in a silent little curl of gray smoke, carried upward and blending into the clouds like a tiny whisper of powerless vapor.