A burning need to communicate

If you have something people desperately need to know about, you probably tell them, don’t you? It’s a natural human instinct to want to share news, good or bad, as well as gossip and information. But your desire and need to communicate doesn’t necessarily result in you getting your message across. This is really obvious among many of we autistics – we get passionate about something and dump all the information we have about it into the ear of the nearest person who can be made to listen. Supposing I, as an autistic person, feel the need to tell you about medieval English history. (This may happen.) I am quite capable of downloading a hour’s worth of information about the Kings and Queens of England from William the Conqueror to Richard III into your unwilling ear but unless you’re listening carefully, or happen to be a history-fan yourself, you probably won’t take much of it in. My passion to communicate doesn’t equal a convincing exercise in communications.

Letting things fall away

When I realised I was autistic it was a great relief to know why I seemed to be weird and why everything was a struggle. But it also meant I had to give up some of my old identities. It might not seem something like something you’d notice, but the majority of people identify themselves as a non-disabled person. I identified myself like that and I had to give it up. It was hard to let it go – not being disabled seemed like a very important thing to be. Losing it felt like losing all kinds of possibilities and strengths. What I had to replace it – my identity as an autistic, disabled person – was unknown. Would I like this “new” person I turned out to be?

“Passing” as non-disabled

If I want, I can hide the fact that I’m autistic. Mostly. I fondly believe. Does that put me in a better position than people who can’t? Well, yes and no, sort of. There’s been a lot of noise lately about whether some forms of racial discrimination are less bad than others, with particular reference to whether some groups can “pass” as white and thereby avoid discrimination while others can’t. I’m not going within a million miles of a debate about racism myself – as a white English person I have nothing helpful to add. But there’s something a bit similar in disability world. If you (or I) can “pass” as not disabled, does that mean that you (or I) are somehow less severely afflicted in some league table of prejudice?

Bearing Witness (St George’s Day)

Colleagues sometimes ask me if they should tell their manager and colleagues about the fact that they’re autistic. I tend to say that if you’re going to be open you should be aware in advance that while most people’s response will be positive, not everyone’s will be. Some people will regard you as weird, scary or mentally ill (not even slightly true that last one) if you’re autistic. That’s unfortunate but it’s how the world is at present. But the world won’t change unless more people are open. The only way to de-stigmatise autism is to get society used to it – for it to become boring, and “meh”.

Redeeming Our Autistic Past

At the moment when you realise you’re autistic you may find your whole life suddenly makes sense. All the misunderstandings, the embarrassment, the struggle – you see how they fit into a pattern of you having a different brain. You’re also likely to realise, if your diagnosed in adulthood like I was, how much your childhood and youth was blighted by not knowing and how many kind well-intentioned people did immeasurable harm by not knowing either. Perhaps relations or teachers tried to force you to conform and hide your autistic self – making you feel it’s not acceptable to be who you really were. Some autistic children are punished if they show autistic traits or come to realise how ashamed their parents are of them or how much of a disappointment they are. That leaves harm that will endure into adult life, but it shouldn’t dominate adult life.

Christ is risen, we are risen!

My autistic brain appreciates that option to face the worst and deal with it – the worst (death) can and will come, but something continues beyond. I’d much rather that than use euphemisms and circumlocution to sugar-coat the truth. That doesn’t work for everyone but I suspect we autistics would generally rather call a spade a spade. These great times of the Christian year are an opportunity to do that. On Good Friday we look the awfulness of death and betrayal in the face and on Easter Sunday we accept that it’s still there but the darkness will not win. Death is swallowed up in victory.

Coming to Faith while autistic

Today – the Fifth Sunday in Lent, or Passion Sunday – happens to be the anniversary of my baptism and confirmation as an Anglican Christian while at University. I had been attracted to Christianity as a teenager by things like the fact that it came with a holy book to read – you could get quite a long way with it by understanding and quiet thought. I also like the fact that liturgical church services follow a pattern, and I’d been picking it up while singing in various choral services at University. Broadly, unexpected things are not supposed to happen in Anglican choral worship and that suited me very well. I enjoyed the calm of the predictability, unexpected organ stop changes excepted. The rhythm of the church year is also good – there are lots of nerdy patterns and sequences to get your head around. It doesn’t take too much of a stretch to see “it’s the 14th Sunday after Trinity so the altar will be green today, the set psalm has stuff about floods in it so it’d be a good moment to sing some hymns about water” as a type of liturgical trainspotting.

A burning need to communicate

If you have something people desperately need to know about, you probably tell them, don’t you? It’s a natural human instinct to want to share news, good or bad, as well as gossip and information. But your desire and need to communicate doesn’t necessarily result in you getting your message across. This is really obvious among many of we autistics – we get passionate about something and dump all the information we have about it into the ear of the nearest person who can be made to listen. Supposing I, as an autistic person, feel the need to tell you about medieval English history. (This may happen.) I am quite capable of downloading a hour’s worth of information about the Kings and Queens of England from William the Conqueror to Richard III into your unwilling ear but unless you’re listening carefully, or happen to be a history-fan yourself, you probably won’t take much of it in. My passion to communicate doesn’t equal a convincing exercise in communications.

What do you expect to see?

Sometimes it not only matters what’s said (or seen) but the context and how it’s framed. Today is the Sunday between Ascension (when Jesus went up into heaven) and Pentecost (when the Holy Spirit came down from heaven to the disciples). I’m crow-barring in here the idea that where things and people are makes a huge difference. Since Jesus and the Holy Spirit are both parts of the three-part God (doctrine of the Trinity here if you’re feeling strong enough) it shouldn’t make much difference which was on earth, should it? This time of the Christian year says that it really did. Jesus the Son of God ascended into heaven, but the Holy Spirit came down and inspired a group of people who had been Jesus’ followers to form the world-wide Church.

Letting things fall away

When I realised I was autistic it was a great relief to know why I seemed to be weird and why everything was a struggle. But it also meant I had to give up some of my old identities. It might not seem something like something you’d notice, but the majority of people identify themselves as a non-disabled person. I identified myself like that and I had to give it up. It was hard to let it go – not being disabled seemed like a very important thing to be. Losing it felt like losing all kinds of possibilities and strengths. What I had to replace it – my identity as an autistic, disabled person – was unknown. Would I like this “new” person I turned out to be?