Well, group, I'm here to admit to my innermost self, and anyone who happens to be listening, that I'm an Aspie. I came to this new insight into myself courtesy of our oldest daughter, who at age 14, was diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, or HFA. After a long run of emotional, academic, and more recently, social issues, and a protracted outpatient course that was not leading anywhere productive,we had reached an impasse. We were vexed, perplexed, and most of all worried. Yet we were clear where her life path was leading her: trouble. She hadn't found much of it yet, but there's one thing her recovering alkie parents know for sure, it's that you don't have to ride the train all the way to the end of the line if you know where it's going, and it was clearly the Express Train to Nowhere Good.What we found in our quest for help, with the aid of an educational specialist, was Aspiro wilderness therapy, which had a group for troubled girls who hadn't yet found hardcore trouble (drugs, crime, etc.). Outpatient therapy was too soft. Rehab was too hard. But this one was just right. At Aspiro, they picked up right away what the common thread of her issues was. Hiding behind the residual fig leaf of familial mind-blindness not yet pruned by the successive revelations of the 12-Step lifestyle was perhaps the most significant and overarching truth about her, about me, about several members of my family past and present: We're Aspies. High Functioning Autistics. Spazzy, awkward, smarty-pantses who couldn't buy a social clue in a dime store with a stack of Benjamins. We're Non-Neurotypical, or in modern softball-speak, "Neuro-diverse."
Someday, I'll devote a whole post to why I despise that last term.
But as soon as I heard the phrase "Neurotypical," I knew exactly what it was, or more pointedly, what it wasn't: Neurotypical is what I was not; what I am not; and will never be. It's what I've tried to be; what I've alternatingly coveted and hated in others; what I've faked and still fake to some extent for the sake of functioning in the larger society: Normalcy. Fitting in. Relatively effortless comfort in a group, in society.
There has never been anything typical about my neurology, in both good and bad ways. Hyperactive, shy, smart, sometimes too loud, depressive, prone to dysfunctional relationships with mind altering chemicals. This is my fate, and it was sealed some time in August 1966, on a sultry night in Laurel, Maryland, when a loud, dweeby Boston Irish sperm met a quiet, reserved Boston Irish egg. My best efforts have not changed it. The "blue pill" of excessive boozing couldn't make it go away. And after 27 years of meetings and programs, my feelings of terminal uniqueness had not quite subsided. Until now.
It has been both a relief and a condemnation. But mostly a relief. And I know from experience that more will be revealed.
So thanks for listening. But since this is Autistics Anonymous, it doesn't really matter if anyone's listening. Because as the saying goes, anytime one of us gets together in the name of recovery, you can call it a meeting. Or I can.
You probably don't think that's funny unless you have some rudimentary knowledge of autism, and you've either been to 12 Step programs, or you've read Matthew 18:20. But I really just cracked myself right the heck up, and hopefully you, too.
So what was I talking about? Oh yeah, autism. That's all for now. Thanks for letting me share.
