It's Been a While

Finally. I'm back.

Many things have happened since I last posted. The most notable of which will be mentioned in this post.

Firstly, I failed NaNoWriMo. But I'm going to keep writing Negative Infinity. It's just the speed with high school.

Secondly, proof that autistics can be very remarkable. The first part of this is my luck in getting not only a solo for the Christmas concert in church tonight--at midnight mass--but I am also doing a duet at communion. This is an unprecedented thing in my town. The second remarkable thing is that I am directing a tribute episode of Doctor Who over April vacation. I had the determination, and I organized everything.

Third, I have officially added Phantom of the Opera and Doctor Who to my list of obsessions. I have memorized nearly all of Christine Daaè's lines. My voice has finally settled down in a high mezzosoprano range after being alto for years. And Doctor Who is just plain "cool."

Finally comes my IEP. That's right. The school finally recognized my need. It's very simple, just giving me alternative paths to the same result. And that's what I need.

Christmas is tomorrow. I can't believe it. I am happy. I get a break from the trouble of school. Not that I ever thought I'd say that, but still.

I think this verse is a relatable one.

I could do almost anything.

I could know all the world.

I could, but it is painful,

Just to be a normal girl.

PS After a long absence, I'm back on fanfiction.net with a story called A December to Remember. It's in the Doctor Who category.

The Attic: Sherlock Holmes

One of my favorite things in the world is Sherlock Holmes.

By favorite, I mean I write poems based on a line from A Study in Scarlet. Watson was shocked that Holmes was ignorant of the Copernican theory (geo versus heliocentrism) and asked him why he wouldn't want to know that. Holmes, however, lectured him on the matter.

"You see, I consider that a man's brain originally is like a little empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose. A fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the knowledge which might be useful to him is crowded out, or at best is jumbled up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands upon it. Now the skilful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect order. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls and can distend to any extent. Depend upon it there comes a time when for every addition of knowledge you forget something thst you knew before. It is of the highest importance, therefore, not to have useless facts elbowing out the useful ones."
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, A Study in Scarlet.

Watson then goes on to say how he made a list of Holmes's varied abilities, poison, geology, chemistry, anatomy, historical murders, violin, fighting, and law being the better. But chemistry, murder, and violin playing are at the very top.

Science, music, and something which tends to involve guns.

Suspiciously like my own interests at the current time: physics, piano, and James Bond.

But it's not Sherlock I feel a connection with--it's his brother, Mycroft. In the Bruce-Partington Plans, Sherlock describes him as having "the greatest capacity for storing facts of any man living." That sounds suspiciously like me, even moreso than Sherlock himself. I also think that Mycroft is the one exception to the rules Sherlock lays down earlier on. In modern terms, I'm one of the few exceptions out of billions. I must admit, though, I think it's Sherlock that shows the slight autism sometimes.

Don't get me going with fanfiction, though. I hate a lot of it. Luckily, there are a couple of decent stories on the Sherlock BBC section of fanfiction.net, and the authors have at least made it clear to the readers that they need autistic viewpoints. They read books written by autistics to learn just what to write like. I thank them.

In celebration of my birthday today, along with my revealing my passion for Sherlock Holmes, I present you with a special verse of The Attic. This one is part of Watson's list, where he describes Sherlock's knowledge of anatomy as "accurate, but unsystematic." An extra syllable was needed for The Attic.

My thoughts may go extremely fast.

My thoughts may not be dull.

My thoughts are very special but

Unsystematical.

Sensory Friendly: Such a Thing?

I got a Kindle Fire HD for my upcoming birthday. I 'm thrilled. Of course, I should be writing Negative Infinity, but I'm reducing my word count goal to 35,000. And yet, if I write a thousand words today, then I'll be on track.

Anyway, there are a few things going on around me. For one, I'm participating in the annual Christmas concert at my church, along with a Trans-Siberian Orchestra tribute organized by the middle school band director. I enjoy the concerts, I know. But they're most definitely not sensory friendly. Church means the chimes in the choir loft, and the tribute concert is a full rock setup. Yet I love both.

Next comes the matter of yesterday's play in Providence, Rhode Island. My sister brought me to A Christmas Carol at Trinity Rep, the state theater. This was the special performance, specifically done in an attempt to be sensory-friendly. Regular patrons were specifically asked not go attend, just so that more kids could come. And come they did. Everyone cheered and clapped, but I'm pretty sure I wasn't' the only one blocking my ears at the louder parts. Every person in the place had different sensory needs. The trouble is, meeting everyone's varied needs is impossible.

Seeing a live show shouldn't be an experience only for the average person. I've only been to four live shows in my life that count as overwhelming, but that's because I am unable to prepare. Mind you, DVDs are nowhere near as special. Having a video of your favorite band or play isn't the same. Especially if, like me, your processing is so fast, you end up watching frame by frame. Putting it together takes too much energy. Sometimes it hurts.

Maybe someday, there will be truly sensory friendly material available for communities to enjoy. Maybe.

But my attic is just different.

But my life is through my eyes.

But I'll never be an object,

A thing to hide with lies.

P.S. This is my favorite verse. I think I'll give you one more week to figure out the reason why I wrote this, and my basis for it. Then I'll give it away.

NaNoWriMo and Negative Infinity

Yep, I'm quite insane. I'm doing NaNoWriMo--fifty thousand words in one month--while attempting to keep my grades up. Oh, and did I mention the school's finally starting my evaluations? I might finally get the help I need. (And on top of that, I'm building NCC 1701D. Better known as the Starship Enterprise from the Next Generation. How, you ask? Slightly aired out Crayola Model Magic and paint with cardboard supports. Along with insanity, my ambition is extreme.)

But anyway, my novel is called Negative Infinity. It's my first novel I'm planning on publishing, and it pretty much disproves every stereotype that ever existed about autistics. (Sorry if you like it capitalized, I've never had the tendency. If I talk to you and you ask me to, I will.) For one, the main character is non-speaking. Although I speak, I sometimes lose it if I'm exhausted. In those cases, only a word or two can slip out. So I know the frustration that comes along with it. But Tanner, the main character, is really lucky--the school realized how smart she was and let her use a tablet. That tablet is her lifeline when someone doesn't know her crude form of ASL, adapted from her deaf brother Bryce, a senior in high school. She's mostly mainstreamed, except when no teachers want her in their class, the situation she has in history. She's allowed to do things at her pace because of that, something I know many autistics could use. Especially those of us with extremely good memories. So at the end of eighth grade, her math teacher allows her to take some time to herself, and she thinks of something extraordinary: negative infinity.

The summer after she turns fourteen, she visits her grandparents' ranch in Arizona with her younger sister, Brenn. For the first time, her father is able to see how much she loves animals. After she breaks in one of the stallions on the ranch with her grandfather's help, she's given a puppy to bring home to Upstate New York. She promptly names him Diablo when he undoes her carefully tied shoelaces two minutes after their first hello. After they go home, Tanner begins to train him. But high school begins just two days later, and that means struggles. But Tanner isn't worried, because she knows the school system won't mind her being herself.

Of course, that's not the case with Brenn. The book starts out with Brenn not even diagnosed, but we later find out she is, also, autistic. She hates third grade, and begins to run away at least once every couple of weeks. Tanner notices, however, that she doesn't go without first saying goodbye to Diablo. This prompts her to train Diablo even further, and after getting permission from her parents, she starts his training as a service dog for Brenn.

But in the meantime, Brenn's running has an effect on Tanner's parents. They begin to fight, and halfway through the school year, they start talking about a divorce. Brenn's recent diagnosis doesn't help matters. So while Brenn is running away and Bryce is getting ready for his graduation, Tanner alone has Diablo's training. But by May, with the divorce finalized and all three kids staying with their mom for the school year, Tanner gets a special gift for her birthday: a service dog harness. Diablo's training had come along so well that in Brenn's newly finalized IEP, it was stated that she could have him with her at all times. Her running away stops very quickly, as her frustration at her needs not being met disappears. Everything turns out alright for everyone.

People have been telling me they like the plot because it is realistic. That's the important part--it could happen. That's how we're going to spread the word. We're all perfectly intelligent. We just think differently.

Tanner's brain is wired like mine. And I'm going to spread this story.

So you'll try to understand me.

So you'll try to comprehend.

So I'll just mean discovery

Of trinkets, odds and ends.

P.S. One of my commentors will get this at some point, so I'll say this: BBC Radio Silence 2014. And I'll also give you credit if you can tell me the Vernon Dursley line that applies to this post. Yes, I'm an autistic fangirl.

Don't You Dare

Some people.

They just don't get it. I mean, people purposely steal my seat on the bus. They've done that for years. But purposely clapping your hands two feet from my ear after I've told you to stop? Purposely thrusting a basketball to the ground with two hands--an illegal move in the game you're playing-- just because I'm standing nearby?

Purposely directing profanity at me, and following it with "you?"

I'm starting to doubt that some of these sophomores are civilized human beings at all.

There are two of them, really. I have to deal with them three times a week in gym. They have, together, caused multiple public meltdowns and about a dozen at home. Sin-gle-hand-ed-ly.

Last night, Mom called the school and reported it. The guidance counselor had been notified of the profanity I had been subjected to first block, but had no clue about the clapping or basketball.

Yesterday was bad. But today was better.

First off, it was a half day. That's why I'm posting so early. Because of this, from the fifteen or so tokens I had to start with (a concept that I have really loved and embraced since I found out about it) school only took about four or five. I've regained them since arriving home. Of course, my shoulder hurts a ton right now, but that's because I partially dislocate it some nights from my tossing and turning. It'll be alright tomorrow, most likely.

Next thing, one of the boys was gone.

I only deal with him during health and gym normally. Today was a health day. He wasn't present. He was in the office. I'm pretty sure he's an official bully. The other boy was in class, but he had clearly been in the office earlier in the day.

You want to know why autistic children are bullied more often? They aren't. It's just that they will keep it a secret until it's the clearest thing to all of their teachers, unlike the other kids, who tell someone right away. The autistic kids don't have trust. They have to have a lifeline. Otherwise, you won't see the bullies caught until the damage has been done.

Schools, you have been warned.

You see, I remember.

You know, I can't forget.

You may try to understand me,

But I'm something you don't get.

P. S. I'm now typing The Attic from memory. Here's your clue: I share this eidetic memory with the main character's brother, as stated in the fourth short story collection. This older brother "has the greatest capacity for storing facts of any man living." Of course, this was a long time ago.

On the Matter of Echolalia

I'm proud of myself. I'm posting twice in one day. Awesome.

But anyway, my second cousin's son is extremely echolalic. He's sitting outside of my room right now, playing with Mr. Potato Head. He's not even two years old. But he's really good at it, from the words filtering through my door.

He's collecting glasses.

He's saying he's a sponge.

"Yeah!"

Why do people say echolalia is so bad? I just don't get it.

Oh, wow. My mom just said, "You've got good language." He responded with, "Yeah!" He's not even two. This sounds like me, of course. But the best part--"yeah" is his echolalia at work right now. He said it not even five minutes ago after hearing my mom say it. And he responds with "yeah" in an appropriate context.

Yet if I quote something, even if it is in context, somebody will tell me to use my words.

Mine.

Mine.

The words are mine.

Do you understand? I'm not just saying something at random. I said "V" earlier under my breath. This was when I was overwhelmed because my sister brought two of my second cousins and their older brother's son. I needed away. So I said "V". My mind was working so fast, that was the first thing I came to.

V is the Roman numeral for five. Have you ever heard of Beethoven's Fifth?

P.S. Yes, The Attic is actually somewhat echolalic of me. That's why I love it. I quote it all the time. Does quoting yourself count as echolalia?

Information from all sources,

Information that I know.

Info never to be covered,

Even in dust light as snow.

Warning: Broken Computer

Yep, that's right. The main computer shut down, and it's a hardware problem so I can't just reprogram it and fix it. We've already tried a new graphics card. My uncle thinks it's the motherboard.

The only other computer in the house is my personal one, without access to the Internet, at my mom's request. But my ADD brother has a few extra laptops laying around his house, so I'm on one that he brought over.

Now for my executive functioning problems today. First, I have an extremely high metabolism. I've already had a huge bowl of cereal, another bowl of potato sticks, and two huge smores today. I'm still starving. So that makes it so I can't focus on my schoolwork on my day off. Yep--I've got two projects due on Friday. How unlucky. Especially since I've also got a bad cold.

Of course, I'm used to this. As soon as I finish this post, I'm researching Galileo for a project in history. I'm the only one working alone, as there are an odd number of us in the class. But I prefer it, as I explained to the teacher. I'm happier this way.

I've also got a geometry project. It's on the different postulates and theorems, and we have to write information about each of them. I'm on page five of twenty-three, and I'm stuck. I still struggle to put into words the difference between equality and congruence. I can see it, I can think it, I can diagram it. I can't write it. That'll take some research, too.

I'm listening to Eye of the Tiger right now. I was just watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Both of these things reference, in code, the one thing I based The Attic on. I'll keep hinting at it until someone gets it. Here's the next verse, and I hope to update soon.

My attic is just different.

My attic is not filled. 

My attic has the needed facts, 

Were I to be grilled.

Learn

School is too much. Gym three times a week and almost always involving people throwing things and running. Football is a good example. When I don't know what to do, I stand still. When I stand still, people expect me to move. When they expect me to move, they slam into me. And slamming into me means instant meltdown.

Yet the gym teacher took a full minute to notice my rocking on my heels and sobbing.

I've got to wonder--do these teachers even know what to look for in a person who may have autism? Especially if it's mild? I've begun to doubt it. They teach that to teachers of the younger grades--sometimes.

Take me as an example. I was seemingly bullied in first and second grade. My teacher mentioned to my mom that I smiled too much. My mom thought that was an inappropriate comment, as I seemed to be happy-go-lucky at home. But my teacher ignored that from then on, because I was in the most advanced spelling group, I was reading middle school books, and I was doing advanced math. She ignored the fact that I struggled to hold the pencil to write and I couldn't control it to draw at all. She ignored the fact that I had an obsession with Cam Jansen, Bobbsey Twins, and Boxcar Children. She ignored the fact that I had no control over the volume of my voice--she actually thought that last one was a hearing problem.

In the higher grades, I continued to struggle with everything but academics. I was repeatedly refused an IEP in middle school because I have an eidetic memory. But now, that's changed. My grades are rapidly going down and I can't focus on my work. It's horrible. So finally, I'm going to be going through the evaluations. Finally.

But today was a lot to take in. I barely spoke after gym (seriously? Gym, first period, on Monday? Awful for anyone.) and I had a five-paragraph essay to write in history second block. I didn't even get halfway through. Luckily, the class has more time tomorrow to finish. Then, geometry with the sophomores. I was too exhausted to write out the distance formula in my problem of the day. But biology went better. The teacher's neurodivergent himself. We're good friends, and he knows that I sometimes need a minute.

That reminds me of a poem--a never-ending one--I'm currently writing. I'll type you a verse at the end of each post from now on.

Wish me luck with the evaluations, and let's hope gym on Wednesday goes a little better than today!

Every person has an attic.

Every attic has some dust.

Every attic tends to be filled

With a person's thoughts of lust.

(P.S. If anyone can tell where my inspiration has come from for the poem, I give you credit. I've named the background in a previous post, I'm sure. I love this topic.)

Stop.

Stop.

Don't push it.

That's enough.

The thoughts on the first day of school are still fuzzy in my mind. A major meltdown, all because I couldn't take it in. The high school smells. Bad. And that was too much.

Then comes just the fact that I am in honors, not because I can work well with others or because I have good executive functioning, but because I don't forget. And yet. Memory isn't enough if you don't care for math and your teacher last year never got around to teaching you what you were supposed to learn. (He played extremely loud, annoying music instead.) I couldn't take it. I had a meltdown.

And that's okay. They let me. They let me leave the room, they let me get away. They realized I wasn't going to be able to cope at first. They were fine with that.

But I still have protests. For one, the whole school is expected to light it up blue. I'll be wearing a red polo shirt that day, thank you very much. Polos are good. They don't hurt. So I'll be asking if we can have an assembly that day. I'll speak. I don't fully understand stage fright. It's like pain--it doesn't really exist. So maybe I can speak. Maybe they'll let me show my true colors. Maybe....

Maybe someday clear social struggles won't be ignored because grades are good enough to pass. In kindergarten, in first grade, in second and in third, Mom tried to get my teachers to allow me to skip a grade. But they refused, saying  I wasn't socially capable. They were ignorant of the fact that I read novels at recess, and that I seemed perfectly happy. But they decided, at one point, that I was disabled. They put me in a reading-assistance program in second grade for those at a kindergarten level. I was reading at a sixth-grade level. At least. I was out of that only after two months of me saying I was annoyed. But there will always be more....

Maybe someday autistic children won't be killed for being themselves. Issy. Alex. So many. Each different, yet all the same. All killed. Just for who they are. I pay attention. But I'm not going to devote too much energy to fighting for the peace of Star Trek's Earth. Other things come first for me--getting understanding. That will lead to the peace.

Maybe hate will stop someday.

I'm waiting.

Autism and School

Back to school isn't easy for anyone, but for an autistic child like me, it's even more difficult.

I always procrastinate. I should be doing my summer reading in July, but it lays untouched until August. Same with the math. Mom encourages me, but doesn't force me. Some days, I'll have better work than others. She knows that, so I write the essays when I feel like I can concentrate for an hour at a time. And lucky me--it all gets to be typed, so messy handwriting doesn't come into play.

Then we come to the matter of school supply lists. I've always been with my peers in class, so I've needed the same supplies. The trouble is, my district doesn't actually have teachers develop the supply lists for their students. Therefore, we always get more than we think is necessary. And we always get the things which will be necessary for me, but not others. For example, I can't handle the smell of liquid white-out. Instead, I get the tape.

Next we come to clothes. I don't bother to dress in bright colors. I wear one friendship bracelet that hasn't come off for eight months. I wear sneakers or a very specific pair of sandals. I commonly wear a five dollar t-shirt from Kohls (the patriotic ones) with jeans, and occasionally a sweatshirt. But this coming year, I hope to blend in slightly more with clothes. Even though I'll still stand out somewhat, I think that polo shirts and button-downs with a nice pair of darker jeans and a cardigan will be perfect.

Now I just need to figure out what I've got that doesn't hurt yet from pulls or tears in the fabric, and will match my new style. Two polos, I know, and no more good button-downs after my favorite one ripped. Three or four pairs of jeans. No nice sweaters, just ratty gray ones. So I'll be changing my style a bit, getting plenty of new stuff. And I might even accesorize slightly, starting with a little necklace or something. Who knows--I might just be a popular kid in a nerd's clothes this coming year.

Finally, we get to the fact that this will be the hardest transition yet. I'm going into high school, and that means that I'll have classes an hour and a half long, lunch at ten thirty instead of eleven thirty, and four teachers that change out altogether multiple times in the year. I know I'll probably have my bad days, and I'll probably be bullied, just like always. But I went into elementary and middle before I knew what autism was. So I know I'll be okay in the end, just like I've always been.

A Generation of Stimmers

I've always noticed details. Only recently, however, did it occur to me to turn my attention toward my family. Maybe I would see more of me in them than I had before.

Boy, did I ever.

Every single one of my siblings stims or has stimmed their whole life.

The oldest of us, N., stimmed for only a few years before he was restricted from it in school. But in those few years, he did a lot of it. Especially to Mom. She had sores on the corners of her lips for two years straight from where N. would pull at them while being rocked. But as soon as he stopped stimming, he couldn't concentrate. He now lets his hands move whenever he's in private, and quite often otherwise.

A. lasted longer with stimming. He would hum. And this hum was noticed by absolutely everyone. But no one stepped in or told him to stop. They didn't want to interrupt his intense concentration. So he grew up a hummer until his teenage years, when that stim disappeared. However, his hands are now ever active, so he's taken on a new favorite method of concentration.

Then came C. She had the longest-lasting single stim. For about fifteen years, she went on and on with rubbing silk cloths against her lips. Everyone teased her, but yet again, it helped her concentrate. She didn't care that she seemed strange to the rest of us. She needed it badly. Only recently has she stopped doing it in public, but her hands, like N. and A.'s, tap on any available surface.

As youngest, I am also a stimmer. I have so many different ones, it could take up a post of its own. But there is a method behind my madness--I stim to concentrate.

The next generation now stims, too. Especially A.'s son. That little kid has so much personality, so little time to shine, and stimming to put us all to shame. I wouldn't be surprised if he turned out to have some form of autism himself. But the point is, he stims. And he truly is his father's son. One Christmas, he was quietly rocking, attempting to open a present without damaging the wrapping paper. He hummed straight through his failed attempt. And his hands were loose and flapping the moment he was done.

I love that kid. But even more, I was impressed by his concentration, at two years old, opening a present.

The whole family stims to concentrate. And we're proud of that fact.

Woof

Woof.

To the average person, it is just the sound a dog makes. To me, it does not exist.

There are arou, grarr, gyep, harr, and agraw.

There is no such thing as woof.

I was playing with my neighbor's dog earlier today. I got into a heated game of tug-of-war using his light blue Kong Wubba. But all of a sudden, I felt him change. He thought he was hunting. I was still in a play-fight kind of mindset.

Max's grraw  brought me back to reality. I responded with a call of my own--garhar grarr. In English, I said, "Calm it, Max. Your Basenji lineage doesn't get you a free pass to hunting humans." But all of that was down to two short words in dog.

With Tessie, I enjoy myself in a different way. She doesn't like toys, so we use Beggin' Strips instead. I break one into ten or more pieces, and my calls in her native language tell her what to do to get a bite.

But Max isn't Tessie. Tessie's a quiet scenthound. Max is a hyperactive sighthound mix.

Yet they share a language.

If only humans had canine intelligence.

When She Was Good

When she was good, she was very good indeed, but when she was bad she was horrid.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, There was a Little Girl

I first read this poem while on fanfiction.net, a place where the average person can post work they've written based on existing literature, TV shows, and movies. It struck me. It reminded me of myself.

The summer before eighth grade. My aunt took me to Boston for a day trip, and we went on the Duck Boats. I loved it. Even though there was the occasional loud noise, I loved it. And to top it all off, the guide called me the "Google Girl," claiming you could search me and find a better answer than the search engine would provide you.

I answered every question he asked. For example: In World War II, why was the golden dome of the Massachusetts capital building painted gray?

Answer: To ward off bombers.

This kind of thing happens so often. I've had to learn not to do it when I'm in public, unless I'm specifically asked. Otherwise, people may actually say I am somewhat horrid. And I would have to agree.

I'll be posting more parts of this another time. But for now, go ahead: ask me any questions you would like in the comments, and I'll try to answer them without Google.

Family Ties

Even in my family, I'm not alone with having a different mind.

Both of my brothers fit into "categories" like I do. My sister doesn't, but that in itself makes her different among the four of us.

My oldest brother, N. for privacy, grew up when ADD was just being classified. He was one of the first in America to receive the diagnosis. He could have been who they based the concept of ADD on, for that matter. Even today, only two things keep his attention--sports and music.

A. was next in line. He was a very smart, energetic preschooler. But he hated any sort of stimulation. Especially light and touch. A. and I got along on that point quite well. And even though he could ride his bike at three years old, he struggled with learning to drive years later. After some recent research, I think he might have some form of Sensory Processing Disorder.

C. is one of my best friends. She is the most average of the family, but she does have some slight difficulties with social interaction on occasion. For her, though, she can ignore it. She plays sports year round, and was the only girl allowed on the boys' baseball team in middle school.

Then came the youngest, almost fourteen years after C. and twenty after N. I was so different from everyone else in the family, I'm always surprised that I wasn't recognized as very different from the whole population earlier on.

Autobiographical

Autobiographical is a big word that not many people know.

Eidetic isn't so big, but even fewer people know what it means.

Photographic is the least impressive of the three words, and we all know what it means.

But all three of these words have been used to describe my memory.

Even in kindergarten and before, I could remember lots of things. I could see an eleven-word spelling list once and not think twice about getting eight words right later in the day. I still think nothing of it.

But my peers do.

I've stood out ever since they realized that I could remember like that. I just accept it. It's never been any different. My siblings are all so much older than me, I was different from the start.

But as I've grown, I've wanted friends. School is not as much fun as it used to be. It's a place where I truly am an outcast, with writing that my teachers swear is college-level and math skills that have gotten me into algebra a year early. School is no longer the best place in the world--it's nothing nearly as good as it once was.

So I remember.

I remember my early childhood, my mom getting my brother the exact same gloves he already had for his birthday when I was three years old. I remember kindergarten, when I nearly skipped school over finger painting (I hated it.) I remember first grade, my mystery obsession, when I first read Cam Jansen and realized that other people were like me. (Of course, for a while, I thought everyone was like me....) I remember second grade, when I finally accepted that I was different. I remember third grade, when bullies and music were all I knew. I remember fourth grade, when I first learned that not all stories could take place in our world. I remember fifth grade, when I first opened Microsoft Word with the intent to write a novel (even if it was still childish). I remember sixth grade, when I started to deal with bullies again, and took refuge in my own mind. I remember seventh grade, standing up for myself after watching Temple Grandin in health class, realizing that in no way was I really all that different.

I remember.

I remember five verses of Samuel Butler's translation of the Iliad, completed in 1901. I remember all three verses of O Captain! my Captain! which I first learned for Social Studies. I remember the first three verses of The Raven, by Edgar Allen Poe, and how my English teacher couldn't recite even the first without stumbling through. I remember a large portion of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, which I started reciting on a fifth grade field trip to Boston, much to our guide's surprise. I remember 84 digits of pi after the decimal point, resulting from an unfinished competition with a fellow nerd in school. I remember the first four lines on page 347 of The Complete Sherlock Holmes (long story, but it's in Silver Blaze, the most inaccurate story Doyle ever wrote.)

I remember.

And I am proud of that fact.

Aspie Child Crossing: Street Trouble

Just having got back from this walk with Tessie, I can remember every detail.

Tess enjoyed herself very much, that's for sure. However, I did not.

Thankfully, she never left my side.

First off was the silver Ford F-150 going the wrong way down our street--after signalling that it was about to turn to go the correct way. The Do Not Enter signs have been up for at least ten years. Yet people still disobey them on a daily basis.

Next came the horrible feeling of the slack leash as it brushed against the pavement. Tessie was behaving herself well enough that it didn't bother me at first, but as soon as I felt it, I started freaking out. Tessie came closer to me, immediately ending the horror of the leash. But just to make sure, I wrapped the leash around her chest (a trick I've developed to get rid of the slack) and the problem did not repeat.

Then came the muskrat. Put simply, Tessie took no notice. I was happy. Oh, do you want the full story? Well, the muskrat was at the house of a West Highland White Terrier. It will be gone within a few days if that dog takes notice. Therefore, Tessie knew it was not her prey to chase. Because of the fact that she didn't go chasing it, I was happy.

After that was the Yorkie house. Two kids were outside doing gymnastics, so Tessie wanted to say hello. But I didn't bother, knowing that she wasn't going to care very much. She hasn't even begun sulking, so I think it's fine.

Next, there was no one at the park. No one. That is crazy rare, and since Tessie only does her tricks for an audience, we just turned around for the walk home.

Oh, and did I mention the constant firecrackers the whole way to the park? Yeah, Tessie hated them.

But as soon as we turned back, things went better. We got home without a hitch (other than the extremely annoying rock in my right shoe). Tessie is now laying by my side as I type this. I may not have enjoyed the walk much, but Tessie performs extremely well under the most extraordinary of circumstances.

Now, if only she would quit jumping on people...

Tessie

Having autism, I know what it is to be different.

My dog also knows.

My best friend, Tessie, is half Siberian Husky and half Bluetick Coonhound. She is a beautiful girl. But the first thing everyone notices is the single china eye. One eye is pale blue, sometimes called white. The other eye is dark brown, with a tiny stripe of blue going from the white of the eye through the iris. But she isn't blind in the blue eye--if anything, it's closer to the opposite.

Tessie is a very special and incredibly intelligent dog. I got her from my brother for my twelfth birthday. I had only met her once before, that summer, but we had an instant bond. She listened to me as I started to teach her commands the day we met. And she remembered all of those commands.

So when I got her the following November as a belated birthday present, I immediately started training her. I was very careful, but she surpassed all of my expectations. Tessie and I started slowly, but within a year, we had grown to the point where I could signal her and she would just understand my innermost thoughts. 

There was just one trouble, though--she ran away.

The Coonhound in her is always begging her to sniff, so she rolls in the grass a lot. But when she rolls, her leash comes unhooked. And she can jump right over a four foot fence without trying. We live right near a major roadway, so that is very dangerous. She once crossed the roadway. We only caught her because of her fear of water. And even then, my dad couldn't have got her if he had run for her. But the moment I called, she came running, just like the song always says.

Winter is her favorite season. She can jump vertically through the piles of snow we get around here, and the best part is that I can keep up. Spring and fall come next. That's when we take three hour walks after school is over for the day. We'll go down the street, visit her friends(Jinx, Lilo, and Max, along with others on occasion), and finally go to the skate park. She taught herself to climb the concrete half pipe. So I used that to my advantage, and after a lot of practice, she was able to do anything I told her to when we were there. She's become the unofficial dog mascot of the park.

In the summer, I don't see her much. I have words floating around my head all day, every day, and I can only write them down constantly for three months of the year. So Tessie will lay outside the closed door to my bedroom until Mom gets home from work at two o'clock. We'll be forced out of the house for a couple of hours. And for once, I actually don't want to.

But with Tessie around, I don't care. I can still remember all the words I need to write down for when I get home. So even if it does get annoying for the dog, with me typing all day, we are still happy.

And that is what matters.

Thinking in Words

Hyperlexia.

Overactive imagination.

Autism.

For me, those three things tie together very tightly. Those three terms describe my whole life.

I am Arianna.

I am Arianna, an autistic teenager with an eidetic memory. I am Arianna, a girl who has written novels in her spare time. I am Arianna, the girl the whole school knows of as the genius.

I am Arianna, the girl who wishes she wasn't so different.

Even as a young child, I was different. My whole family could tell. I never cried after my mom started teaching me American Sign Language at two weeks old. I was signing myself a few months later, and by three years old, I knew about eighty signs, not including the alphabet. In preschool and kindergarten, I was in a grade of my own, one might say. I was doing sixth-grade spelling lists and getting the sixth-grade averages. My teachers pointed it out to my parents. But for the next seven years I continued to blend in well enough. And because of that, they didn't realize what the negatives of my intelligence were.

Finally, in July 2012, my cousin realized what it was about me. I had Asperger's syndrome, mild autism. When taken into perspective, it explained the bullying that had followed me through two schools. It explained the difficulties that had come into play as I transitioned into middle school three years before. It even explained how the struggles my parents had grown to consider normal after my ADD brother had been passed down to me.

Going into high school this coming fall will most likely be the most important transition of my life so far. It will be the first major change after the discovery of my autism. And it will be the first time I must call myself autistic, thanks to the DSM-V.

But high school will also be the time when I can learn to cope. Everything around me right now seems to be at least a million times more powerful than it should be. My tears tend to spill on a daily basis. I hope that I can learn what I need to learn in the coming years. I hope that I can continue to be me.

Because I am Arianna, a girl who thinks in words.