Different

As I prepare to head down to Washington, D.C. in a couple of weeks, I am discovering more and more differences between me and my immediate family. 

Mom, for example, can't see UV light at all. (It's very rare, since you have to have two separate genetic abnormalities, but she gave me one of them: carrying the recessive red-green colorblindness allele on the X chromosome. The other is the brain's processing.) When we got our hands on a new camera for Washington, she held it up to the window and saw purple lines. I had to explain to her that those were the UV rays from the sun, and that I could see them most of the time. She finally understood why I refuse to step foot outside of the house if the sun is shining.

She also has executive functioning problems--the exact opposite of mine. Where I'm strong--planning the trip and finding tours--she is weak. But her strengths (mainly working memory, since mine goes straight to long-term) are extremely valuable to me as I try to plan.

Dad, however, is the only one of us with a decent sense of time. I spent three hours planning the trip last week, completely forgetting about my violin lesson. Mom didn't realize, either. Dad arrived home to find us working, and asked if we had forgotten.

But even the bits of my processing I take for granted as "normal" may not be quite so. As my daily headaches have progressed into weekly migraines, I've looked to find out why. And luckily for me, I think I figured it out. My visual processing (oh, good old brain of mine, always messing with me) is different from how it should be. Specifically, it's likely I have Irlen's Syndrome. After going through the checklist where three checks meant it was good to be tested, I managed to score a ridiculously high number...

Twenty-nine.

Yeah.

Darned brain. Why can't I process correctly? Oh, yeah. My seeing UV is a big part of it. I can see far more colors than I'm supposed to. But hopefully, before the school year gets fully into the swing of things in September, I can get some tinted lenses to correct my processing.

My whole life, I've known I'm different. 

My whole life, I've been quite strange.

My whole life, the world around me

Has remained while I have changed.

Diverting Interests: How to Make A Passion Worthwhile

I'm currently a high school student. That means projects. And in biology this year, we don't have a final exam.

We have to write a research paper.

Now, don't get me wrong: this has never been hard before. But my right hand has been hurting me for a few weeks, and violin and piano aren't helping. Luckily, I write left-handed, so it's not horribly difficult in everyday life.

However, typing is difficult now. This post may well turn out shorter than most because of that. I apologize. (I also apologize if anyone reads my fanfictions, but it hurts too much to type them up.) Because of this, my research paper, due this coming Friday, is only halfway typed. It's not too much of a struggle, because I have a free block every day in school where I can type if my hand doesn't hurt. And of course, an interesting topic helps as well.

Biology is an easy subject for me. Most of the work is terminology, which I can glance at and memorize. But DNA was different when we studied it in December. It was more complex, and took some time to fully understand. That began a fascination. I know about triple the amount taught in class, without question. I temporarily considered it as a career path in February, but my mind returned to physics, as it has for two years.

Now, we get to pick our own topics for the research project. DNA was an obvious choice, especially since we ran out of time and did not cover the Human Genome Project. I had to pick a division of that to work with, though, so I took the Trekkie's path: eugenics.

The project requires a three-to-five minute oral presentation. That may be a struggle, especially if my hand hurts too much to manage the pointer. But I will manage, as I always have.

I know so many things by now.

I know enough to stun.

I know nothing of childhood, though,

As that was less than one.

(Yeah, umm... that verse is just accurate right now. I'm watching a ton of superhero cartoons on Netflix. I was a hyperlexic child, reading books independently before age four. I never had the need for imaginary things after the age of five, but my mind is now realizing how little it matured because of my lost childhood.)

Frugal Fido

As summer approaches, Tessie and I are having a lot of fun.

For those of you who don't know, Tessie is my service-dog-eternally-in-training-because-she-loves-to-run-away. She can understand my whistles, my Morse code tappings, my English words, my Latin words (you read that right, I know some Latin), and my scent. She is my best friend, my doggy soulmate, and my most valuable possession. Tessie is my only interesting summertime companion, as my eleven-year-old cat just lies around every day and my parents work.

Tessie is the only creature who can get me to run. The husky half of her is always hyper, so I walk her up the hill near our house and run down each day. She won't run with my marathon-running siblings, but she will match my pace to make me exercise.

My family loves to encourage my passions, but we don't have a lot of money. We can't afford for me to take Tessie to agility classes* or get awesome equipment. But when my mom gets PVC pipes to make garden supplies, I'm allowed to get some stuff of my own.

So for under ten dollars, Tessie has a couple of new jumps.

We got a ten-foot by 1/2-inch PVC pipe and four tees. We're going back at some point to get bases for the jumps, but we'll still be under ten bucks. Anyway, we cut two pieces at twenty-four inches, and the remaining four at eighteen inches each. Tessie can easily clear such a height, so that's no concern. If she was smaller, we would have made them lower. We put the tees at the tops of the shorter rods, and connected two of them with a longer pipe. The tees serve to connect the pieces vertically, allowing for easier storage. Tessie hasn't been able to try it yet, but it'll probably happen within the next two weeks.

*Dog agility, for anyone who doesn't know, is an international sport. Dogs are trained to jump hurdles, climb ramps, zigzag in between poles, and remain sitting for five seconds in the "pause box". The fastest time with the fewest faults wins. It is a difficult sport, but many people benefit from it, and it is the only way I feel safe running. When running on the streets, I have to watch for cars, but agility can be done in one's backyard, providing greater security. As evidenced by this post, it does not have to be expensive. I highly recommend it to anyone who wishes they could sleep at night, but has too much energy...so practically anyone who reads this blog knows someone to suggest agility to.

My family barely knows me.

My family is just dull.

My family is still learning me,

But my dog knows me well.

The Beauty of a Friend

A couple of days after my last mention of my friend, the librarian attempted to formally introduce us. "Do you know Ari?" she asked.

"A little," he replied in English with a touch of what I recognized as autistic sarcasm. The only signal was in how his hands moved, but I was tempted to burst out laughing.

I was in the media center instead of my tech class. The whole class is on the internet, so it's not difficult for me to do such a thing. (I mean, halfway through the allotted quarter of the year, I've already completed the entire curriculum by working a tiny bit each day.) But the teacher is the loudest teacher in the school. I get along with him perfectly well, but if anything is to be accomplished and any sensory meltdowns are to be avoided, I need to be in a different area.

On that day, my friend had just completed standardized tests. His teacher was putting on a movie on the subject, despite there being more kids who had not yet completed their tests and were just coming in. My friend protested by walking out of class and coming to the media center, where he knew I would be (his class is next to mine, and I have greeted him while checking in with my teacher before). We went to lunch together, looked at a book on masks of the world, and overall had a nice time.

After lunch, he made me laugh.

It's rare that I laugh in public. I tend to appear totally unemotional, which I've developed as a result of being bullied for most of my life. But every once in a while, something will make me smile...or laugh for two minutes straight.

My good friend noticed busts of some of the best speakers and poets in history on the top of one of the bookcases. He asked how dusty they were, which the librarian struggled to answer. So he composed a song, on the spot, asking the busts of Robert Frost, JFK, and Dr. Martin Luther King, jr. questions about their lives.

I laughed continually from the first line to the last.

Ever since, if he's seen me walking through the halls on my way to lunch, he will begin a song on philosophy just to make me giggle like the little girl I never got to be. The bullies may have taken away my childhood and my laughter earlier than I would have liked, but sometimes, a friend can get it back for me.

If ever life is just too much,

If ever there's no end,

If ever you're the only one,

Then let me be your friend.

A Language All Our Own

Three days each week, I see another autistic kid at lunch. He's one year older than me, and very smart with languages. He and I have never sat at the same table or had a conversation anyone else could hear, but we are good friends.

We hum.

It took me a couple of weeks to understand his hums, at first. I assumed they were just a stim, as were my occasional hums. But then I got to thinking: I don't say thank you or you're welcome. I hum them. Thank you is a proper doorbell-ringing third, and you're welcome starts on the lower of the two notes.

My friend has a far more complex language than I had ever dreamed was possible.

He uses only a handful of pitches, with slurs and pulls to form terms and phrases. I studied his ways for a good two weeks before attempting to introduce myself.

I was met with very good reception.

"Hi, I'm Ari," was my first sentence. He froze, glancing at my face as I watched him in my peripheral vision.

We haven't stopped talking since.

The first day was a very good day. We got to know one another. He was lonely, and I explained that my friends weren't really "friends," as they had the habit of turning on me and becoming horrible bullies. I suggested that we be friends, proper ones at that. He froze again, a habit I've found is his way of acknowledging a thought while processing it. Finally, he agreed.

Last Friday gave us a very crowded lunch with few available seats, a situation not previously encountered, as it was the first Friday of the quarter. His normal table wasn't available for him to sit at. His low-pitched humming signified trouble. The teachers offered to have him sit somewhere else, but he held up a single index finger. As he walked towards me, I tapped the otherwise empty table I was at. Again, the finger was presented. He had seen what appeared to be an empty table in the middle of the room, and after ensuring that no one's bags were underneath, he sat there. I knew to trust him.

Each day, I eat quickly before going to the bathroom. If I'm already done eating when he arrives, he'll call for me using my hum name. I'll respond with a quick greeting, followed by "One moment!" in our humming language.

Today had two significant events. Another autistic boy was walking through the cafeteria, and my good friend's back was turned, so he didn't know who was behind him. But I hummed to both of them, and my friend rocked quietly in greeting after realizing who it was from my sounds. Secondly, there was a bee. I like bees, but my friend doesn't. He saw my curious glances upwards as it flew overhead, and told the assistant principal, who opened a window. (The bee was not harmed in the process.)

My friend and I can read one another like books...or maybe audiobooks.

I have a world that's all my own.

I have a genius mind.

I have no way of showing such,

Except for my own kind.

The Dictionary

My words appear to come easily when I speak, easily enough to always talk. Anyone who knows me knows that that is false.

Writing is my primary form of communication.

Even in school, I will write down anything I need to say. Nothing escapes my lips until it has already gone through my hands. By the time I get home, my hands are sore from how much my pencil has written.

When I am at home, I have a slightly more relaxed stance. I know that I don't have to watch my wording as strictly as in school, so I will use what I call my "dictionary:" my mental list of words I am confident I can pronounce and use in the correct context. This is one of my biggest secrets, and at times I call it my Magnussen library, after the man with the photographic memory in BBC Sherlock.

Over time, the dictionary's size has increased and decreased. It has two main sections, words and phrases being the conversational one. These sheets are like the phone book: you don't realize they're torn until they've fallen out. The back of the book has everything I have memorized, including poems, music, and facts. Each page is the highest quality vellum near the end, with countless items inked in with neat calligraphy.

Three-quarters of the book is memorized items.

One-quarter, no more than 200 pages of a trade paperback, is conversational material.

When I write, however, I use a separate dictionary. This one doesn't have long pieces of text waiting to be recited. This has a five hundred page, 11x8.5 inch dictionary of words and short phrases. It is something I could never say out loud. I have to be cautious to use simpler words if I ever intend on verbalizing what is on the page. Those kinds of things take me far longer to write. They require proofreading, something I very rarely do with anything else. I haven't proofread a single blog post, for that matter; I find it to be unnecessary.

Back when I first started writing stories, I had a single goal: teach myself to control words better. My life has become incredibly easy since then.

Writing is my life.

My attic gives me many things.

My attic gives me thoughts.

My attic gives me stories, too;

Of those it gives me lots.

P.S. I am in the final editing stage for my first novel, not Negative Infinity but another altogether. It is a dystopian with some fantasy elements, and it is the first of a trilogy. Raleigh will be published at some point this summer, and I will update you on the details once I know for sure.

The Paper Bracelet Project

Last year, some of my friends who knew I was autistic asked me what it was like. I found it extremely hard to verbalize, so I came up with an alternative.

I gave them paper bracelets.

They're not just flat pieces of paper. They're twisted strips of paper, two inches by eleven inches, with little kinks and rips. You tape it together around your wrist.

It's a tiny little thing, but they started to understand what a slight sensitivity to touch was. My teachers described it as "noticeable," and could not ignore the way it poked them every time they moved their wrist. Most people wore it on their non-dominant hand so it wouldn't rip further, but I aim to change that this year. The participants will just have to use more tape each time it comes off.

I spent ten minutes at the beginning of my writing class yesterday explaining about the Autism Speaks situation. My teacher needed a good deal of clarification, but I'm slowly converting NTs to the side of the autistic community. Everyone in school is supposed to "light it up blue," as they have done in years past. I'm asking my friends if they can do this little thing for me instead.

One day.

One bracelet.

One more person I've educated about the actual situation.

My work is never complete, however. I will probably request that I be allowed to speak in front of the school next year, using quotes from the many autistics who support the boycott. I will hopefully be able to make enough paper bracelets for everyone in my school, about five hundred people including teachers. If I can use two notebooks each year for this, my money will be well spent. (Besides, my mom is the one who'll be paying for the notebooks, most likely.)

Go ahead and share this post. Just say an autistic girl from New England figured out how to show touch sensitivity to her friends.

My brain makes light seem blinding.

My brain makes me feel deaf.

My brain has never filtered,

So my senses get an F.

#StopCombatingMe: A Trekkie's View

Some people say Star Trek can't happen. I say otherwise.

Khan.

Trekkies know that name. I love that name. It proves that yes, there is an eternal eugenics war. We just haven't started genetically engineering human beings yet.

Or have we?

Because of Congress, eugenics are a prominent topic in modern times. Why would you want to stop the people who go to MIT or work at NASA? Oh, that's right. You are like me. You've followed my train of thought. Those people working at NASA have the best chance to steal a spacecraft.

We're rebelling.

The superhuman Augments of Khan's time: NTs who want to get rid of the Autistics. Autistics who were raised to think that they were no good unless they blended in also fit in that category. The Augments who led the nations into war against one another: Autistics when the speechless among us learned to communicate in their own way. The NTs refused to believe. So now, Autistics who were taught to fit in aren't fitting in anymore in protest. We know our kind, and they are just as incredible as those of us at MIT and NASA.

Too bad, Congress. We don't want a cure. You either accept us as we are, or you realize that we won't hesitate to steal the SS Botany Bay when the Mars missions start.

Stop combating us, and the horrible wars of Star Trek won't have to happen.

I must ask you--spread the good news.

I must beg you--go and tell.

I must admit I'm special,

But that could be you as well.

(My first flashblog @ wordsofautism.blogspot.com!)

Twice Gifted (yet they said I was normal)

There's one thing I wish I could change about my younger years. My teachers saw something. They stayed silent.

Why?

Why not tell my mom outright that the other kids are teasing me, instead of saying that I smile too much?

Why not question my obsession with everything about pandas and literature, when no one else in the class shares my passion?

Why not mention these things, especially when you're going to college to be a special education teacher?

(And that's just one of them.)

I am autistic. Too bad for you, since I was never a good enough student to make you extraordinarily happy. That was my best friend, a boy who had taught himself molecular chemistry and was hardly socially struggling.

I was averaging myself out. My deficits in social interaction were no more prominent than my academic skills. My teachers felt that I was fitting in good enough.

Then came middle school.

All my fellow classmates cared about was appearance, be it socially or physically. I still haven't caught on to that. So while I began to struggle an incredible amount, my abilities morphed. A previously amazing memory became eidetic. My teachers understood that I worked socially. But I still balanced out to the extent that the only special classes I was offered only discussed boys and fashion.

No thank you.

Add to that the fact that I was denied an IEP. My mom had no internet access, and she couldn't look up the laws. That is not her fault. Neither is the fact that I have only now begun to get any support something which should weigh on her shoulders.

But within the next two weeks, I'll be signing up for AP Physics a year before my peers. I will have adjusted passing times, and I will be given the notes so my hand doesn't hurt from writing.

My life has been twice gifted. It is no more.

I know the Russian alphabet.

I know a lot of pi.

I know a lot of random things,

That I can't deny.

P.S. You know the drill about the sporadic updates. Sorry. But two of my more recent fanfictions now feature autistic character...though one is more secret until August, so please don't make an obvious mention in the reviews. They will both be updated within a week. They are:

A December to Remember (Doctor Who)

and

Il Mutor (Phantom of the Opera) [and yes, the misspelling is purposeful.]

The Sound and the Worry

I watch Netflix a lot. My sister pays for the account, but I use it more often. But when she does watch, she gives me heck for it.

You see, I watch with closed captioning.

There are a few reasons for this. One of them is the auditory processing trouble when it's a BBC show and you're an American. Even though I can simulate the accent, I can't decipher it.

But with the action shows I like to see, I watch for something strange: the dialogue. After all, I do want to write novels for a living. The speech is what attracts my attention. And I literally have to endure the action.

I know what you're thinking. What in the world is enduring action? To put it simply, it's the exact same feeling as not knowing what is about to happen in life. I know for a fact that I'm not the only one who doesn't like that. This is, after all, a blog about autism. But here's where the experts are wrong: I mute episodes because my empathy is so great. I'm not just watching. I AM IN THE SHOW.

I don't watch action sequences. I memorize them with the show on mute. Even slight suspense means low or missing sound. I have the compulsion to remember every detail. I doubt I'll ever be in a planet-sized library being chased by microscopic flesh eaters, or next to a pool where a child was murdered with my best friend about to explode. But I can't be sure.

So I put the closed captioning on and mute the show. I get just as much out of it. Actually, I might get even more without my emotions interfering.

So go ahead and quiz me.

So go ahead and call me strange.

So go ahead, but I must warn you,

In my mind's an endless range.

Memorization and the BBC

The insanity that is my life of late.

I have not had any peace for weeks, it feels like. Now, on a day off, I have scripts running through my head constantly. And not normal, two-sentence scripts, either: the complete script to Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera. Music and all.

Now, this is nothing new. I have scenes of Shakespeare and tales of Edgar Allen Poe ready to spurt at a moment's notice. But there's something about the rhythm in Phantom, something that captivates me like nothing else except Jabberwocky. And that's two minutes long, shorter if the Third Doctor is singing the first verse while working on Bessie in the classic Doctor Who serial The Silurians.

As you can tell, I've become a bit of a rambler. 

That's not by choice, though. Oh, no. If I had my way, I would seem perfectly like everyone else. It takes so much energy to deal with everyday life if I ramble. But rambling takes less energy than taking turns. And taking turns takes less energy than watching the teacher with my chin in my hand like the rest of the freshman class does (dear God, what is it like in their funny little brains?).

The best thing to do? Ignore the teacher. I mean, I was bored last month. I watched Crash Course with Hank Green. I did research on my own years ago. I can draw a double helix without thinking twice. I know enough about DNA to ace the test in Biology. Besides, the teacher couldn't care less from what I can tell.

But anyway, it is now Sherlock canon: Mycroft is, indeed, the one with the eidetic memory. Sherlock thought himself dumb until he went to school. Mycroft is said to work for multiple countries' governments and secret services. He is also the one who struggled for years with people.

Thank you very much, BBC. You have put in two un-stated but very clearly autistic brothers, one a definite savant and the other managing pretty well in life when not dealing with flash photography. You have let the world realize how well autistics can do if given the chance. Next goal: represent those of us with even greater challenges. The ones like Mycroft as a child. Give us the story of Mycroft. I know of plenty of writers up to the challenge.

Now, as for memorization. Too easy, as simple as that. I never want to do anything else...besides dog training. My cousin is giving me twenty dollars a week for playing with her beagle puppy. It took me an hour to teach him to sit and not to jump. If only Tessie would learn not to jump.

My attic is not perfect.

My attic is not best.

My attic must be taught to know

What's bullying or jest.

P.S. For some decent Sherlock fanfictions about he and/or Mycroft being autistic, these are my favorites:

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8940145/1/The-Spectrum-Detective

(and the sequel, Adventures of the Spectrum Detective)

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7760506/1/Asperger-s

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9716507/1/Of-Palaces-and-Memories

(more about the sensory part of it, but you get the point)