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)

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.