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.