“And how are you with transitions?” My Dr. asked halfway through my intake.
A question I immediately knew the answer to.
Leading up to my assessment, I began writing alot. With everything I’d been reading about Autism, I needed to deeply, fucking reflect on the criteria. Because I thought that I was imagining I fit. Was I mistaking the criteria for something else because I was there- in clinical, black and white text-I thought that was just life? It was a serious move towards answers I’d given up on finding.
One major question was how I deal with change. Autistic people like what they like and really prefer if you don’t fucking mess with it or else it will be bad. Wether it’s expressed outwardly or collapsed internally, the effect of outside tampering will reverb for days, weeks.
Months before I got my referral, I was nauseous as usual, struggling to leave my apartment for work when it occurred to me: WAIT-are mornings/from bed to work, a transition? Is that what they mean? If so, fuck me. I have never been able to get out of bed since I was a kid.
I was always late or barely on time because I had to ask for a ride. As I grew up the only thing I could do was set my alarm two hours before I had to get up, so I could warm up to it. This isn’t a gripe about mornings being a drag but I get on with it—I’d want to vomit. Being so exhausted from the absolutely average day before, my body was bricks.
Don’t turn on the light, don’t flush the toilet, stop shuffling breakfast pans downstairs I’m not going to eat anyway. Don’t tell me it’s the third time you asked me to get up, I can’t move and my eyes have not adjusted.
Standing on the crusty floor of the warehouse I worked in, I got some paper. By this point I’d take breaks whenever I wanted because doing basic math for a job when it’s your learning disability is brain melting. The following is a single day accounting of what an average morning in my mind and body is, under a “normal job” circumstance:
Getting out of bed takes an hour. It’s from when the first of my three alarms go off. My mind starts racing about the immense task in front of me. Forget bathroom, showers, brushing teeth. There’s no time for that. I need to sit up.
Just sit up in bed. You’re half way there. The mental discipline to put my foot on the floor is the same as when I am feeling good, pushing my limits at the gym.
I have to cram my legs into pants, constrict my body into a bra; a shirt, a sweater that I can’t decide wether I’m too hot or cold in, rolling up sleeves, down sleeves I can’t take that fabric edging into my elbows. All I have to do now is get my shoes on. They’re outside my door because it tracks so much crap inside. But I still feel the dirt under my feet. There is always some lint, micro pebble, dust fleck I feel. I brush my feet off my calf with every step because I’ve just given up trying to clean.
But I haven’t given up hating myself for the simple tasks I can’t do like being neat. Or the branded Self-Care sold to me about how I am the problem and blockage to my own peace of mind. My brain won’t turn on but you want me to mentally multitask at 6:23 am?
Ok, my jackets on and it’s raining. I’m going to get wet because holding an umbrella fills me with rage. WOW. You can’t even hold an umbrella to keep you dry. What are you, five? No, you’ll just end up beating a traffic pole with it because at 7 am you’re drenched, the light won’t turn and you’re late anyway because you cannot take a bus filled with people, so you waited til one was clear.
Umbrellas don’t even keep you dry anyway, the wetness is everywhere. The unwelcome sog seeps in and stays. I LOVE water, but on my terms. And I can’t control the weather. I get so agitated building barriers to it, especially when it’s pissing. Have at me Sky. Get soaked, I can’t be bothered. Why am I like this, I’m not even out the door yet.
Because I need to check my windows, my stove, lock and re-lock-because my psych tells me I’m in an OCD spike. It arises from stress. Like having a job that doesn’t pay me shit to run burning plastic through medal blades, making proper weather gear unaffordable while I’m pushing 40.
I would say this is hell but it’s just a regular day before 7 am.
“Not good” I replied with a scoff, my mind drifting. My Dr. heard my answer and nudged: “Can you tell me more?”
Oh right, I realized coming back to the moment. I guess I have to talk about it.