Loneliness vs Solitude

Sometimes I feel lonely - I get the need for company. Other times I find other people hard to handle and need some time alone. This time of year - the holiday season - is making me unusually aware of this.

It has been a strange few days. I've spent a lot of time amongst friends, enjoying myself, and yet felt the need to take a break every now and again to be alone. I could feel myself becoming overwhelmed and needing just five or ten minutes of peace to recover. I don't generally explain or even describe how I'm feeling - I just walk away for a spell, and come back afterwards feeling calmer and more at ease.

And now, in the small hours of the morning, I am sat at home. My wife is asleep in bed. For some reason I feel alone, even though I know she is only a few yards away - I can even hear her snoring gently. The feeling's like an emptiness inside, different from sadness in that there is no pain. It's almost an absence of feeling.

I want to share with somebody what the past few days have been like. The dislocation caused by a week's forced vacation as work shut down for the holidays. The exhilaration of working the bar during a record-breaking day. The physical tiredness from successive late nights. The comfort I felt holding my wife on the dance-floor. Other events, other feelings, good and bad.

Writing this, sharing it here, has helped me. I have regained my balance, and now I shall retire to bed at ease.

The Color Of Yule

Stark monochrome: black trees, white snow,
Gray skies above, dark ice below.
A freeze-frame landscape, time stood still
'cross patchwork fields pervasive chill.

Laid in the hearth, upon the grate,
The source of Yuletide warmth awaits
Its kindling, when the flames will dance,
Bright heralds of the sun's advance.

When rising at the turn of year,
Blood red! sun's light comes running clear
With warmth as if from sacrifice
't were spilled to flood across the ice.

And here like frozen drops of blood
Are holly berries from the wood,
Nestled amid the leaves' dark green,
Reflected by the lustrous sheen.

Parallel Existence

In your world the light is cheerful,
    In my world the light is painful,
Sounds caress: a background murmur.
    Sounds assault: a foreground clamor.
A crowd of friends; you rush to join them,
    A crowd of friends; I can't avoid them,
Slip into the conversation.
    How to join the conversation?

You read the tone and body language,
    Non-verbal cues: a foreign language,
Instinct means no mental load.
    Too much input: overload.
You do these things without a thought,
    I try to cope, my efforts fraught,
The world and you: a perfect fit.
    The world and me: it won't remit.

Crash Landing

Soaring high in clear blue sky,
Lifted on wings of pure joy:
Perfect day. Come out to play,
Join in the game, don't be coy.

Troubled times kept out of mind,
Pleasure has hid them from sight.
Shadows loom and threaten doom:
Even such days end in night.

Falling fast, it ends at last:
Broken wings tattered and torn.
Hello pain, we meet again.
I pray hope rides in at dawn.

Dazed and Confused

People often confuse me. Not intentionally, I'm sure. Just when I think I'm getting the hang of understanding NTs they come out with some seemingly simple comment where all the individual words make perfect sense but the meaning when combined into a sentence eludes me.

It usually involves metaphor or analogy, or else overgeneralization: something that is broadly accurate but where exceptions exist that I am unfortunately aware of. I say "unfortunately" because if I know that some statement is not true in all cases then I get hung up on that fact and go off on a mental tangent cataloging all the exceptions I can think of. Needless to say I then lose track of the conversation. I get an urge to correct the speaker, "helpfully" pointing out to them that what they have said is not strictly true, and offering examples to demonstrate this to them. In most instances I manage to suppress this urge these days - it isn't usually well-received (to put it mildly!).

I've mentioned before how my literal interpretation can interfere with understanding even familiar figures of speech, but when they are unfamiliar it can be a serious impediment: I can get such a strong literal image of the phrase that it precludes consideration of alternative interpretations. I've become quite used to the expression of disbelief when I ask them what they mean - they might respond that it's obvious. Not to me it isn't. That's why I asked.

All this assumes that I'm paying attention to whatever conversation is going on - I've got a habit of drifting off into my own thoughts if I lose interest in the subject at hand. I gaze into space and become very still, lost in thought until somebody deliberately attracts my attention, usually because they have just asked me something and I've not responded.So I have to ask them to repeat what they just said, and explain what they've been talking about for the last five minutes. A lot of the time they don't bother and resume whatever topic was under discussion while I tune out again.

One thing I notice again and again about NT conversations is the amount of detail that is either omitted or assumed as common knowledge. They might be talking about something that was reported on the news, or some recent event, and I find it incredible how far they can take a line of reasoning without any solid foundation of fact, or even stating their underlying assumptions for the benefit of the other participants. I wonder if that's because they don't consciously analyze their subjective views, their unconscious prejudices. Indeed they appear resistant to any attempt to expound or elucidate these unspoken assumptions: I know that I rapidly lose the ears of my listeners when I attempt to build up an argument from basic principles. But unless I articulate the foundations on which I am basing my opinions, how can they understand my position? Perhaps they just don't have the patience to appreciate a pedantic, pedagogical approach and dismiss it as grandiloquence.

Time Pressure

Time pressure - a compulsion to complete a task or be somewhere by a fixed time - is a major cause of anxiety for me. As the deadline approaches I feel myself getting increasingly tense, short-tempered and twitchy: sure signs of anxiety. It can happen in any situation: at home, at work or out and about; when I am alone or in company.

I've never had any success trying to find a strategy for handling time pressure. I'm not even sure why I feel under such pressure and get so anxious. It might be a fear of failure - an aspect of perfectionism - but I've not been able to analyze it sufficiently. It's pretty much impossible to take a detached, objective view of my own behavior when I'm in that state of mind.

The effects on me include a tendency to rush and miss details, and my concentration is impaired. If it's one particular task I need to complete I will become increasingly manic and unreasonable in my attempts to resolve it in the time remaining. It's worse when I'm around other people because I stop noticing things like tone of voice and body language that indicate that people are getting annoyed or offended by what they perceive as rudeness on my part.

It happened last night. We were taking part in a pub quiz. There were a number of people around the table which can be stressful because I need to maintain a space around me to feel comfortable. There was one question that we hadn't got an answer for and time was running out to hand in the answer sheet. So I was feeling under pressure to both come up with the remaining answer - I feel compelled to complete tasks - and also to hand the sheet in before it was too late. It's a wonder there wasn't steam coming out of my ears! I managed to really annoy my wife with my repeated insistence that we put an answer down for the last question and hand the sheet in - apparently I appeared very impatient and rude, almost shouting at her, and I just didn't notice what effect I was having.

It's hard to explain just how strong the urges are when under time pressure: I've used the word compulsion because that is literally how it feels to me. I have no control over it, I am pulled along by the tide. It doesn't matter how important or trivial the task to be completed is. It might be something big like getting my wife to one of her appointments on time or it might be something so small and unimportant that nobody else sees any importance in it. The key aspect is that to me there is no distinction. There is simply the fact that something has to be done by such-and-such a time.

Fresh Snow

Swirling snowflakes fall without a sound,
Blanketing the ground in folds of white.
Sitting here I watch as patterns form:
Fleeting moments captured by my sight.

Morning comes: the rising of the sun
Illuminates the scene, clear and bright.
Wrap up warm in winter coat and hat,
And step out on this stage, set by night.

Early birds have left the only tracks,
Out despite the season's frosty bite.
Rambling over heath, mind open wide,
Calm comes streaming in upon the light.

Positive and Negative Feedback

I've been thinking about how I feel in response to feedback - how people respond to things I say or do.

I react badly to negative feedback - criticism, put-downs. It's not that I think I'm perfect or infallible, it's rather that it triggers my insecurity and anxiety. I feel as if I'm being attacked and I react defensively, without conscious thought. I feel as if I'm in trouble and I don't know where I stand with that person. I lose what self-confidence I had in the situation and struggle to handle it - I get confused and don't know how to react. It all to often leads to a shutdown.

How different I feel when I receive positive feedback - a simple thank you or even praise. It makes me so happy and boosts my self-esteem. I feel so invigorated - it's like a surge of pleasure and excitement. For me that is more than enough reward for having helped somebody, no matter how much trouble I might have gone to.

Puppetmaster

You said I made you do it
When you treated me unkind,
As if you were a puppet,
My strings controlled your mind.

I think you chose to bully,
Tried to make me feel at fault.
My skin is thick and calloused
From the injuries you wrought.

So now I keep my distance,
Ever watching, on my guard.
Getting close to you again
Would push me much too hard.

Dead Washing Machine And Thanksgiving

My wife and I's ordeal with our washing machine is (hopefully) nearing its conclusion. After numerous phone calls and repeated engineer call-outs it has finally been written off and we're going to get a new one. From a different manufacturer. We've been without it for nearly two weeks now and don't we know it - hand washing is hard work. There is a laundrette locally but I can't use it - the unfamiliar environment and people cause me too much anxiety. And my wife's not physically able to get there. So we're stuck in the laundry equivalent of the dark ages!

It's not until they go wrong that you realise how much you rely on these machines: washing machine, dryer, cooker, freezer. How on earth did people manage before they had them? No wonder a whole day used to be set aside for doing the laundry.

And then there's the hassle of getting replacements. At least the internet saves having to physically travel round a bunch of stores to compare models and brands. But you still need to use the phone when it's an insurance- or warranty-related problem, so it ends up being extremely stressful and exhausting. Not to mention time-consuming: I've spent a total of about an hour on the phone over the past couple of days - including the time holding in a queue before I even got to speak to a person. That's a ridiculous amount of time to sort out a fairly straightforward problem.

Anyway at least we're now going to be getting a shiny new machine, so this story has a happy ending - a cause for celebration... and speaking of celebration, Happy Thanksgiving to all the Americans out there!

Getting Through

I have times when I feel such utter frustration and helplessness, times when I feel buried under a growing mountain of pending tasks, times when almost everything I touch seems to go wrong or fall apart and I don't know what to do to fix it, times when I just feel trapped by the flow of events - pulled in so many different directions that I feel dizzy and overwhelmed: adrift.

At times like these there are some things that help me get through, none more so than the support of kind words from friends. That gives me just enough of a boost - a positive feeling of hope and self-worth - that I can face the situation and start to deal with it instead of feeling dwarfed and powerless by the terrific enormity of what is facing me. I need to have my mind at peace to handle difficult, stressful situations - this is a great challenge to achieve and I often need help. That little bit of support, telling me that I'm doing OK and I've got somebody behind me who can catch me if I fall.

That's all I need to reduce my anxiety and insecurity to a level I can manage, a level at which I can think straight. Because when my mind's thrashing about, floundering, wasting energy in an attempt to keep afloat, it can escape my notice that I'm not really out of my depth - I'm just so flustered and panicky that I don't realise I can touch the bottom and instead feel as if I'm drowning. That's such an unpleasant sensation. The relief I feel when somebody helps me find my feet and steady myself is immense.

I Think I Need A New Word

I'm struggling to think of one word that will describe the feeling of acute mental discomfort and anxiety I get when I hear somebody making hurtful remarks about anyone I know. I don't know if there is a word for it: maybe those people never feel like this. It would explain how they are able to behave in that way.

This feeling I get is so intense that I find it hard to describe, especially when I try to tell the people causing it how they are making me feel with their malicious comments. I don't do that very often - it invariably ends up with them turning on me. But it still makes me angry that they feel so superior that they have the right to put others down.

And then they try to justify themselves by saying they are being honest and direct. No, they're not. They're simply being rude, voicing their opinions behind people's backs and presenting gossip and rumour as fact. I've noticed that they never explain why they hold those opinions. There's an arrogant, unspoken assumption that the reasons are so obvious that any "right-thinking" person would be in agreement.

I don't know how to handle this kind of behaviour except by walking away - it upsets me so much that I overload. I feel that I'm letting the target of the comments down by not standing up and defending them, but I've tried and I can't handle the stress of the confrontation that results.

I guess there are just some people out there who are hazardous to one's health - poisonous if you like. Certainly incompatible with my peace of mind and general well-being.

The Smell Of Memory

Every now and again I get a flashback of some smell. I can't explain it; I don't know what triggers it, but it's every bit as vivid as my visual memories. I get it with taste as well. It can be incredibly frustrating at times because I often can't identify the smell or taste despite it being such a strong sensation, as if I were smelling or tasting whatever it is right at that moment.

In that respect it is different from my normal memories of smells or tastes - they are nothing like as involving. Normally, to recall the taste of something I have to imagine eating or drinking it, and the memory is but a dull echo of the reality. But with the involuntary sensation of a smell it really is as if I am experiencing it right there and then. I can draw a deep breath through my nose and it sets off my olfactory nerves like fireworks. Even though I'm not actually smelling anything - there's no odour in the air.

The strange thing is that my senses of smell/taste are not very acute. I often have trouble differentiating smells, so most perfumes smell about the same to me and I can't distinguish between wines, say, by the aroma. I even find it difficult to tell if milk has turned by sniffing it - the first indication is usually when my wife tastes it in her cup of tea. I once - years ago - made cups of coffee at work and only realised something was wrong with the milk when I spotted the curdled bits floating. So it's a mystery to me why I should experience these illusory flashes on what are very much secondary senses to me.

I refer to them as flashbacks rather than hallucinations because they are familiar as sensations that I have experienced first-hand in the past, not inventions of my mind. It happened earlier today - the inspiration for this post - when out of the blue I smelled Apple Sourz. I know that I smelled it yesterday when I was cleaning an optic that had been used to dispense that drink at the pub. I only wish I knew why the memory of that smell suddenly surfaced so vividly.

Coming Home

Home is the place I return to
After the day's work is done.
Hanging my coat on
The hook by the door
And leaving my troubles behind.

When I'm at home with my feet up,
I'm lost in a world of my own,
Reading some book or
Just gathering wool,
Relaxing my turbulent mind.

Rain may beat down on the windows,
Wind whistle under the eaves.
Inside these walls I
Feel cosy and warm,
In sanctuary I am enshrined.

Remembrance

Standing in their perfect lines,
Mustered for their last parade,
Company on company
Of the fallen lie in rest.

Scars that once defaced the land
Faded with the passing years,
Veterans of wars long past
One by one rejoined old pals.

Battles are still being fought,
Soldiers sacrifice themselves.
Owing all our lives to them,
We honour them this day.

Only Joking

Humour. Sarcasm. Teasing. What do these all have in common? They all involve somebody saying something that isn't true. Somehow I'm supposed to be able to recognize that and react appropriately (whatever that means). Okay, it's not quite as bad as all that. Often there's context and other indications such as sheer implausibility that pretty much give the game away. NT people appear to pick up the signs much more easily than I do - I don't know whether there are subtleties of tone or body language that give it away because I'm pretty much oblivious to those.

My normal reaction to anything somebody says is to take it at face value unless I know that what they are saying is incorrect. Teasing and sarcasm give me the most problems because what they say might be true. I have to respond as if they are being straight. It means I get laughed at sometimes but that doesn't bother me these days - it used to but I've got thicker-skinned over the years and more confident in myself. I've learned to make a joke of it, laugh it off, sometimes deliberately take things literally to a ridiculous extreme. That had an unexpected bonus: people started to expect me to be literal and seemed to take account of that more often when speaking to me.

What does bother me about teasing is that I find it hurtful because I believe what they are saying. Even if the person turns round later and says "I was only joking. I didn't mean it." the damage has been done. I trust that person less. In my mind I feel that I have to be sceptical about anything they may say to me in the future, treating them like the boy who cried "wolf". Once I start thinking like that, something has been lost in our relationship - it is less close, less trusting. There are people with whom I start from a position of disbelief when they say anything at all to me. I'd take some convincing before I would believe them if they said the sky was blue.

Eye Contact

I can look you in the eye
When I talk to you sometimes,
Or when you speak to me. My
Instinct is suppressed: thought crime.


I would rather look away,
At the walls or into space,
But I had to learn to play
Your social game. I misplaced


My natural self. This mask
I hide behind forever
Part of me. I only ask
You spare a thought, whenever

I evade your gaze. Comfort flees
My mind faced with such a stare;
Swiftly borne by the hot breeze
Of fear. You are unaware

Just how strong are my urges.
Compulsion to turn aside.
Panic rises, heart surges,
Primal need to run and hide.

Not Guilty

Just when you think you're getting the hang of acting "normal" something happens to bring you back to reality with a bang. I got wrongly accused of doing something bad the other day - the details don't matter. It was something I would never dream of doing; nevertheless I stood accused of it.

I reacted naturally, which is to say I failed to make eye contact, I displayed "inappropriate" facial expressions such as smiling, I didn't respond immediately. All this was taken to be a display of guilt by my (neurotypical) accuser. What can you do in such a situation? The more I protested my innocence the more I was told that I was "acting guilty".

I'm an honest person: I feel too uncomfortable to contemplate lying. Besides which, I find it hard enough to remember the details of what did happen, never mind trying to remember some invented scenario. Being accused like that and then not being believed - having my response taken to be evidence of deceit - was deeply hurtful.

My accuser in this case was somebody who prides themselves on being a good judge of character, on having great empathy. But there was no sign of any of that when dealing with me. Their instinctive reading of non-verbal cues led them totally astray when faced with somebody on the autistic spectrum. I'm led to believe that this subconscious empathy as displayed by most neurotypical people relies on the person being observed also being neurotypical and reacting in a "normal" way. They can't read the signals correctly if there is any deviation from this - their unconscious assumptions fail to hold true. The trouble is that with the assumptions being unconscious, there is no realisation that they even exist.

It's been said before elsewhere, but neurotypical people lack empathy when dealing with autistic people. They don't often notice when we feel anxious or threatened, they misinterpret our feelings based on our behaviour. They seem to have an off-the-peg, one-size-fits-all model of human behaviour, while I (I can't speak for other people on the spectrum) build a bespoke model for everyone I know.

Generalizations don't work with outliers - it's true of all statistical models. And in statistical terms, people on the autistic spectrum do fall outside the normal range when it comes to behavioural traits. That's "normal" as in an average across a population. I'm quite aware that I have some areas where I fall within normal bounds; others, especially relating to social skills, where I'm well outside.

I strongly resent my natural reactions to an accusation being taken as signs of guilt or evasion. I don't think I should have to conform to neurotypical standards of communication to be believed. Where was the vaunted empathy of this person in my case? I'd call it a spectacular failure. Did they end up enlightened? No. I just got a dismissive "you're weird". They weren't willing to take the time to analyze and understand me - time that autistic people have to take if they want to interact more fully with neurotypical people. I don't think I'm wrong to feel angry about this.

Dream of Freedom

Night has fallen; we are gathered round the fire. The old man who is the repository of our tribe's history and lore begins to chant, slowly and softly at first, using the ancient tongue brought to this land by his ancestors. But we do not need to understand his words: we know the tales that he tells for the last time this night. Of how our tribe first came to this land, driven across the sea to escape persecution at the hands of our enemies. The desperate flight with the invaders at our heels, the anguish of leaving so many behind to face death or slavery, the razing of our homes and destruction of our way of life.

Our strongest survived the voyage across the unknown ocean, guided by the stars and the visions that our gods imparted to our spiritual leader. The gods were kind to us in those days and led us to a land of riches: plentiful animals to be hunted, fish in the rivers and sea, and fertile ground for our crops. We raised new homes and dedicated new sacred sites to our gods in thanks for our deliverance. Over many generations we grew in numbers and spread across this new land, but in all that time we never met other men: no other human tribes inhabited this place and we lived in peace.

But this soft life made us weak and complacent. We started to forget the old ways. We stopped visiting the sacred places and they were allowed to return to nature; we neglected our old gods. Like fruit left unharvested they withered and died, and we did not notice that we no longer had their protection until it was too late.

New people came across the sea from the North: strong, pale-skinned men in two long ships. At first we were fearful of them. It had been so long since we had had any contact with other humans that we had started to believe we were alone in the world. They were few and we approached them. They traded cloth and tools for food, restocking their provisions for their journey home. They did not linger on our shores and we thought little of their visit. Until they returned in their hundreds with fearsome beasts at the prows of their ships; ships filled with fierce warriors and iron swords.

They built a settlement by the shore where they had landed, using timbers from their ships to construct their halls and raising tall earth banks around to protect them. We realised then that they were here to stay. The returning traders had obviously told of the rich land across the sea and these Northmen wanted it for their own. We sent messengers to them bearing gifts and offering friendship; they demanded tribute and submission. Although we were many and they were few, we were weak and most of our tribe were afraid of the newcomers. We had abandoned our old gods, and they had now abandoned us, leaving us to our fate.

This small band now gathered around the fire is all of our tribe that remains free. The rest bent their knees and are ruled by the Northmen, worshipping their gods, obeying their commands, paying tribute to their lords. They are no longer free men. We stood against the invaders and many of us were slaughtered in battle or taken into slavery. Our warriors did not lack courage but could not overcome the strength and iron weapons of our foes. We survivors fled to the farthest reaches of this land, hoping that we could remain free. That was four summers ago.

Today we saw a band of Northmen scouting near our homes. We know it can only be a matter of days before they return in overwhelming numbers to destroy us in a final battle, so we are spending the time in recollection of our heritage, trying to summon back our old gods to support us. But few of us believe in the gods any more. The gods have forgotten us as we forgot them. We must face the enemy alone, and when we are gone none will remember who we were or where we came from: our gods and our tribe will be lost to the memories of men, and only the invaders from the North will remain here. It will be their land then to settle with their new gods and new ways. Perhaps they in their turn will be swept aside by a stronger people. That seems to be the way of things: either submit to those who are stronger than you, whether willingly or at the point of a sword, and become like them, or fight for your beliefs and way of life - fight to be your true self - and die proud and free.

Perhaps one day there will be a third way and all the different tribes of humans will find a way to live together in peace. But as long as the strong continue to simply take what they want from the weak that day will never come, and men will not be truly free: free from fear, persecution and harm. We will stand and fight to the death for our right to be free because we truly believe in it.

Self-censorship

Censorship. It's a word with many negative connotations, associated with authoritarian states and restriction of freedom. But on an individual level it is something most people practise without even being aware of it. Things left unsaid. It may an attempt to spare somebody hurt; it may be to avoid leaving oneself open to attack for voicing an unpopular opinion.

Sins of omission. Being unwilling to speak out because of the possible consequences. Is this a bad thing? Does it depend on context? Is it acceptable not to tell somebody something because you feel it may hurt their feelings? Is it unacceptable to keep an opinion to oneself because it differs from the majority view? Or is that simply self-preservation?

I've been thinking about this recently because I worry that being open and honest in describing how I'm feeling and the difficult times my wife and I are going through might upset or hurt people who care about us. I don't know the answer to this one. In general I am opposed to censorship and in favour of freedom of speech. But do I have any right to decide to withhold information that could affect other people's view of me? To offer them an incomplete picture? Doesn't that equate with dishonesty? I feel uncomfortable if I contemplate offering false information or deliberately omitting details. If the two situations feel the same doesn't that mean they are the same? I believe they are, at least in my mind.

So I'm left with this conflict between wanting to avoid causing anybody distress and being open. So far I have leaned towards being open. I am aware that this can cause some of my readers to feel sympathetic pain and that is a cause for concern to me. But I believe that to hide the difficult facts and only write about the good times would be misleading. It would give the impression that I live in some ideal, perfect world where nothing bad ever happens. The truth is that like everybody else I face a range of situations, go through highs and lows, triumphs and disasters. I strongly believe that I have to present an accurately balanced account; I try to do so here.

I apologise if anybody has found what I write here to be distressing; that has never been my intention. But that is how life can be at times. Would life's highs provide such elation were it not for the contrast with the lows?

Through The Dark

Samhain is over now. One night a year
The normal world outside my door departs;
Retires to the wings, the stage left clear
For actors to appear: the play can start.

Undead hordes come lurching by the dozen
With jack-o'-lanterns shining out their light,
And on their heels the cackling of a coven:
Witches trick-or-treating through the night.

This celebration marks the passing summer,
The seasons' change: arrival of the dark.
Now the harvest's gathered, hear the drummer
Slow the beat that tells life's primal heart.

Feel the vital pulse's change of tempo,
And light the fires to keep the ice at bay.
With Yule will come the turning of the corner,
When sun returns with growing strength each day.

That's when the frozen world begins to quicken
As life is reawakened from its sleep.
Despite the thin veneer of modern living,
Our connexion with this land is old and deep.

Whether you still dance around the Maypole,
Or set the bonfires blazing at Beltane,
When Sumer is icumen in the rhythm
Of nature's bold arousal strikes your brain.

Empathy and Selfishness

I fear I've been behaving selfishly recently. I don't want to make excuses - just try to explain. As I wrote recently, my wife is very ill at the moment and her physical pain, exhaustion and isolation are causing severe depression.

I find that I resonate with how she is feeling. I feel her depression like a deep, black pit; like a hundred hooks in my insides drawing them down into the depths, leaving a void yearning to be filled with anything other than the aching emptiness. I find it very difficult to function in the face of such intense emotion - and I am only feeling it second-hand, picking up the echoes of what my wife is experiencing!

I just don't know how to handle the situation; these feelings. I don't know what to do for my wife to help her with her depression. I feel lost. So, selfishly, I have been withdrawing and taking refuge in familiar routines. I've been alternately detached and irascible with her instead of being supportive. I know that's wrong and I want to be supportive - it's proving to be a big challenge.

My reaction to strong emotions is not at a conscious level - it is sheer gut instinct. Such feelings push the buttons of my primitive fight-or-flight response and my conscious mind has to fight hard against the tide to overcome these basic instincts. It doesn't always succeed and that is when I overload.

Imagine, if you can, how a pet dog would react to its owners having a row in front of it. The dog can't understand what is causing the situation but can pick up the emotional overtones and becomes distressed. Perhaps it slinks off, tail between its legs, and cowers in a corner, whining. And over time the dog will become more wary and it will take time and effort to overcome its reluctance to approach, its fear of being in that situation again.

Neurotypical people don't react like that dog, and so don't expect that other people would either. But some autistic people don't have the ability to handle these emotionally-charged situations. We can't rationalize the causes when we're experiencing such distress. All we can do is react instinctively. There's a very good article on this subject on the Autism and Empathy blog.

When I fail to react to somebody in the way that they expect, when I react in a way that appears unfeeling, irrational, selfish - that is often the result of all too much feeling on my part. Feeling - emotion - so strong that I can't rationally cope with it and my mind regresses to a more primitive mode of operation: instinct, the primitive drive for self-preservation.

Foggy Morning

Travelling down the lanes,
Passing fields and trees
Existing in memories:
Fog-shrouded, invisible
To sight. There is no world
Outside this small bubble
In which I make my way.

It was not always so.
Leaving home this morning
Orion's stars shone bright;
The Hunter watched over
As my journey began.
The clear skies boded well
For an easy passage.

But before the first mile
Had passed beneath my feet
Misty tendrils began
To creep across the road,
Harbingers of the shroud
That soon would wind the land
In damp opalescence.

I love the intimate
Smallness, my senses' sphere
Reduced to human scale.
Nothing can be perceived
Beyond: I am alone
In this immaculate,
Intangible softness.

On the Wing

Standing here, confined to the ground,
I watch the birds as they fly past;
Intently watch their darting grace -
Then suddenly my mind takes off.

Treetops slip by far beneath me
As I race above the earth,
Winging my way across the woods;
Released from gravity's burden.

I dip my wing and twitch my tail,
Heading in a new direction
For the moment. No end in mind,
Content in my dream of freedom.

Inside A Torture Chamber

I spent for too long at the hospital yesterday accompanying my wife as she went through a series of tests and scans. The X-Ray/Ultrasound department has recently moved to a refurbished suite and it's all new and shiny.

Too shiny. The lighting makes its white walls harshly bright. It's all straight lines and square corners with no relieving softness. I know hospitals are clinical - obviously - but do they really have to look so cold and unfriendly? I was feeling on edge when we got to the department reception desk. Luckily my wife dealt with the receptionist - with the bright lights, echoing footsteps and other voices all claiming my attention I couldn't concentrate on what he was saying at all. We got directed to a small waiting area off one of the corridors - an alcove with a row of six chairs on each side, facing each other. About half the chairs were occupied; I took one at the end away from the corridor with my wife sitting next to me.

I feel uncomfortable in waiting rooms at the best of times; I get very anxious when people are sat looking at me. And I don't like to feel I'm being overheard when I talk to somebody, so I was inhibited from speaking with my wife. I ended up just sitting there, stimming in a fairly subtle manner by tapping one thumb on the other with my hands together, fingers intertwined - trying to keep reasonably calm. However the pressure of having other people facing me in such a small space was making me increasingly anxious. (I have similar problems using public transport - that's why I will walk miles rather than catch a bus.)

So there I am in this small waiting area with too many strangers looking at me, the harsh light making me feel even more exposed and uncomfortable. I can feel I'm getting close to a sensory overload. And then somebody goes through the door in the corridor just outside this alcove. How to describe the noise made by that door? If you've seen those old horror films where the castle door slowly closes to the accompaniment of a tortured squeal from its stiff, rusted hinges you'll know exactly what this door sounded like. That did overload me. I had to shut my eyes every time that door opened or closed because it was as if somebody was shining a spotlight into them. It hurt. I was starting to ache from the tension across my shoulders and up my neck.

I thought to myself that they couldn't have designed a more effective environment to torture somebody with sensory processing issues if they had tried. I just felt like curling up in a corner and shutting down but I had to keep myself going to keep my wife company. By the time we got out of there I was tense and exhausted and just wanted to rest. It took a massive effort to avoid shutting down and left me drained. I'm not sure how much support I gave to my wife but at least I was there and mostly responsive. I find it hard to believe that a hospital could get its design so wrong in terms of providing spaces for people that are comfortable and promote a calm state of mind.

Rising Stress Revisited

A couple of days ago I mentioned a major cause of worry but couldn't go into detail. Well, it's to do with my wife. She had the results of tests on a tennis-ball-sized lump that was removed about three weeks ago and it was not good news. She doesn't want me to go into detail so I can't be more specific.

She has been very ill since the operation - internal bleeding causing a swelling as if she had a butternut squash under her skin and acute, chronic pain. I don't know how she has managed to stand it so far - I doubt that I could.

But the worst part for her as a gregarious, outgoing person has been the isolation of being stuck at home apart from my company when I'm not at work and occasional visits from friends. This is causing depression.

Now I feel selfish talking about my feelings when she is going through so much but I need to write it down to help me get through. I am mostly coping, thanks to the distraction of work, but it is her depression that I find the hardest to handle. I see and hear how she is feeling and I come so close to being overwhelmed that I feel as if I'm on a knife-edge where the slightest push will tip me over the edge.

I came within a fraction of a meltdown tonight - ended up punching a door frame. I've got my equilibrium back now but I feel under tremendous strain. This situation is very likely to continue for weeks if not months and I'm worried that I'm not going to be able to cope if I'm having difficulties after only three weeks.

I'm telling myself that I have to keep it together for her sake but I feel as if I'm failing because she is suffering. I'm not managing to meet my own expectations as regards being there for her: I have work commitments to meet to make sure we have money coming in to keep the roof over our heads and make sure the bills are paid, so as much as I'd like to I can't be with her 24/7. My employers have been very understanding and supportive and I thank them for that, but obviously I can't be absent long-term and expect to still be paid after my annual leave has all been taken.

So I'm putting myself under pressure to care for my wife adequately, to keep going in my job, and also to try to help keep the household running by doing as much as I can. I try to keep telling myself that I'm not doing too badly for someone who has struggled to look after himself in the past. But I still feel as if I'm being selfish by taking time out for myself - some down time on my own to try to unwind and help myself keep going. I feel as if I could and should be doing more for my wife, but at the same time realise that I need to make sure that I am here over the weeks to come. I really can't afford to let things get on top of me so that I overload. I'm worried as hell but I can't let that distract me until the situation improves.

To All The Bullies

There are some people out there who enjoy hurting others. I'm not talking about the sadistic psychopaths detained in high-security hospitals and prisons, although there are similarities. I'm talking about bullies. Those contemptible people who inflict mental and sometimes physical abuse on those they perceive as weaker.

I've suffered the teasing, taunting, name-calling and threatening behaviour. I've felt too afraid to even bear to be within sight of any of those responsible. I've ended up with depression, withdrawing - literally locking myself into the safe haven of my bedroom.

I would wonder why I had been singled out, what I had done to deserve such hateful treatment. Typical victim mindset, blaming myself - assuming the fault lay with me. Because I never fitted in: the quiet, shy one on the edge of things. Always nervous and awkward in social situations and with a set of unusual behaviours such as hand-flapping and repeating my words to myself that made me stand out.

I'd love to be able to say that I rose above such things and didn't let the bullies bother me. But it wouldn't be true. It bothered me to the point of breaking down in tears of pain and frustration. I ran away with my tail between my legs. I never confronted any of those responsible - that's something I can't handle. I shut down when faced with that kind of situation - confrontation and aggression.

I think it would be understandable if I hated those who had bullied me. But I don't. I fact I don't think of them individually at all, but rather as a class of people who are poisonous and to be avoided. They are narrow-minded, insensitive, morally-deficient and totally unnecessary and unwanted in my life. I have absolutely nothing to do with them. I carry on with my life, stick with the people who are my friends, and exclude any who would harm me.

The bullies may or may not care that I have excised them from my life - either way it doesn't matter to me. Because I now accept how I am - I'm content to be myself. Different is good in my opinion. I have supportive friends and a loving wife. I got told I'm "special" by one of my friends last night - little things like that make me feel good about myself. I have people who care about me. Why would I allow negative, destructive influences into my life? So I'm not even going to say goodbye to the bullies from my past - they are long gone and aren't missed.

Rising Stress

Here's hoping for a quiet weekend. At least things are going well in my main job. Everything else though...

Tonight will be my first shift in the pub with the new manager. I've met her already when I got introduced Tuesday night but it takes me a long time to get used to a person so I feel comfortable. Hopefully she'll be pretty laid back and leave me to get on with things. I'm anxious about it, worrying about what might happen - trying to plan how I'll handle various hypothetical scenarios. But I just don't know her well enough to predict how she will behave. So I'll be stepping into the unknown when my shift starts.

There's other stuff going on outside work that I can't go into yet that is causing me a huge amount of worry as well. While I usually handle stress in particular areas of my life by compartmentalising and concentrating on other things, in this particular case it's intense enough to leak out and affect everything else. The end result is that I find my stress levels increase and the danger is that it affects my ability to cope with my normal routine. I can't concentrate as well and I experience sensory overload much more easily, which then makes it more likely that I will shut down. I'm worried about shutting down because I am caring for my wife while she is ill, and I am obviously no use to her if I can't function. So the stress and worry is spiralling upwards because I feel anxious about worrying in the first place. It's completely irrational. It makes me want to scream!

So I'm sitting here hoping that things run smoothly over the weekend. I'm not sure how much more stress I can handle and I'm inclined to head for the hills at the first sign of trouble. But there's this little part of me that's watching with interest to see exactly how high the levels can get before something breaks. Seems I can't get away from analysing myself the whole time.

Breaking Chains

Growing up, the corner shop
Was like an Aladdin's cave.
Exciting exotic riches
To be had for pocket change.

Each shop had unique delights:
A quarter of some sweet treat
Or the latest comic book.
You knew where to find it all.

Every town had character:
Independent retailers,
Established eighteen-something,
Or at least before the war.

The cafe on the high street
Where my grandmother drank tea,
The bookshop I frequented:
Many happy hours for me.

Most of those shops are gone now,
Replaced by the soulless clones
That have spread just like a plague:
Uniformity rules now.

I often think I could stand
In any town without knowing
Where I might be in the land:
Everywhere now looks the same.

Mall culture dominating
With the old guard dead, passed on.
Reflecting in nostalgia,
I regret the march of time.

In Camberley or Wigan
The global brands have stolen
The identity that once
Made each town special to me.

In Defence of Corvids

Collective nouns are a curious breed - they often carry the prejudices of those who coined them. So for the pretty, colourful birds you have an exaltation of larks, a charm of goldfinches or a murmuration of starlings. But the large, black members of family corvidae have not received such sympathetic treatment.

A murder of crows; an unkindness of ravens. What have these birds done that they deserve such negative associations? For in fact corvids are among the most intelligent of our feathered friends. This intelligence has been reflected throughout history by the roles played by ravens and crows in mythology across various cultures, particularly Native American and Norse. Not merely bystanders in various myths and legends, these birds often play a central part as protagonists and messengers.

Some North American tribes' shamanistic traditions depict Raven as the creator of the world. The chief god of the Norse peoples, Odin, was so strongly associated with ravens that he was known as the "raven god"; his pair, named Huginn and Muninn, being the god's eyes and ears in the world of men, Midgard. Crows and magpies too have long been seen as spiritual beings, mediators between the realms of the living and the dead. Also to this day there persists a belief that should the ravens residing at the Tower of London ever leave, the kingdom will fall.

My personal belief is that crows, ravens, rooks and the other members of the corvid family are admirable, highly intelligent birds with an air of mystery and spirituality about them and a charming, insouciant - sometimes cheeky - manner. No wonder they have featured as tricksters so many times in mythology. And I love the black plumage with its subtle glossy iridescence.

Brittleness

The rock stands firm against the waves
That batter and break with each tide.
But even rock in time will cave
And crumble, being washed aside.

But standing fast through winter gales,
The willow, storm-tossed in the fields,
Has learned to bend and not to fail:
To the might of the wind it yields.

Some people may be like the rock,
Inflexible, 'til nought remains
But broken shards and sudden shock;
Dreams drowning in a sea of pain.

So like the willow you must bend,
Adapt to changing circumstance.
Go with the flow, and in the end
Once trouble's past: deliverance.

Hibernation

With a warm richness of color,
Red and gold replacing lush green,
Trees burn their brightest in the fall.

Soon the leaves will drop revealing
Bare branches; the semblance of death
As life retreats from limbs to heart.

But the embers still glow inside,
Waiting to rekindle the fire
And be born anew with the spring.

Different Roles

It's strange, but my behaviour changes depending on what I'm doing. I reluctantly went to the usual pub quiz last Tuesday night without my wife, who wasn't well enough. This is the same pub I work in at weekends. When I'm behind the bar, being a barman, I have the confidence to speak to people. Because of the context of the job I can interact with complete strangers. So why do I feel so darned uncomfortable when I'm on my own in front of the bar?

I got there a good hour before the quiz started and the place wasn't yet busy. I probably knew almost everyone in the there. But I didn't feel at ease joining anybody's group. I did hover at the edge of one group for a while but ended up sat on my own at the usual table reading the news on my phone. Even when the other members of the team arrived I felt isolated. It's not that I wasn't included; it's just that I always put myself under pressure because I feel that I should be active in conversation. If it hadn't been for numerous people asking after my wife's health I don't think I'd have said very much all night.

So why does it feel so different among the same people in the same environment depending on whether I'm a customer or a barman? I don't really know. I do know that I hate to take a break while I'm working because for half an hour I'm out of barman mode and basically just a normal customer. I usually come back early from my break and hope I won't get sent back out again. I guess it sounds weird but that's me!

Even when I'm on my own behind the bar with a pub full of customers I hardly ever feel intimidated - I feel safe. Is it the solid counter between me and them? I don't think so. I suspect it's because the interactions are constrained and I understand the boundaries - I know what to expect from the customers because they just want to be served. When I'm in there as just me - no role to assume - there are no such boundaries.

I realise now that I can handle much more socially if I am fulfilling a role than if I'm just being myself - exposed, unprotected. In a way these roles are like masks that I can hide behind.

Mourning Strangers

Why does the passing of certain people affect me more deeply, while others may depart with scarcely a thought? I'm not talking about deaths of family or friends here, I mean people whom I have never met and know only through their work in whatever field.

What got me thinking about this was reading yesterday of the death of Dennis Ritchie, a major figure in the world of computing. I started wondering why I felt sad on this occasion, while I was emotionally untouched when I heard that Steve Jobs had died. After all, I never met either of them - I never even saw them in the flesh. And I generally have neutral feelings towards strangers - people I don't know.

Was there something about Dennis Ritchie that created a connection for me? I think so. When you experience works created by somebody, I believe you pick up aspects of their psyche. It might be from reading what they have written, seeing their visual art, using tools that they have created. An author's voice is preserved in their writing and transmitted by the act of reading those words.

The second programming language I learned was C, created by Dennis Ritchie et al. The canonical reference book for the language, a work I know very well, was co-authored by Ritchie. And through his involvement in the development of the Unix operating system, there are aspects of him reflected in parts of that and derived works. So despite never meeting him, I do feel a degree of connection, of identifying with him - I feel an echo of him from his works and through that there is a sense of familiarity.

I don't know how it works for other people - I have known people to feel grief on hearing of the death of some "celebrity". I guess they watch them acting on TV or read about them in magazines and through that feel that they know them. That doesn't do it for me. But somebody like an author or an artist with whose works I am familiar - then I feel that I have gleaned an insight into their mind from those works and in a small way I have begun to know them. At that point an emotional bond has been made. For me that is a prerequisite for a sympathetic response rather than just an intellectual one.

That is why I cannot mourn a stranger. As long as they remain a stranger I am unable to respond to their situation except in an intellectual way; until I gain some insight into a person they are just another grain of sand on the beach, indistinguishable at a glance from any other. I'm not saying that I have no feelings towards people in general - I treat them with respect and compassion. But I don't have any curiosity about their lives; I don't lose any sleep worrying over them.

When I see reports of some natural disaster on the news I recognise intellectually that it is a difficult, frightening situation for the people involved in it and feel a desire to help on the basis of our shared humanity. But I am unable to grieve for their dead: I did not know them. The images do not directly cause me emotional pain. I can reason about how it might feel to be involved in such a situation - it is an intellectual exercise. I need to analyse their situation, find parallels from my own experiences and consider how I felt in those circumstances to consciously develop an empathic response. But I have found that mourning - grief - is far beyond this in terms of intensity. I can feel sadness or regret  for a stranger but I can only mourn those I have a strong enough bond with.

The Best Card Ever

I've been meaning to put this picture up since my birthday last month. It's the card I got from a couple of good friends. I loved it when I opened the envelope and read the front: "I like having a friend like you. You're different..."

It might sound silly but I felt really happy - not just accepted but liked for who I was. I think it was the perfect card for me. I don't usually pay much attention to cards beyond reading who sent them but in this case I made an exception - this one really means something to me and I'm going to hold on to it.

I was in one of my low phases at the time when I got this card and it comforted and cheered me immensely. So a big thank you and lots of love to "B" & "M" who sent me this card - you know who you are...

A Change of Plans Causes Issues

I don't know about anybody else but I have a big problem when events fail to turn out the way I expect. It's one reason I try not to plan what I'm going to do in advance. Take what happened yesterday for example - I knew there was mince in the fridge that needed using along with tomatoes, mushrooms, onions and carrots. So I thought, "Pasta sauce!"

And then I got home and my wife had somehow managed to cook me a chilli despite her feeling so ill. Did I react with gratitude? I'm sorry to say I didn't. I was knocked off-balance because some of the ingredients I had been going to use for my pasta sauce had been used instead to make this chilli. I managed not to get angry or melt down - took some self-control - but I did complain. I knew my reaction was upsetting my wife but I couldn't stop myself. I tried to explain that it was the fact that my plan had been scuppered that had stressed me but the damage had been done.

I must say that I ate the chilli and enjoyed it very much. But. It. Wasn't. Pasta. Sauce! How do you explain this kind of feeling to somebody who can handle change? That despite appreciating the effort she had gone to, I was unable to get past this clash - this discrepancy with my mental image of myself cooking a different dish. It's my normal reaction to change - I try not to respond in this way because it hurts or offends people I care about but it causes me stress and I find it very difficult to hide. That would be the same as lying which I also find very difficult, even to save people's feelings.

In this case I got over the worst of the feeling quite quickly and apologised - this kind of thing has happened numerous times before so my long-suffering wife is sadly used to it by now - but I've still got a little lingering disquiet that things didn't happen as I expected. And I feel bad about not showing my gratitude from the outset. I know it's a shabby way to treat somebody who's made an effort to do something for me but I really don't know how to get past the intense disappointment and stress I feel in these situations - the feeling is so intense that it swamps any other, more rational, thoughts I may have.

Creating New Routines

Why isn't there some standard schedule of household chores? My wife is going to be laid up for some time after a recent operation so I'm taking on as much of the cooking, cleaning and general housework as I can find the time to do alongside work and looking after her. Or trying to...

The trouble is that housework is not one of my usual routines so I have trouble remembering what needs doing. Also, unlike my wife, I can only focus on one task at a time - for example, I can't leave the washing to do some dusting because I'll forget that the washing was in progress. I need to build these tasks into a routine so that I can perform them automatically, without needing to consciously supervise myself throughout.

This got me thinking - what are the obstacles that make doing these things more difficult for me than, say, developing software? Right up there has to be my memory problems. I can recall technical information relating to my job without any issues, navigating through millions of lines of code as easily as finding my way to the local shops. But I have lost count of the number of times I have poured the water into a cup of tea, left the room while it steeps and completely forgotten about it until my wife asks where it's got to. I've also been known to go into another room to fetch some item only to have forgotten what it was by the time I get there. It's the same with any non-routine task - if I step away from it to do something else, more often than not I will forget what I was doing. It seems to be only my short-term memory that is affected in this way.

So how can I create new routines so that I get these tasks done efficiently? My first thought was to create a full schedule, but I realised that this would require more detailed information regarding task durations and frequency of repetition than I possess, and would be too inflexible because of ad-hoc demands on my time. So then I thought about just making a checklist of tasks that need to be completed, perhaps with deadlines where appropriate. I think that's the method I'll try first - I need a way to organize myself and to-do lists generally work for me. I use them at work - along with decomposing tasks into manageable chunks. This is a common technique, breaking a large task down into smaller sub-tasks, that I use at work, first to estimate how long a particular software development project will take and then to structure my approach to the task. It also helps a lot when faced with a huge job that daunts by its very size and complexity. Breaking it up into small pieces allows me to focus on each individually and keeps me from trying to fit too much detail into my mind at any one time.

Once I've run through the sequence of jobs a few times I believe I'll get used to the pattern and - as if by magic - a new routine will exist. Sounds simple, but I'm sure there'll be some difficulties - I've got a feeling that some of these household jobs are ones that get done as and when they are needed rather than according to a fixed schedule like "mop the kitchen floor at 7pm on Tuesday evening". I wish I knew how my wife coped with it all - it just seems so complicated and time-consuming to me. I'm amazed that she could manage it all without any written plan.

Night In The Woods

The world is seen in black and white
By the harvest moon's silver light.
No clouds above to block the sight
Of stars that shine down through this night.

Tonight the woods are picture-still:
No creature stirs, no sound to fill
My ears. This endless moment will
A sense of utter calm instil.

I walk along the path that wends
Between the trees; it weaves and bends,
Rising quickly my course ascends
Until atop the hill it ends.

In front of me a ring of stone,
Ages old, creators unknown.
A place of power - druids' throne
With secrets never to be shown.

I see the circle as a gate
Whose opening I shall await,
Then I'll receive a gift from Fate:
My mind at peace, immaculate.

Too Much On My Mind

Sometimes...
      there are too many thoughts
      running round and round
      inside my head.

Sometimes...
      I feel so anxious
      I find it hard to focus
      on the task in front of me.

Sometimes...
      I get exhausted by the effort
      of forcing my conscious thoughts
      through the noise.

Sometimes...
      I just want to close the curtains,
      switch off the lights
      and lock the door.

Until...
      my spinning thoughts slow down
      to a manageable speed
      and my mind becomes quiet.

Caring

When this is all over and the dust has settled I am most likely going to come down with a bang.

My wife suffered serious complications after a minor operation Tuesday. Her blood pressure dropped to dangerous levels at one point and it was only the timely intervention of the doctors at the local hospital that saved her. She came home the next day but is still very ill and in pain.

She has to rely on me to care for her. It's not easy for either of us - she has always been a very independent woman and asking for help does not come easily. I suspect I am misreading some of her signals: I see the anger at the surface when I should realise that her fear and pain is causing it. It's difficult for me to be sufficiently detached to properly analyze her state of mind - to properly empathize requires that I, paradoxically, first have to distance myself so I can be objective.

I feel so helpless: there's nothing I can do to take away her pain, to make her better. It will just take time. All I can do is try to make sure she's got everything she needs to hand and all the household jobs get done. I'm not very good at it - left to my own devices I struggle to look after myself, never mind anybody else. I don't feel as if I'm doing enough - I think that I'm just reacting to situations that arise rather than being proactive and forestalling them. I just think that I ought to be doing more but I don't know what more I could do.

I keep noticing the symptoms of an impending shutdown - I get frustrated and tired more quickly and I feel the urge to disconnect, to get away from everything for a while and go for a long walk by myself. But I won't let myself do that right now - I can't allow myself that luxury until she is stronger. It takes its toll on me: it is physically very demanding. I feel constant tension across my shoulders and down my back, caused by the stress of the situation. Once she recovers sufficiently I can take the time out I need to recover. But until then I must carry on doing the best I can.

Sestina

A sestina is a particular poetic structure based on six stanzas of six lines concluded by a tercet. The same six words in permuted order end each line of each stanza. It's a challenging form to compose, and I've been wanting to try my hand at it for a while now. Here goes...

Worry is a worm eating me inside
As I endure this storm of emotion
That threatens to overwhelm my senses.
I cannot concentrate: my churning mind
Refuses to obey my need for calm.
I try to find some refuge in routine.

Like a straw to a drowning man, routine
Offers slender hope. It's only inside
The familiar sequence I find calm,
A brief lull. Overload of emotion
Breaks like waves on the wall within my mind,
That guards my fragile hold on my senses.

My fear, like a hound tracing spoor, senses
Its quarry: any break in my routine
Will bring it swiftly in to grip my mind
In its cruel jaws. I watch from inside,
Not daring to rest in case emotion
Spills over the dam, shattering my calm.

I must maintain my air of inner calm,
And not let fear overwhelm my senses.
To shut down and give in to emotion
Is not a choice in times far from routine.
Unable to withdraw to the inside
Because there is another I must mind.

With love for my wife strengthening my mind
I battle my demons, retain my calm.
No sign on my face of the fight inside
As I maintain control of my senses,
Cocooned in the comfort of my routine,
Sheltered from raw power of emotion.

That's not to say I feel no emotion:
Its echoes still impinge upon my mind.
But had I not the bedrock of routine
On which to build my citadel of calm,
Then fear would undermine and my senses
Would overload and I would break inside.

Strength lies in routine, or else emotion
Can build up inside, overwhelm my mind.
I fight to stay calm, control my senses.

To My Wife

When you called me yesterday
I tried to get to your side.
Traffic conspired against me:
Frustration, impatience:
I was driven, I had to get to you.
All those people
Going about their normal lives
Were just obstacles
In my path.

I arrived late; you had gone.
Taken to that place of life and death.
I found you there,
In pain. You acted normal,
Not wanting to distress me.
But I know you too well.

I knew it had to be bad
For you to end up there:
Overcoming your phobia,
Asking for help.

You asked me to get you out;
I side-stepped, dodged the question,
Tried to keep you occupied
Until the doctors arrived
With their questions and needles.

Your condition changed,
Stirring them into action.
I was left standing on the edge
And then outside the door.

I looked around the ER:
I couldn't take the sight
And turned my back on the room;
Stared at your door,
Fighting the impulse to run
From that place.

But I could not run.
I was more afraid to leave
Than to stay.
Then they moved you
To Resus.

They connected you
To wires and tubes:
Fluids in, data out.
You rang alarms:
This reading too low,
That one too high.

I stood by your side throughout,
Keeping you calm
As best I could.
Keeping my own feelings
At one remove:
Time for all that later.

They stabilized you:
You became more lucid.
You told me to go home:
You'd be all right.
They moved you to a ward,
I went home.

You had me worried,
Pacing from room to room,
Unable to settle.
I felt helpless.
Hour after hour
Until exhaustion overcame me
And I succumbed to sleep.

I awoke scant hours later,
Knowing something was missing.
Still dressed from the night before.

The phone rang:
I had to answer
Although I feared it
Even more than usual.

A flood of relief:
You were being discharged.
I came to collect you.
We went home.
Back where we belong,
Together.

Darkness and Light

Autumn nights bring darkness
To match what's in my mind:
Green and gold of daytime
Replaced by shades of grey.
Warmth has left my life now,
And in its place the chill
Of winter's icy fingers
Creeps slowly to my heart.

Both blessing and a curse:
This syndrome that I have
Has given me so much
But at a fearsome cost.
Feeling strong emotions,
Far more than I can take,
Yet little ever shows:
My surface is opaque.

You assume I'm heartless,
As if I'm made of stone,
But underneath my mask
Like you I'm flesh and bone.
So when I'm pricked I bleed,
You tickle me; I laugh.
But I don't seek revenge;
I want no pound of flesh.

I want a peaceful life,
A shelter from the storm
That blows outside the door:
I need you; let me in.
I'm out there in the dark,
Just watching for the light
With which you beckon me
Back home through fearful night.

Tired But Happy

This weekend exhausted me but - for a pleasant change - not because of emotional problems. It was down to working (and playing) hard. I worked the bar Friday night during a 21st birthday party - it was a sensory maelstrom with loud music, flashing coloured disco lights and plenty of people shouting. I handle it by focusing on serving the customers, getting into the rhythm of taking orders, pouring drinks and working the till. It's so familiar and I enjoy it so after about ten minutes I just flow. I can block out everything else pretty successfully - so much so that I don't even notice much of what's going on more than a few feet beyond the counter - and I lose most sense of the passage of time.

However at one point it got really loud - several people whistling - and I overloaded for a brief time. I have little idea how long it was - nobody else appeared to notice. I just stood there with my back to the room, holding on to the back bar counter to keep myself upright, with two half-poured vodkas in front of me. I couldn't think - the noise had suddenly become painful as it breached the mental blocks on my senses and flooded in. All I was aware of was this glaring, intense, piercing whistle - everything else ceased to exist as my other senses were drowned out.

The whistling stopped and it was like waking up - that short period while my brain orients itself before I remember where I am and what I'm doing. Somehow I remembered the order I was in the middle of pouring, and - slightly unsteadily at first - carried on. It took a couple of minutes to get myself together before I was back to business as usual.

Saturday morning I had to go shopping. It wasn't a long list I had to pick up but I needed to visit several shops to get everything. I hate having to shop on a Saturday morning - it's so busy and people get in my way, encroaching on my personal space. It started fine. I got parked where I wanted and even had enough change for the car park ticket machine - a definite result because I usually forget to check I've got enough before leaving home. There weren't many people around yet so I was feeling reasonably comfortable. And then I got into the mall and there was music playing too loudly - it was distracting and put me off balance a bit and I thought about fetching my earphones from the car but decided to persevere.

My first destination was a department store to look for a shirt. To get to the menswear department I had to get through the perfume department. I don't know why but nearly every department store I've every been into puts the perfume department just inside the front doors so you have no choice but to endure the overwhelming smells and eye irritation from all the solvents in the air to get to any other part of the store. It turned out they didn't have what I was looking for after all: I'm very particular about my shirts - the material has to feel right, the colour has to be right (usually black) and the arrangement of buttons and pockets has to be right. Ideally I would be able to pick up exact replicas of the shirts I already have but it doesn't work that way. They change things. So I ran the gauntlet of the perfume department again to get out of there and went on to the next store. That one was thankfully simple - straight to the single item I was after, on to the checkout and out of there. Then back to the car, enduring the intrusive mall music on the way, and on to phase two: the supermarket.

Up to now I'd managed to avoid the crowds - it must have been because they were already at the supermarket, waiting for me to arrive so they could block the aisles and bump into me and run over my feet with their trolleys. In the midst of all this I ran into the first obstacle: my wife had put "nail varnish and lipstick amethyst" on the list. Now I'm not very familiar with these kinds of products but I did know which area of the store would have them. So I headed there and there were about six different brands, each with at least two or three different kinds of lip and nail colouring stuff. I examined them all and not one had the word amethyst on it! Any number of different, almost-descriptive colour names but not what my wife had written on the list. I was getting stressed so I decided to phone home and ask for clarification. Then I discover there's no phone signal in that part of the store. Aargh!

I moved around until I got a signal and made the call. On my third attempt it didn't drop out and I asked my wife what colour she meant by amethyst - she said "purple". I asked was it a blue or red purple and she seemed confused - I explained that purple is a mix of red and blue with some being more blue than red and vice versa. I think I managed to make myself understood, but she said any shade of purple would do. (So why write amethyst then? I wondered.) So that was sorted. I went back to the shelves of cosmetics and looked for something that was unambiguously purple-ish. I found a nail varnish and then just had to locate a matching lipstick. Because naturally they would have matching colours, wouldn't they? Hah! That would be far too easy. So I just picked up something that purported to be a kind of purple lipstick and high-tailed it out of that section of the store to go look for the next thing on the list.

What I haven't mentioned yet is that they are reorganizing the layout of that store. Even the staff are not sure where to find some products. What hope have I with my out-of-date mental map? It took me about an hour to pick up eight or ten items and by the end of it I was about ready to throw a tantrum right in the middle of the place - like most of the children in there appeared to be doing. That's one thing I struggle to understand - why do people persist in dragging their children round busy shops when they clearly get bored by it, hate the experience and don't want to be there? I can completely understand a child finding it all too much and having a screaming fit because they have no other way to communicate their frustration. I don't like to hear children crying and screaming - I find the sound unsettling and uncomfortable, even painful to hear.

I managed to get hold of every one of the dozen or so items on the list and was back home about two and a half hours after leaving - it was about a six mile round-trip. Boy was I worn out! But there's no rest for the wicked - not even the very wicked - and I had to get changed, ready to go out to a wedding. Which meant I couldn't wear my usual comfortable clothes. Suit and tie. In temperatures above 80 degrees, and humid with it. Unusual weather for this time of year in southern England. I've never enjoyed hot weather - I feel too hot and sweaty and my clothes cling to me in a most uncomfortable, irritating way. But I wasn't about to let anybody down - it was somebody else's big day and I was determined to show my support, relax and enjoy myself. And I did.

It was rather warm inside the reception venue - the local pub - even with the doors wide open but I just popped outside for a bit of fresh air every now and then to cool off. And to get a bit of a break from the disco lights, loud music and too much movement from people dancing close in front of me. I struggled a few times with the levels of sensory stimulation but got through it. And I did enjoy myself - it was a good night and the atmosphere was relaxed and friendly - although it was very tiring coping with the heat, noise, lights and people.

As a result I was kind of hoping for a quiet Sunday afternoon shift at the pub. I turned up a little early in case there was any setting up to do. Just as well as it turned out - even though a group of volunteers were helping, the place wasn't nearly ship-shape by opening time. It was a moderately busy shift as well, with two soccer matches on the TV that brought a number of customers in. But I like it like that - as I said before I find my rhythm and it just flows. (I still dislike the food - table-waiting - side of the job because it disrupts that flow, but that's only a small part of the whole.) I didn't notice I was getting a bit dehydrated - I forgot to make sure I had a drink of water every now and again. Sometimes I'm not that good at taking care of myself! I think I surprised the boss a bit when I readily agreed to take a break the first time I was asked and grabbed a glass of water - I'm normally reluctant to take a break because I find it a distraction but that afternoon I was feeling drained and needed a short break.

I was pretty exhausted by the end of the shift - we seemed to go through an inordinate number of glasses given the moderate level of trade, and I'd also moved a number of barrels around the cellar. The 22 Imperial gallon kegs aren't light when full - they weigh more than I do - but there's a technique to moving them so you don't have to lift the whole weight. In a way I was happy to finish the shift. I enjoyed it but I was so worn out and drained by the end. It had been a long, physically- and mentally-demanding but ultimately very satisfying weekend and I was very glad when I got home to retire to bed for a well-earned rest. Recharge the batteries ready for Monday morning and the return to my main "paid hobby", software development.

The Pictures Are Better

There's a well-known saying: "I prefer radio to television. The pictures are better." I would say the same goes for reading, perhaps even more so. When I'm reading a book I am seeing the events unfold in front of my eyes, hearing them too - immersed in the world of the story. It's so engrossing because it's an active involvement - I'm creating the scenes, directing the action according to the script of the book. In contrast watching television is a very passive activity - just sit back and absorb somebody else's vision. That is one reason I often find television to be far less engaging.

Don't get me wrong - I watch some television, probably more sports and news than anything else. I watch movies and enjoy some of them, even those like Master and Commander where there is plenty of scope for disappointment because I'm familiar with the books on which they were based. I don't much like going to the cinema - it's because being in a strange environment among a crowd of unfamiliar people makes me uncomfortable, but I occasionally watch movies at home. Occasionally as in once or twice a month, if that. Reading, on the other hand, is something I do every day.

Opening a book is like opening a door to a different world, one where anything might be possible. Yes, it is blatant escapism - that's rather the point of it for me. The real world is often badly-adjusted for my sensory and cognitive needs. But when I'm in one of the worlds that I enter through the pages of a book I am in full control of my experiences: I create - imagine - all the sensations I experience in there. I know it's not real and that's part of its attraction - I know there's nothing in that world that can hurt me. Provoke various emotions, yes - excitement, pleasure, sadness, apprehension - but not actually hurt me. It's a safe environment in which to feel those emotions.

As I read the story I progressively refine my mental image of the setting, starting with a fairly generic off-the-peg one and adding new details, altering existing ones, until what I have in mind meshes with my interpretation of the descriptions in the book. I borrow elements from the props cupboard of my existing memories, tweak them a little and introduce them to the building scene. As I'm sure I've mentioned once or twice in previous posts I have trouble when it comes to picturing faces. So the characters in my mental worlds are almost faceless - there's no detail to their features. I don't find this remarkable or unusual because I am exactly the same with my memories of people in real life.

If I make a conscious effort I can imagine facial details in isolation - like elements of a photo-fit that has been taken apart. A scar on a cheek, green eyes, aquiline nose, swarthy complexion - I can see each of them in turn but can't fit them together to produce a single image of a face. I recall details of the faces of people I know in the same way - as collections of isolated features. But I can't generally picture a complete visage. It's as if the whole face is out of focus and the only way I can discern detail is to concentrate on just a part of it.

I find it ironic in a way - here I am with my wonderful visual mode of thinking and my almost-photographic memory of places I've been... and I can't even clearly recall the faces of most of my work colleagues whom I see almost every day, let alone invent faces to populate the worlds of my books.

Fugue

The morning mist leaves strings of pearls
That limn the hairlike strands of webs.
It slowly drifts across the fields,
A cloud whose wings were clipped.

Life has been stilled, there is no sound
To be heard through ethereal
Curtains of silvery-grey light.
Objects become dark ghosts.

I drift slowly in solitude,
As a boat upon still waters
Feels the draw of hidden currents
Beneath the calm surface.

With no destination in mind
And the passage of time deferred,
Existing in the mist of now,
Without future or past.

Concentration Flow

Just realised it's been three days now since I ate any lunch. It's not deliberate - I just don't think about it at the appropriate time. At least I've been having one meal a day thanks to my wife who puts a dinner in front of me when I get home from work - if it wasn't for that I'd probably not eat regularly at all. What it is - I get so absorbed in what I'm doing that I lose track of everything else and don't notice little things like the time of day, thirst, hunger, a full bladder...

That's one problem with the level of concentration I can sustain when engaged in one of my special interests, programming in particular: the world could end around me and I wouldn't notice. I've even failed to hear a fire alarm on a couple of occasions because I'm in the zone and blocking out everything else. (The fire bell is about twenty feet from where I sit with no obstructions between it and me - it's LOUD.)

The positive side is that this focused mental state (also called flow) is especially productive. It's like strapping a rocket to my intellect and lighting the fuse - I see systems and patterns with crystal clarity and solutions to problems just arrive in my mind without conscious effort. It's an exhilarating, euphoric experience: my mind running perfectly, like an engine at full revs with no noise or vibration.

This sustained high level of concentration and attention - the hyperfocus on a particular object or task is not just an Aspie trait although it is reportedly common. It is something that can be learned - most top sportsmen and -women train hard to develop this kind of focus because it helps them attain their best performances. But for me at least it seems to be an innate ability.

Some things will scupper it. I can't focus on something while I'm depressed or anxious although physical pain doesn't seem to get in the way. Indeed I don't notice pain while in flow. But being involuntarily brought out of flow - certain stimuli will do this, such as touching me or putting something in my line of sight - is a jarring experience. I find it can stress me; even anger me, to be taken out of that state unexpectedly and that can be a barrier to getting my flow back.

Playing My Part

You use your words as weapons,
Cut me deeper than a knife.
Though my blood remains unspilt
Still I feel the cuts as life
Spills out from my veins. I built
Such castles of hope this time,
But I built them on the sand.
Your attack will undermine
Them. No hope that they can stand
Against onslaught of that kind.
I will nurse my bleeding heart,
Lick my wounds and try to find
The resolve to play my part
On the stage within your mind.

Earth's Child

One of my favourite memories is of a stone wall. Not just any stone wall but the one at the front of my neighbours' cottages where I grew up. In fact stone fence might be a more accurate description: it was a row of upright stone slabs, made of locally-quarried sandstone as were the cottages themselves.

I remember the slabs well - not finely finished like tombstones but left a little rough and then weathered and rounded by the passage of about two hundred years. The raw sandy yellow of the freshly cut stone had long faded to a dull grey-brown supplemented by the green of moss and grey of lichen - it always felt as if the stone, once hewn from the parent rock, had been reclaimed and was once again a living part of the earth. They always had a softness to the touch - a complete contrast to the harsh, discordant roughness of brick and concrete. They truly felt organic, as if they had sprouted from the ground in that place. Being of natural material and standing in that place for so long they always felt to me as natural as the hills and woods.

As something is left to age in a place it acquires the character of its surroundings - hence the deliberate ageing of whisky. Eventually it becomes a part of its surroundings. I believe this used to be the case for people too, when they generally used to live out their lives within the community of their birth. There was a distinct local character (and often dialect) to each settlement and a sense of identity, of belonging. People within the area could tell in which village somebody had been born by their mannerisms and the way they spoke. But that was before industrialisation, before the growth of towns and mass migration, before the disruption and eventual destruction of those long-established communities, before everywhere became tainted by the homogenisation of modernity. Before we exchanged lives of hard toil driven by the natural rhythm of the seasons for lives of comparative ease driven by the clock on the wall.

We have lost our roots. We have severed the umbilicus that joined us to our mother. So many of us now think of ourselves as apart from the rest of nature. We think nothing of dividing the day into twenty-four hours and paying more heed to those numbers than to the rising and setting of the sun. Rain and snow are a nuisance. Insects are just pests. We expect the natural world to be as organised and sanitised as our constructed urban environments. We think of our lives as normal!

I'm not some Luddite advocating abandonment of technology - I appreciate and use advanced technology every day of my life. But I have not forgotten that I am just another animal on this planet, that I am part of the natural world. And if I did not feel part of nature I would not feel that I belonged - I would feel isolated, exposed, vulnerable, alone. But instead I am part of my environment. We have shaped each other over the years so that we now fit well together; I am just another part of the earth, one with the rocks and streams, wind and rain, plants and animals. As settled in my own surroundings as that old stone fence was.

Walking In My Shoes

I just read a post, On Sensory Empathy by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg, that got me thinking: do people in general only consider the emotional aspect when they talk about empathy?

I believe that inferring another person's emotional state based on what they say and how they act is the easy part - even I can do it to a certain extent. What is difficult is experiencing sensory stimuli as another person experiences them. When I listen to somebody speak I see a wonderfully rich progression of images - to a large extent my understanding of language is wired through the visual part of my brain. It's difficult to describe because it's not like watching video with the volume switched off - the images may be fleeting or they may persist, they may combine and evolve, they may be concrete or abstract. The images are the meaning to me - rather than going from sounds to words-and-phrases to meaning I go from sounds to word-and-phrase-images to meaning. How can somebody who experiences language in what I would consider to be a less rich manner ever properly understand - empathise with - my sensory experience?

And how could they understand the physical discomfort and pain that some stimuli can cause unless they can find some analogue, some equivalent within the realm of their own experience. I can tell people that I can't stand to hear a certain sound, breaking glass for instance. They don't know why I can't stand it, how it feels for me to hear that sound. How it is physically painful because it overloads my senses - it is too intense. Note that I'm not saying too loud or too high-pitched - it's too bright, like a sudden flash of direct sunlight into my eyes. Try to imagine seeing and hearing a bottle smash on the ground in front of you and - at the same time - it reflecting a flash of the full brightness of the midday sun into your eyes. You physically feel the force of it hit you like a wave. That is approximately how the sound feels. That is what I mean when I talk about it overloading my senses.

Can somebody who is not a visual thinker appreciate how I think about things? Can they develop a model - a theory - of my mind without having any experience of how it really works? I will admit that it is conceivable - after all I can imagine thought without pictures. I imagine it must be something like being blind. Other faculties would have to compensate. I have read that someone who is blind can still experience images in their mind, so I could reasonably expect them to be able to imagine having sight. But I wouldn't expect it to be easy or necessarily accurate. In a similar way I do not expect non-visual people to be good at imagining what the world looks, feels and even sounds like to me.

I view neurotypical people in a more understanding way now that I realise this. I recognise that they often have talents in areas where I have trouble, especially when interacting with the average person in the street. They seem to be able to intuitively read other NT people's emotions. But with me, and other people on the autistic spectrum, they seem a bit lost - a bit mind-blind. They don't often react to us as if they properly understand what we are thinking or feeling - they have trouble with empathy. They don't spot the signs when we are having trouble with sensory overstimulation and sometimes even add to the overload. But humans don't come with a user's manual to explain all this. I feel that it's everybody's responsibility to be open to the idea that there are people out there who experience the world in a different way: to be patient, understanding and to make allowances.

People Who Have Influenced My Life - Part 2

I only met him the once but I read his autobiography and thought, "I admire this man." Jason Robinson, the rugby player of both codes, had anything but an easy upbringing and came so close to throwing away the opportunity his talent had brought him.
He had the good fortune to come under the influence of Va'aiga Tuigamala - a man with great moral character - in his early days at Wigan, and the good sense to heed his advice. He turned his life around, arrested the self-destructive spiral of decline and gained a sense of self-worth. This was primarily a result of his developing a strong faith under the wing of the older man.
I admire his courage in facing his painful past, admitting his failings and working so hard to be a positive role model both off the rugby pitch and on it. I met him at a training session at the height of his Rugby League playing career at Wigan, before he switched to Rugby Union and represented his country in that code as well. I remember him as quiet, serious, focused, calm and, more than anything else, modest. Not for him the arrogance and swagger of pride that can come with fame; he believed that the most important aspect of his own success was that it enabled him to help others.
In Jason Robinson I saw a selfless, generous man; one to be emulated, who showed that helping other people is worth far more than any amount of personal success.

Don't Tell Me Who I Can Talk To

I'll decide who I call a friend
With no agenda but my own;
Make my own mind up. In the end
I'm not a child: I'm near half-grown.

Your prima donna act's worn thin,
So now's the time I made a stand:
I won't be told by you who's in
My social circle's inner band.

The ones who treat me with respect
And value me for who I am
Are those I've learned I can expect
To care about me: that's my plan.

So you can sit and denigrate,
But you won't change what's come to pass:
My mind's made up, I'll choose my mates.
If you don't like it, kiss my a**!

Fear and Respect

Can you respect somebody you fear?

Fear engenders obedience because of the implied threat of punishment. It leads to passivity and acquiescence to the other's wishes (demands?). This can be misinterpreted as respect but there is an important difference: to respect somebody you must hold them in high regard - you must value and admire them. And my regard for somebody I fear is less than nothing - I hold them in contempt. I obey them because I am mindful of the consequences of disobedience - I rarely have the courage to stand up and confront people. It is emphatically not because I have any respect for them.

There are many names for the kind of people who delude themselves that they are respected because they hold positions of power over others, and abuse that power to bend those others to their will. Names such as tyrant, despot, dictator...

Bully.

It is a matter of volition. I will follow somebody I respect out of choice; I will submit to somebody I fear under duress. When I am a willing participant I am more productive - I want to give of my best and will strive to do so; when I'm forced to do something I will grudgingly conform to the letter of any demand but there is no inclination to perform well. It's not quite passive resistance, rather procrastination.