Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Showing posts with label change. Show all posts
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Caution: Aspies at Work
Chances are, if you’re on the spectrum, routine is important to you. In the workplace, more than anywhere else, routine can be an obsession, even for NT’s. We often have limited choices in our work area, but we have a remarkable ability to acclimate by imposing our own structure that becomes essential to our productivity. Unsurprisingly, anyone who tries to change our habits may encounter resistance. In my 15 years in the workplace, I’ve certainly seen my share of changes in work environment, and done my share of settling in and out of grooves.
When I first started out, I worked from home. My boss didn’t have space for me in the office, but he bought me a fax machine so he could send me handwritten comments on my grants. It was fine, because I can read anyone’s chicken scratch. I doubt he ever did learn to use “track changes.”
The worst workspace I ever had was a cubicle inside a laboratory full of machinery that buzzed and burbled continuously. One needed to don protective goggles to cross the border from the cube farm to the front office. Safety first.
For a brief time, I shared an office with two other people. This was less than ideal, but a step down in sensory stress from the lab. Most notably, it was where I heard the news on the morning of 9-11, looking at the photos of the World Trade Center on AOL, and my co-worker’s words, “We’re under attack.”
A private office is the best setting for the detailed writing and data processing I do. I keep my desk neat and uncluttered. Rarely will you find piles of anything. I file next to everything electronically. I decorate simply, with plants and a colorful rug. I’ve had paper-thin walls, and pin-drop quiet. Surprisingly, I prefer the former. Just a reminder of signs of life.
In my current job, I was introduced to the two-monitor setup. At first, I found it nutty and decadent. But now, I don’t know if I could ever go back to one. How else can you read from one document, and type in another? I wonder if the inventor of the widescreen monitor realizes how quickly it became obsolete.
Lunch is at 11:30 or thereabouts. If there’s a lunch meeting scheduled for later, I need to snack beforehand, or I won’t make it. I’ve been across the hall from the lunchroom, and across the building. Proximity is preferable, because I know when the microwave is free, and when someone has left treats.
I’ve shared office space with an HVAC unit that cycled on and off, that I needed to schedule my phone calls around. I’ve lived next door to a server closet that needed a muzzle. I’ve been keeper of the projector. I’ve encountered a ladybug invasion, released a buggy shower of insect parts from the overhead light, and welcomed an oversized water bug to the 10:00 Meet & Greet.
I don’t usually work with music on, except to plow through mindless busy work, and then I’ll put on Pandora. Something mellow, maybe Vince Guaraldi Radio, or Alexi Murdoch Radio, or Phoebe Snow Radio.
I never drink coffee, only water. It needs to be warmed when it’s cold out, and cold when it’s warm out.
I still use a daily planner as my organizer, writing down what needs to be done each day and checking it off, and starting each day with a new page. I don’t own a smartphone; I really don’t desire one. I have a flip phone, and it meets all my phoney needs. I keep a collection of all my paper that's been printed on one side, so I can use the other side as scrap.
I need to go outside at least once a day. If there’s mail to get from a mailbox, or from another building, that’s a good excuse. Otherwise, I’ll make up an excuse.
No office is perfect, but I pride myself on my ability to adapt to whatever is thrown my way. I think most of us have such flexibility, as surely as we swear by the rigid rules with which we mold our work environment to our individual needs. In a neurodiverse workplace, there’s no such thing as “one size fits all,” but an employer who values diverse work styles listens to and accommodates his employees, and thereby ensures the comfort of all.
When I first started out, I worked from home. My boss didn’t have space for me in the office, but he bought me a fax machine so he could send me handwritten comments on my grants. It was fine, because I can read anyone’s chicken scratch. I doubt he ever did learn to use “track changes.”
For a brief time, I shared an office with two other people. This was less than ideal, but a step down in sensory stress from the lab. Most notably, it was where I heard the news on the morning of 9-11, looking at the photos of the World Trade Center on AOL, and my co-worker’s words, “We’re under attack.”
A private office is the best setting for the detailed writing and data processing I do. I keep my desk neat and uncluttered. Rarely will you find piles of anything. I file next to everything electronically. I decorate simply, with plants and a colorful rug. I’ve had paper-thin walls, and pin-drop quiet. Surprisingly, I prefer the former. Just a reminder of signs of life.
Lunch is at 11:30 or thereabouts. If there’s a lunch meeting scheduled for later, I need to snack beforehand, or I won’t make it. I’ve been across the hall from the lunchroom, and across the building. Proximity is preferable, because I know when the microwave is free, and when someone has left treats.
I’ve shared office space with an HVAC unit that cycled on and off, that I needed to schedule my phone calls around. I’ve lived next door to a server closet that needed a muzzle. I’ve been keeper of the projector. I’ve encountered a ladybug invasion, released a buggy shower of insect parts from the overhead light, and welcomed an oversized water bug to the 10:00 Meet & Greet.
I never drink coffee, only water. It needs to be warmed when it’s cold out, and cold when it’s warm out.
I still use a daily planner as my organizer, writing down what needs to be done each day and checking it off, and starting each day with a new page. I don’t own a smartphone; I really don’t desire one. I have a flip phone, and it meets all my phoney needs. I keep a collection of all my paper that's been printed on one side, so I can use the other side as scrap.
I need to go outside at least once a day. If there’s mail to get from a mailbox, or from another building, that’s a good excuse. Otherwise, I’ll make up an excuse.
No office is perfect, but I pride myself on my ability to adapt to whatever is thrown my way. I think most of us have such flexibility, as surely as we swear by the rigid rules with which we mold our work environment to our individual needs. In a neurodiverse workplace, there’s no such thing as “one size fits all,” but an employer who values diverse work styles listens to and accommodates his employees, and thereby ensures the comfort of all.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Tree
I am feeling the love these days. Next week, I will leave the job I’ve held for nearly a decade. Already, the hugs have started from co-workers. Already, the email messages of thanks, the stories of memories we shared and even those we didn’t, and the looming spectre of the goodbye pizza party. As if all the love came out of hiding. It leaves me to wonder, after next week, where will it go?
John Gorka said, “People love you when they know you’re leaving soon.” Certainly, endings amplify feelings already there. With some people, it’s okay to say, “Yes, I’ll stay in touch, I’ll come back to visit,” and not really mean it. But I also have friendships I would be sad to see end, that I hope will survive outside the familiar context. It has worked for me sometimes, but many times, it hasn’t. There are more ways than ever to keep in touch these days, but it still comes down to the free will of both people.
A song called “The Tree” by Blitzen Trapper found its way into my head this week. It suggests that all our relationships connect us to others in the way a tree is made up of interconnected branches. Our bonds to friends and loved ones are there for us throughout our lives, as a tree that grows from the ground to the sky, “never-ending.” As the tree is a living organism, our relationships too remain alive, a chain connecting us to each other, to the twists and turns of fate, and to the universe.
It’s not a new metaphor, but it’s an appealing one. What a comforting thought that as we go along in life, we can simply reach out to the people we need, when we need them, as if reaching to the next branch on a tree. But is that overly idealistic?
It is human nature to love and to connect. If these things are so important to us, why is it so difficult to stay connected? Why are there people who say they don’t feel a connection to anyone? Some are afraid to let others get too close, or that they drive others away. Some say no one else has been able to know them the way they’d like to be known. They have known love in their life, and they wonder where it went. I admit I feel unsure myself sometimes. Do any of us really feel sure?
My own tree has branches that are vibrant and branches that are dormant. It needs constant feeding to grow and remain strong. Different branches need different care. Relationships take time and they take work. But they can surprise us. When a relationship is meant to last, it doesn’t feel like work, and it will find a way.
When I change jobs, as with any life transition, branches will shift. It’s inevitable. The love I’m feeling from co-workers now will go somewhere. I want to believe it won't go away. I believe it will be there, wherever, whenever I need it. I won't worry about how. Maybe I’m not meant to understand, as the song says.
You must be blind if you’re to see,
Must walk behind if you’re to lead,
Must be the soil to the seed,
Never-ending.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Let It Burn, Let It Burn
Ten days ago, I lost my job to a layoff. At the moment, I will be out of work June 30. In an instant, my world turned confusing, and uncertain. Each day is a roller coaster of emotion. It will be quite awhile before things feel “normal” again.
We all can be knocked on our backs by a crisis. If you are neurotypical, you have your support network to catch you. But if you have autism, as we’ve seen, your support network is often lacking. Not only are you not well-connected to people, you don’t “read” them well even in a clear state of mind. And thus, the same crisis hits you that much harder.
I’ve been told by many, “I’m here if you need to talk.” “I'm here if you need anything.” And that is a wonderful thing, until I realized I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with those offers.
I have found encouragement and support come to me from the least expected people. And, I have found a casual brush-off from others who I expected to be supportive.
I have been an actor, suddenly on a constant audition, every move carefully choreographed. I have practiced giving measured and neutral responses when necessary, compiling a mental checklist of how much information to provide to whom.
I have been a ghost, among others going about their normal routine, talking of cruises, or allergies, or playfully teasing at one another’s expense.
They tell me, it’ll work out. They tell me, one door closes and another opens. That’s all well and good, but they don’t know how the waiting feels. They imagine, but they don’t know, how different the world looks, inside a crisis.
I sat around a conference table with a bishop who blessed our meeting in Jesus’ name. The bishop greeted me warmly, and asked how I was, and I lied and said I was well. And though I don’t believe in his God, I found myself wondering what words of wisdom he might have for me.
I've been noticing things I never noticed before. I stopped at a tollbooth, and the toll taker wished me a nice day. I heard the kindness in her voice, and it gave me strength, like finding a penny on the ground.
I walked past an industrial scrap yard in the city, beside a chain link fence, and on the other side, a dog appeared and followed alongside me. He didn’t bark, he simply looked at me, wide-eyed and mangy, mirroring my steps until I passed the boundary. I think he would have followed me home if not for the fence.
I sat alone at a picnic table, eating my lunch on a sunny mid-afternoon, while maintenance workers rode past on golf carts, and senior citizens stretched and checked their maps. I watched a young woman approach an empty swing set and get on, though she was clearly not a kid anymore. She swung for a good long time, all by herself, without a trace of self-consciousness. I thought how good it would feel to do the same. But not today. There was work to be done.
I’ve had the new P.J. Harvey CD on repeat all week, “Let England Shake,” and in my head, the song, “Written on the Forehead,” about the people in a war-torn city watching destruction all around them. Some, in a last act of free will, throw their possessions in a celebratory bonfire: “Let it burn, let it burn, let it burn, burn, burn...” Others try to swim to safety: “Through tons of sewage, fate written on their foreheads.” Neither group can escape the ravages of war.
Likewise, none of us can escape change. We can try to swim against the current, but we’ll likely fail. Or, we can let our old world burn, and seize control of our destiny rather than accept some predetermined fate.
I’m choosing to do the latter, now that war has come to my doorstep. I'm letting the old reality burn, so the new can take its place. It can be hard to find guideposts as that reality shifts and reshapes, but I need only remember to be myself, and be proud of who I am, as a person with Asperger’s. If I can do that, I am sure to emerge stronger from this crisis.
We all can be knocked on our backs by a crisis. If you are neurotypical, you have your support network to catch you. But if you have autism, as we’ve seen, your support network is often lacking. Not only are you not well-connected to people, you don’t “read” them well even in a clear state of mind. And thus, the same crisis hits you that much harder.
I’ve been told by many, “I’m here if you need to talk.” “I'm here if you need anything.” And that is a wonderful thing, until I realized I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with those offers.
I have found encouragement and support come to me from the least expected people. And, I have found a casual brush-off from others who I expected to be supportive.
I have been an actor, suddenly on a constant audition, every move carefully choreographed. I have practiced giving measured and neutral responses when necessary, compiling a mental checklist of how much information to provide to whom.
I have been a ghost, among others going about their normal routine, talking of cruises, or allergies, or playfully teasing at one another’s expense.
They tell me, it’ll work out. They tell me, one door closes and another opens. That’s all well and good, but they don’t know how the waiting feels. They imagine, but they don’t know, how different the world looks, inside a crisis.
I sat around a conference table with a bishop who blessed our meeting in Jesus’ name. The bishop greeted me warmly, and asked how I was, and I lied and said I was well. And though I don’t believe in his God, I found myself wondering what words of wisdom he might have for me.
I've been noticing things I never noticed before. I stopped at a tollbooth, and the toll taker wished me a nice day. I heard the kindness in her voice, and it gave me strength, like finding a penny on the ground.
I walked past an industrial scrap yard in the city, beside a chain link fence, and on the other side, a dog appeared and followed alongside me. He didn’t bark, he simply looked at me, wide-eyed and mangy, mirroring my steps until I passed the boundary. I think he would have followed me home if not for the fence.
I sat alone at a picnic table, eating my lunch on a sunny mid-afternoon, while maintenance workers rode past on golf carts, and senior citizens stretched and checked their maps. I watched a young woman approach an empty swing set and get on, though she was clearly not a kid anymore. She swung for a good long time, all by herself, without a trace of self-consciousness. I thought how good it would feel to do the same. But not today. There was work to be done.
I’ve had the new P.J. Harvey CD on repeat all week, “Let England Shake,” and in my head, the song, “Written on the Forehead,” about the people in a war-torn city watching destruction all around them. Some, in a last act of free will, throw their possessions in a celebratory bonfire: “Let it burn, let it burn, let it burn, burn, burn...” Others try to swim to safety: “Through tons of sewage, fate written on their foreheads.” Neither group can escape the ravages of war.
Likewise, none of us can escape change. We can try to swim against the current, but we’ll likely fail. Or, we can let our old world burn, and seize control of our destiny rather than accept some predetermined fate.
I’m choosing to do the latter, now that war has come to my doorstep. I'm letting the old reality burn, so the new can take its place. It can be hard to find guideposts as that reality shifts and reshapes, but I need only remember to be myself, and be proud of who I am, as a person with Asperger’s. If I can do that, I am sure to emerge stronger from this crisis.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Why'd
Damn. Why’d I buy this new monitor? It’s a widescreen. Nothing looks right.
Why’d I rush into this purchase? My old monitor suddenly went kaput yesterday, and I panicked. Why'd this have to happen? Got to have computer access. So I rushed out to the store today. Just get the same size, no problem, right?
But it’s not the same. It’s too wide. It’s too short. It feels… alien. Like someone took and stretched out my eyes. My reality is altered. It’s all wrong. My desktop! My blog! My Internet peeps! You don’t look right at all.
Why’d I let the salesman talk me into it? It’s his fault! No, no, it’s my fault! Damn, why’d I make a snap decision? Why didn’t I take my time like I always do?
When did my computer become such a lifeline that I can’t take a day or two off? When did I become one of “those people?”
And why is it such a big deal to me? Why can’t I just get used to the widescreen? It’s all they make now… millions of people can’t be wrong… And yet, why does it feel like I’ll never enjoy blogging again? Why does change hurt so much?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
