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.
I am in my basement, and I am practicing darts. I am twelve years old. I do not care about mastering the skill. I have no intention of competing. It’s not the bulls-eye that interests me.
I am training. Training to hit number five, over and over. I must be precise. Deadly. An assassin. Like him.
Twenty students we number, in Mr. P’s homeroom. Twenty slices on the dartboard. Perfect. Perfect for Mr. P, ever the jokester, to inject some friendly competition into the morning routine.
But not all here are friends. There is a predator among us. Across the room, B smiles a jack-o-lantern grin, and licks his lips. Into this innocent contest, he has sunk in his fangs, and injected venom.
Each morning, one dart throw appoints one of us teacher’s helper: The chosen one collects the lunch orders. They take the attendance sheet upstairs. And the next morning, they lead the Pledge. Then, they throw, choosing the next helper.
B knows I dread leading the Pledge. We all know it. My loudest voice seems barely a murmur to their ears; their slightest snicker seems a roar to mine. B has made me his target for a year already, but never, until now, in the literal sense. However unwittingly, Mr. P has gift-wrapped and delivered me to my adversary.
It is child’s play to match number to name, for anyone who cares to. Ten is mine. And B is no roulette player. Ten is where he aims. He throws. He connects. He smiles in mock surprise.
B gives me what I want the least. Attention. A solitude-seeker, I placed myself in his crosshairs. He strikes, without laying a finger, but with warfare of the mind. He fires in the shadows, under breath, out of sight, ever present to remind me I am different. Here, where the rules are so many, we do battle in a lawless land.
But I have long since surrendered. Retaliation has proved futile. Fists and words alike backfired, my frustration only became his fuel. Still he baits me to react. I retreat into passivity, a mask for concealed rage. He has implanted in me a demon seed of self-doubt.
Now, the game is darts. And it occurs to me… Yes, two can play. The thought has crossed my mind. But in my defeatist mindset, I hesitate. Should I? Isn’t it in vain? I’ve never landed a blow against him. But for once, I find myself with a weapon in my hand.
And so I am practicing, into the evening. Sixteen. Three. Eleven. No, I must keep trying. Nine. Twenty. Twelve. Getting closer. I will not give up. And finally… Five... Five... Five. I have done it. But can I hit my mark when it counts?
The next morning, I fulfill my duty.
“I pledge allegiance, to the flag…”
My words freefall through empty air. Seconds stretch into an eternity. Until at last, a chorus fills in behind me, a parachute ripcord.
“…of the United States of America…” And then, it is done.
I approach the dartboard and draw. I take my position. I aim. And I throw.
Five.
And from across the room, an incredulous sneer.
“Aw, mannn…”
I show no emotion. I cannot. But inside I am brimming with joy. One arrow pierces powerlessness. And for one day, the prey has battled the predator, and won.
Saturday?
8:00?
Leonardo's Tavern?
I’m in!
See you then!
Aspie invited to dinner
Saturday?
At 8?
Hmm. I should get out and socialize.
It would be good for me.
Maybe this will work.
Am I doing anything else that day?
... No.
But, maybe there’s something better going on?
Let’s check, I wouldn’t want to miss out…
No, nothing else.
“Leonardo’s Tavern.”
Hm, never been there before.
Let’s check the Web site.
What’s on their menu?
Hmm – I could have fish and chips,
or the putanesca looks okay,
but I could probably get any of this stuff anywhere else…
Let’s see who’s coming…
11 people said Yes.
Hmm, from their photos, not exactly my kind of people…
Will I have anything to talk to them about?
Probably not…
What would I have to wear?
Casual attire… that’s good.
I’d have to pick out an outfit though,
I’d want to make a good impression…
Where is this place?
Let’s check Google Maps…
Hmm, yes, I think I could manage that…
Let me just simulate it with street view,
I wouldn’t want to get lost…
“Quaint country setting,” it says.
Oh, I like that.
But it’s a tavern, that’s like a bar.
Will it be loud?
Probably…
Loud people and bar food…
“Entertainment nightly.”
Oh, that’s not good – that means noise.
Let’s see what yelp has to say…
Hmm, this person gave it one star.
Didn’t like the ketchup…
That’s not good…
One hour later...
Erm, I just don’t feel right about this…
It would be nice to get out,
but, I don’t think this is the time…
That’s what I’ll do,
I’ll wait for the next one.
It's an honor to be included in Babble's Top 25 Autism Spectrum Blogs for 2011. I'm among great company, and there are so many others they could have chosen. Please check out the full list. There are many blogs I already follow, and others I'm just now discovering.
If you want to not only be autism-aware, but autism-accepting and autism-understanding, look no further than these lists. Listen to us - we tell it like it is.
Big thanks to Babble for including me - especially for calling me a "young person" on the spectrum (!) - and for this outstanding awareness campaign.
Text and images are copyright 2009-2025 Matt Friedman. All rights reserved. All characters are fictitious; any similarity to actual persons is purely coincidental.
You may republish my cartoons for non-commercial purposes if you credit me by name and link to www.dudeimanaspie.com.
Posts
