I remember very
clearly the first day it began, as if it were yesterday. My young, hip
mother had a few girlfriends over. They were laughing, drinking, and generally
being obnoxious (to my taste), talking over each other and carrying on the way
I see many women do when they're traveling in packs. I wanted them to
leave, so, my four-year-old brain’s solution: I became a Doberman Pinscher and
ran out into the living room barking at them fiercely, as if guarding my domain
with all my might.
They laughed. They
mistook me for a “monster”.
“What are you, a
werewolf? Dracula? What kind of little monster are you?” they asked, with that “cutesy”
tone of voice some use when speaking to children.
I have always
despised that aspect of people, when they change their voice to sound cute or .
. . I don’t know, just different than how they normally sound when speaking of
folding their laundry, creating an excel spreadsheet, or re-fueling their cars.
When I hear that high-pitched type vocalization, I feel as if someone is
pouring boiling water over my body and sticking knitting needles through my
eardrums, full force.
I yelped louder and
clearer, then started biting at my mother’s orange vinyl barstools (I had seen
dogs do this when they couldn't get to their target, sinking their teeth into
whatever was near to rid themselves of pent-up frustration). It made me feel
powerful, and expressed something I didn't feel I could express with mere
words. Without barking, I was a timid little girl, sitting in a corner
somewhere, coloring, doing puzzles, reading about animals, or having tea with Steve Martin (my trusty invisible friend).
The cackling hens
finally exited (after insisting I was a “cute little puppy”, grrrrrrrr). I
accomplished my mission, served a good duty. I rid our home of chaos.
This barking
continued, and became my way of keeping people at a distance and keeping me
safe inside myself. I became an expert on dogs: training techniques, breeds
(standards, groups, temperaments, origins, and vocalizations), and
physical/psychological reactions. By the time I was eight, you could name any
breed of dog and I could mimic its bark.
This didn’t bode
well on the playground, as I'm sure you've guessed. Kids started calling
me “Sparky,” pretended to throw bones for me, then would giggle along with
their friends behind my back (although, with Asperger’s Syndrome comes major
sensory sensitivities—I could hear EVERYTHING on the playground). I
learned that if I could get out of class fast enough for recess and grab a
swing, I could stay on that swing the entire recess period and never have to
deal with other kids at all. The sensation of the swings relaxed me, made
me feel a sort of high, and I was safe. You don't have to talk on swings.
If there were no swings, well, it was “Sparky” time and I was lucky enough to
find one friend who didn’t mind occasionally playing “animals” with me. She was
a tiger.
I had no idea this
had anything to do with Asperger’s until I began researching Online Forums
belonging to parents of children with AS. Days ago I began uncovering post
after post regarding Aspergian children who choose to emulate certain animals
rather than engage in socially acceptable, age appropriate games such as dodge
ball (ouch!), jumping rope, sports, and the like. With my new found diagnosis,
it makes sense to me now why I desired solitude—the loud screams of the
children made my head hurt, the bright Southern California sun burned my eyes
and skin, and constant buzzing and brightness of those terrible fluorescent
light bulbs in the classroom made me feel like my head was going to explode. How can anyone learn with those bloody buzzing lights?!
The last day I
barked was my first day of sixth grade. We had a long summer break and I
was changing schools from elementary (with a playground and swings) to a high
school type setting (square buildings, some temporary modular classrooms, a
basketball court, a gym, and a track). No one prepared me for this
change. I was shocked.
“No swings! What do
I do? What if I get lost?!”
We broke for lunch
that brisk September day and I saw my old trusty "tiger" pal, ran up
to her yelping (as this is how I'd initiate play in elementary school), and she
completely ignored me, walking passed with her new group of friends, giving me
that signature look of disdain teenage girls are so privy to.
“Oh my GAWD, what
was THAT?! Hahahaha,” I heard one of her friends exclaim as they all three
laughed and trotted by.
I then realized I
couldn't swing, couldn't bark, and I had better find a new identity—and
quick. So I went home that afternoon, cried into my pillow, then put all
my toys and dog books away in a box, sealed it up, and then began a life of
watching and attempting to “copy” others in order to be seen, in order to be
loved, in order to be accepted, in order to survive.
Excerpt from chapter eighteen | hey bulldog | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir
