Good Intention? Autism Awareness vs. Acceptance

I happened upon a video today posted by a well-known autism "support" website. The video was titled Army of Autism Awareness Angels Flash Mob - World Autism Awareness Day 2012. I knew when I clicked on it that "Flash Mob" and "Autism" couldn't necessarily mesh well, but I was willing to take the risk. Hey—I was bored. And it had been shared 21,582 times, so it must be worth it. Right?

Oh my. 

Let me begin by saying I am confident this group of people were very well intentioned and must have incredibly loving hearts to coordinate such a large scale event. It was quite impressive.

With so any people. 

In such a public place. 

With so many bright lights. 

With such incredibly loud, obnoxious music. 

[Closing eyes and covering ears, hoping for Scotty to beam me up . . . ]

If this group of people in the video were "aware" at all about autism and one of its main ingredients, sensory sensitivities, they would have realized this was an incredibly ridiculous spectacle. Sensory overload, at its finest. 

A crowded mall with its bright, buzzing, florescent lighting, crowds of people, strong perfume, and a different genre of music playing in each store passed has the potential to push anyone (on or off the spectrum) into a full blown meltdown. Then you add the crowd, dancing, jumping, woo-hooing, and clapping next to an ESCALATOR (am I the only one that still gets a fright from these beastly things?) — I'd need an escape plan - pronto. They put children (not sure if they were autistic or not) in the middle of a circle and danced around them, clapping and woo-hooing (I'd have been on the floor at this point covering my ears, hoping anyone, the most evil of serpents even, would pull me through the floor to get some quiet in his warm bowels). And the grand finale: a group of hot, young girls ride down the escalator in tiny red t-shirts, short shorts, and high heels (seriously) holding small signs displaying the words "Army of Autism Awareness Angels". Did anyone even see the signs? Likely not, with the red colored shirts (which everyone knows the brain cannot NOT see the color red) - oh, and the hot girls, naturally. 

This event would get a 10 in my book . . . if it were a demonstration of what causes an autistic to meltdown and isolate from the rest of society. A 10 if it were a demonstration to parents as to why their daughter is screaming and covering her ears, or why their son is hiding in the clothes rack in Macy's and won't come out.  

Being "aware" that autism exists isn't helping anyone, nor is it even necessary. I think we've down-right saturated the media with knowing the word "autism". Even the label itself isn't really helping anyone as every autistic is different and it certainly isn't helping when the actual difficulties the autistic is having aren't even being considered (such as the numerous non-verbal children who consistently displayed head-banging behavior before finally being diagnosed with severe ear infections; or the kid who screams incessantly while covering his ears in Costco because the florescent lights are buzzing and blinking creating a sensory tornado in his brain and body). 

Children and adults, verbal and non-verbal alike, are often drugged, set aside, and not considered when it comes to our own feelings, wants, needs, and desires. Silly when something like a baseball cap in Costco does wonders (it does for me). Earplugs-brilliant. 

Einstein (who many believe today would be diagnosed as being somewhere on the autism spectrum) didn't speak until he was four. In fact, mathematics historian Otto Neugebauer once told a rather charming, inspiring story about young Einstein. 

As he was a late talker, his parents were worried. At last, at the supper table one night, he broke his silence to say, "The soup is too hot." 

Greatly relieved, his parents asked why he had never said a word before.  

Albert replied, "Because up to now everything was in order."

Imagine if young Albert had been institutionalized, drugged, or simply not listened to?  

Imagine a group of people decided to do a flash mob for "poor people awareness". Imagine them paying to have hundreds of t-shirts made to advertise the event, handing out food and drinks for the dancers, and holding the event in a place like Beverly Hills, California (not a very poor-friendly place). And imagine Victoria's Secrets models walking out in lingerie (nice to look at but inappropriate!) holding hand written "Army of Angels for the Poor" signs above their heads. How is any of this helping the poor? All the money and energy spent getting t-shirts made, food prepared, and money to pay the models could have easily gone to feeding or housing the poor. But no one asked the poor what would help. And we're all quite aware that the poor exist. Capishe?

As good intentioned as these folks must have been, I don't think they realized at the time the contrast of their actions to what they were trying to raise awareness for. It is my hope that Autism Acceptance is the message more widely spread. It is my hope that all people, as good hearted as we often are, take more time to listen, to understand, to learn from one another. I'd much prefer someone take an interest in me as a person rather than spread the word about my overgeneralized label. 

Childlike Presence

Image courtesy of Sweet Crisis | FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The wind passing through the eucalyptus trees temporarily distracted my senses from today's harsh reality and took my mind back to a time where I found joy in closely observing minuscule insects go about their daily business of survival. They were steadfast and perseverant, my holy teachers. I sat upon decomposed granite, feeling tiny pebbles embed into the skin of my bare legs, leaving artistic indentations of which I'd later count and discover patterns. There was no hurry, nor any need to stand and present myself in any way that simply wasn't. I'd imagine the fallen acorn caps to be tiny hats for fairies, or castles for ants, or I'd organize them into miniature villages. 

These rare and most cherished childhood memories didn't consist of loud screams in bounce-houses, nor birthday parties with slightly creepy hired entertainment, but of quiet moments alone in the backyard of my grandmother's house in Santa Barbara, with the sun warmly caressing my face ever so gently and the wind moving through the trees making everything come alive, all at once. 

I wonder, are introverts born or made?

The Money Monster (When I Grow Up . . . )

At nearly forty years of age, I’m, once again, sitting on my sofa questioning what I want to be when I “grow up”.

Right now I’m dissatisfied with my life. I’m thirty-eight years old, and admit I haven’t a dime in savings that is my own. No. I spent my savings on our wedding, on moving from the East Coast back to the West Coast, on supplementing the low paying job I accepted once I returned to California in order to escape working in the cult otherwise known as the film industry (of which I am convinced gave me PTSD with it’s perpetual long hours, disregard for human life, and egos much too large to ever please).

“We” have savings. But not really. It’s his. I don’t have the option to say, “I’m going to take $300 out of savings and stay at the Four-Seasons in Santa Barbara for a treat tonight,” or “I’m going to take $10 out of savings to send a used book to my half-sister as a gift,” or even, “Enough with the worry lines, I’m getting Botox.” We’re a team. And whatever consequences I reap, we both must endure (frozen face included). It’s frustrating. Yes, I sound like a child throwing a tantrum. But please, hear me out (if you have the heart and patience for first world problems). I feel I’ve worked hard for many years and have nothing to show for it, other than the few deep horizontal lines on my forehead and the low whispers of desperation I hear in my mind when I have an inspirational thought I must instantly reject due to my current financial situation.

I am embarrassed to say (but what the hell, I’ll say it) that when I was in my early twenties, I was convinced I’d be financially successful by my current age. I’d worked hard to become a stand-up comic–surely I’d reach Ellen DeGeneres’ level of success by thirty-five—a house in Ojai and in Beverly Hills, ya, I could dig that. Surely I’d have my own television show or at least be good enough to participate in political discussions with Bill Maher. Though I wasn’t necessarily loving the idea of being known by all and having my sacred privacy ripped out from under me as others I’d known had experienced, I knew it would be a small price to pay in order to be assured I could go home to my humble yet cozy beach house where my loyal dogs and full library would be equally happy to see me. My white down comforter and candles would be calling my name by midnight, after an extra long soak in the bubble bath where I’d read a chapter of an intriguing story. All bills paid and vacation to a quaint cabin in the middle of Canada booked. I’d be safe and secure, without a worry, especially the kind surrounding the one force that I’d feared since I was a child—the almighty dollar.

Money was a monster, or so I was taught. It was frightening and all-powerful, but we couldn’t run from it because as much as we feared and hated it, we desperately needed and depended on it. And because of that dire need, we all made an unspoken agreement to be lowly slaves to it. And now, as an adult, I thought I’d long escaped its sharp talons, yet I find as I sit in my full anxiety today with the brainwashed mind of a domestic abuse victim, I am still money’s slave.

I’m not struggling to pay the bills as Mum did when I was growing up. She’d say, “Which bill should we pay this month? No lights or no heat?” Somehow a twelve pack of beer was never a concern, though. She’d say, “We don’t have money to send you to college, so drop it.” “We don’t have money to get your senior photos taken. I don’t care if it’s only $5.00.” “We don’t have $10 for that field trip, so no, you’re not goin’. End of story.”

No. Not any more. Thanks to the combined incomes of my hardworking hubby and I, the bills here are paid. I don’t have to fret returning home after a long day to find a yellow shut-off notice from the electric company posted on my front door. There’s never a time I turn on the shower shocked to find only freezing cold water. No government cheese and food stamps for us. Nope. My current complaint is about the freedom I’ve sought since I was a little girl—the freedom to look beyond paying bills and having necessities, and the ability to look forward to vacations, friendly visits, and comforting meals out. Having “the monster” makes the quiet times about the excitement of planning for fun times rather than struggling and worrying over bleak ones.

I was born into this slavery—I didn’t choose it. And though in many ways I’ve come up out of the mud and mire by learning how to manage my own finances and paying off all debt, like many of those who grew up during the great depression still can’t be convinced toilet paper is strictly a single-use item, I can’t seem to shake the hold it has over me.

I love to write. When I did stand up comedy, my favorite part of the process was writing because I’d get lost in it and everything I observed in life—whether it be the disgusting pink hue of an old woman’s strangely inappropriate attire, or the obviously confused fake Southern drawl of the café barista, I had a purpose, and that purpose was to write down anything and everything I saw. It may or may not have become something grand, but writing it down gave me a purpose, a motivation for leaving the house, for being out in public and interacting with others (not my natural forte at all, by the way—I take introversion to an extreme).  Writing makes me feel high—really high. A really good, happy high. How quickly I forget it is the only thing to bring me up a level higher than the usual melancholic existence I’ve reluctantly held claim to since my early youth. And yet, I find I’ll go a week or more without doing it and in my seemingly hopeless stupor I’ll ignorantly ask myself once again, “What am I doing with my life?” I’ll say, “I’m not happy. I feel like my skin is crawling. I’m anxious.” I assume those who have taken a liking to working out regularly and eating well feel this way after taking a week or two (or year) off. It feels horrible. I feel trapped and stupid for not remembering to take my daily dose of writing seriously. I’ve also, in my creeping, crawling skin, been known to say something along the lines of, “I can’t accept a life that is all about working at a (dead end) job, eating, sleeping, and going back to work, then dying! There has to be more to life for people than this!”  

Not that there is anything wrong with that kind of life. Some people strive for that, and I admire them for it. Whatever floats your boat, I say.

And just before I curl up into the fetal position ready to have that spectacular pity party (aren’t you jealous?), somehow truth whispers in my ear and reminds me of the passion that lies beneath the crawling skin, beneath the anxious heart, and beneath the never-been-botoxed worry filled forehead. I pick up my computer. Or, by golly, a pen and a notebook. And it happens. Magic.

What does writing have to do with money?  Depending on whom you ask, everything and nothing. Stephen King wrote in (the most amazing, must read memoir on the craft) “On Writing”: “I’ve written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side–I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”

Time and time again I’ve been told, advised, etc. that your passion should never be about the money, but about the “buzz” and the good it brings to yourself and perhaps others in the process. And often I put my writing aside because “the monster” will poke his head out of the muck and let me know how important it is that I have him in my life. And I work hard, and come home tired, and forget to write. And feel like (excuse my honesty) shit. I forget I am working so I can write.

. . . .

 Well, my skin isn’t crawling. I feel pretty good actually. I just wrote 1,480 words in less than an hour. And I didn’t get any poorer doing it. Electricity is still on. Water is still hot. Down comforter still white. I can finish the laundry. Put together a fantastic meal. Perhaps no planning for that quiet cabin vacation among the wild moose of Canada, but I can certainly sit back down at my computer and get high . . . any time I want (and take brief breaks by viewing online photos of cabins in Canada and their accompanying neighborly moose).

What Causes This Type of Cancer?

Better days. 1978.

(Written February 17th, 2012, edited October 6, 2013) I can't help becoming selfishly annoyed when I read posts on social networking sites by well meaning friends in regard to my relationship with my recently deceased mum.  “Your mom was such a sweet woman.” “Her love for you really showed.” “You were so close.” Ugh. Do these people remember at all the many nights I cried because I couldn’t give my mum a call to say “hello” without her screaming at me, saying, “What do you want?!” or “Goddamnit, why do you always call me when I’m eating?! Can’t you call me at a better time?!”? I couldn’t have a conversation with her for more than ten minutes, as she’d turn something I said into a “judgment” coming from me, though judging was never my intention. She’d scream, not allow me to speak, then hang up, where I wouldn’t have the opportunity to right my supposed wrong, explain my intentions, nor apologize. I was always an annoyance to her, at least 80% of the time. An inconvenience. She had me at the very young age of twenty-one – I presume that could be quite inconvenient when you want to be a famous singer, or painter, or model, or . . .

I was always the “good girl” in my eyes. No drinking, no smoking, no drugs. Read, read, read. Save money, pay bills on time, have no outstanding debt. Eat healthy. I don’t know who I was trying to prove myself to as Mum would have much rather had me as a drinking buddy that could bitch about not having money, not being able to afford the bills, how my stomach hurt all the time, then grab a burger and fries at McDonald’s—to wallow in the mud together as unfortunate swine.  

In this very moment, I am missing her so much that I half wish I had spent some time with her in the manner, as she wished. However, I know in my heart and mind that these activities are what ultimately took her life.

As she was wheeled in to surgery on December 7th, 2011, my step-father Bill, my grandparents, younger sister Kelli, my husband Shyam and I walked her to her room. The nurses let us in to hug her and wish her the best of luck. We were told she’d be going in to have a hysterectomy as she had ovarian cancer – though they wouldn’t know until they went in at what stage her cancer was. As we were walking down the hall leaving her behind, trusting they would treat her well, she called out for my husband Shyam. She wanted to give him a hug. She always took a strong liking to him and it brought tears to my eyes that she had made that effort.

“She should be done in about four hours, so sit tight.”

Twenty minutes after she went under, Dr. Rodriguez entered the waiting room where we were anxiously awaiting the “good” news. Kelli had left for work, Shyam had left to run some errands, so it was just Bill, my grandfather, and I.

“We’ve discovered it is not ovarian cancer that Donn has, in fact her ovaries are fine. We’ve discovered stomach cancer. There is a large tumor in her abdomen and it has metastasized to other organs in her body, including her intestines. This does not look good."

After everyone began to hug, sob, and curse the heavens, I somehow gathered the brain power to ask, “What causes this type of cancer? Is it hereditary?”

“Well, there are mainly two causes. Either you’re of Asian descent, which your mom is not, as far as we know, or heavy drinking and smoking.”

All this time, I’d been the bad guy when asking my mom to please stop drinking and smoking. She hated me for that. Hated me. She wouldn’t talk to me for months on end because I even mentioned the word “drinking” over the phone. I distinctly recall standing in front of her when I was 12 years old after catching her snorting a powdery white substance, saying to her "If you don't stop, it will kill you one day." I was right, and now I was livid.

*Disappointment, Please.

“We’ll be OK Mum, you can go, we’ll all take care of each other,” my sister and I sobbed. We repeated this nonsense to her over and over and over. Could she sense we were lying? In death, surely one gets closer to the spirit world and can finally see through bullshit lies being told, I thought. I didn’t agree with our promises at all, especially knowing the state of cold separation our family had retained for years apart from the past few months when we were forced to come together and care. My dream of being a close, caring family had finally come true, but under these set of circumstances I’d gladly take the disappointment I had come to know so well. I hoped we would take care of each other, that the family environment we’d built the past few months would remain—that I could continue hosting family nights with dinner and board games—but it wouldn’t be the same without her infectious laugh, her charismatic draw, and her special set of dysfunctions she unapologetically brought to the table.

Excerpt from chapter one | wild horses | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*The Quiet | Part II

Art (love it!) found here: 
http://www.deviantart.com/art/Little-Mute-Girl-133251540

I’d always hated dresses. One simply can not conduct explorations of insects nor properly study sand particles when wearing a dress and white stockings, unless one finds the occasional beating and screaming at from one’s very southern grandmother desirable. Stockings felt scratchy, like a thousand itching flea bites. Make that a million. They made me constantly aware of where my awkward, skinny legs were at any given time, made me constantly worry about whether or not my underpants were showing, and made me feel extra sensitive and irritated if the wind were blowing. And those warm, Southern California Santa Ana winds were the worst, as I’d simultaneously have to hold my dress down at my knees and pull my static electric hair down toward my face in an attempt to keep others from noticing me and laughing. I’d imagine creating contraptions to hold the dress down—a giant rubber band or possibly custom-made Bungee Cords that would connect the bottom of the dress to my shoes.

Oh, those horrid shoes. I dreaded the toe-pinching black patent leather shoes that were merely good for slipping and sliding along the blacktop and falling on one’s face to the grand amusement of those lucky enough to be donning more appropriate attire, such as sneakers or the slightly acceptable Buster Browns. Nana would shine them up, straighten my dress at the shoulders, and exclaim, “Isn’t that adorable?!” I had no idea as to what “that” she was referring to. I surely had no desire to be considered “adorable” nor a “that.” Perhaps gluing rubber erasers to the bottom of the shoes would solve the issue, making me taller in the process.

Looking back, I see I was a pretty intelligent kid with innovative ideas (at least for that age), but the concept of reading, writing, and arithmetic on these particular types of days was far from the reaches of my ability, as unbeknownst to me and surrounding adults, the sensory receptors in my brain were malfunctioning. I’d find out many years later my amygdala, the part of the brain responsible for the fight or flight response, was defectively over-active. Selective mutism turned out to be the more appropriate term for why I was never able to get out the words “I want a carrot” to the barking Doberman across the schoolyard when Mr. Hoyt, so well intentioned, heroically attempted to cure me of what he saw as an extreme case of the quiet.

Excerpt from chapter five | Dear Mr. Fantasy | Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Intelligent Worldy Humor

Mensa (English): The largest and oldest high IQ society in the world. 

Mensa (Spanish): Stupid.

*A Brow, Unfurrowed

[That night . . . ] Mum’s face had drastically begun to change. This woman who started out a gorgeous model (often mistaken for actress Farrah Fawcett), a David Bowie impersonator, then famed paranormal investigator, lived her last years with a face hardened by the guilt she held within and affected by the substances she used to try and forget it. She’d gone full circle.

“Look. Her face has no wrinkles at all, it’s totally smooth,” my younger sister Kelli said. I agreed, although I didn’t particularly want to as I was reminded of the only detail Mum had revealed to me of my grandmother’s death the day she had passed many years before. I hadn’t seen that brow un-furrowed since I was five.

We decided to tell her these details in case she could hear us. We spoke aloud to her the entire night. Sometimes I’d look up above me so that if her soul was hovering over us, as I’d heard from countless accounts of near death experiences, she could see my face and could know I loved her and that I really was smart and paid attention to what folks said about the afterlife (a last-ditch effort at impressing the unimpressionable).

“See Mum, see. I do love you.”

Excerpt from chapter one | wild horses |Everything’s Hunky Dory: A Memoir

*Are You There "God"? It's Me, "Weirdo".

I had met the famed “God” once, in a roundabout sort of way, when I was about six years old. Behind our apartment complex on Juniper Street, and about fifty yards from the enclosure in which all the children in the neighborhood would study a colorful assortment of porno magazines, was a quiet medical building, which contained within it a circular courtyard with a tree in the center and wooden benches that circled the tree. It was a hidden sanctuary, one of the first to be called my secret place. Vibrant flowers surrounded the lonely, prosaic, brown and white building and I had picked the most beautiful one—its colors resembled a deep amber sunset. I set my gift on the bench and spoke to Him. 

“God, if you’we weally weal, this flowo is fo you. I pwomise I won’t tell anyone I saw you if you take this flowo fwom me. Wheweva you awe, just please appeaw. I just want to see what you look like because I need to see you in my head when I pway and wight now it’s weally hawd. I can’t see you and I don’t believe the dwawings of you; I think people awe just guessing what you look like but I weally need to know. Sometimes I see you as a big face with a white beawd and utho times you look like Jesus with long bwown haiw and it’s just too confusing. Please, please, please come and sit with me. Please.”

I waited and waited. Looked around, kicked leaves, broke up a couple of dirt clots with my hands, sat on the bench and swung my legs. 

Darn it. No God. 

Mum had a way of getting us kids in the house, and quick, with a construction worker’s type whistle, two fingers in her mouth and everyone in the neighborhood knew it was dinner time in Apartment 10. I heard the familiar call and was disappointed that despite my plea and generous gift, God never showed. 

“OK, I know you’we busy, God. I undostand. I’m gonna go eat dinno and I’ll come back and see if you’we hewe. If the flowo is gone, I’ll know you took it, but I’d weally watho see you. I pwomise I’ll nevo tell anyone, even my mum, unless, of couwse you want me to. I pwomise. I just weally need to see you. Please, please be hewe when I get back.” 

After the usual wholesome Hamburger Helper, iceberg lettuce salad, and slice of American cheese cut into four pieces and placed on the plate ever so artistically, I returned to the barren bench only to find that the beautiful flower was still there, only now limp, lifeless, and wilted. I was at first saddened by God’s apparent neglect, then was faced with the thought that I might have uncovered a paramount truth: God was, in fact, only a myth. But slightly hesitant to give up all hope entirely, I stared at it for several minutes, then suddenly recalled a conversation I had recently with Frank about what happens to people when they die. Then it came to me: God dutifully took the soul from the flower and left the body. 

Genius.

I gasped, and somewhat satisfied with God’s cryptic, brilliant response, I looked up into the sky, smiled at Him, then buried the limp remains under a bit of loose dirt in a nearby flowerbed, skipping home before dark.

Excerpt from chapter twenty-one | shambala | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

Glass Walls & Recurring Nightmares

Photo found at http://www.peta.org

Whilst innocently scrolling my Facebook newsfeed today, I came across a cute video of a tiny Pomeranian puppy howling in response to hearing a wolf. I'd seen it before but who could resist? I clicked on the link, and straight away an advertisement played featuring none other than Sir Paul McCartney. Normally, I'd hit "skip" the moment the option was available, but since a beloved Beatle was involved, I stayed glued. 

Sir Paul went on to recite one of his most famous quotes, "If slaughterhouses had glass walls, everyone would be a vegetarian." I was not appalled, as some might perhaps be, because I, in fact, ceased eating meat of all kinds in 2007. I stopped, not only for the health and well-being of the animals, but also for my own.

Dark, pixelated, undercover footage clips of slaughterhouses began to play. I'd seen some of this abhorrent behind-the-scenes footage before, so I just assumed hang on until the subject of this advertisement became clear. "Glass Walls" briefly appears on the screen. Oh, looks like this might be a documentary. I love documentaries. 

I'm intrigued.

He then began talking about chickens and turkeys. Mind you, I'd just come in from cleaning up after and feeding my own pet hens, Lucy and Ethel. Lucy and Ethel have incredible personalities, following me around like puppies, playing with my feet, and getting so excited when I give them special treats they make little happy sounds (I have no other words to describe the sounds other than 'happy'). They bring me joy. As I'm thinking about how much I love my little feathered girls, I see a man in a sweatshirt saying, "They're hard to kill sometimes" and he stomps on a turkey's head twice with his boot, then, when he see's it's still alive, violently grabs its head and begins to twist it around until it eventually snaps. I closed the tab immediately and began to sob for at least twenty minutes. 

At least for the turkey it was over.

My three dogs instantly surrounded me, my Great Dane Audrey lay her head in my lap and I held her head in my arms, tears dripping down onto her long neck. She was also once severely abused, but lived, and I rescued her. She's since rescued me, countless times.

Absolute devastation. It was just too, too much. 

And no, no. I'm not that girl that goes around sobbing when the sun comes up, when the moon is full, when my dog eats chicken poop. Again. (Well, maybe that last bit.) Hey Paul, I love you dearly (mean it!), but this image was frankly too much for me to handle physically, emotionally, and psychologically.  

And just a few hours earlier, also whilst innocently scrolling my Facebook Newsfeed, a graphic image appeared showing a German Shepherd Dog that had been tied to a motorcycle and dragged. Its bones were exposed. This was also far too much. I didn't ask for it, nor did I click on it—it was just there, at the top of my Newsfeed. That, and Sir Paul's message, though incredibly truthful and real, took me straight into sensitive meltdown mode, into the tunnel of darkness. 

Visual Thinking: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Visual thinking certainly isn't isolated to those on the autism spectrum, but I do attribute mine to my own AS diagnosis. Thinking in pictures can come in quite handy as I'm able to build and draw and visualize things clearly, as a gallery in my mind. I'm able to see the most minute of details, and see color quite vividly. How it works for me is this: in a conversation, you may reference a giraffe; I instantly see every giraffe I've ever encountered, similar to google images, until I 'land' on the one that matches the discussion (which is where my eyes are going when not briefly meeting yours). Every experience, photo, video, and film I've ever seen has been memorized and saved, forever, in my ever-loving cerebral hard drive. Forever. Startling images like that of the dog being dragged by the motorcycle or the turkey being brutally murdered become perseverant thought movies of sorts, playing on a loop. They never go away. It takes time and hard work to simply put them away in a folder on my brain's desktop. 

It can take weeks, or even months (honestly, in some cases, years) of filling my hard drive with new things by reading new books, seeing new images, having new experiences, just to have them put away for the moment . . . at least until another of these frightening, gut wrenching images comes along. Then the folder is once again opened and there they are, all on exhibit. Unfortunately, these "protected" files can never be deleted. If only Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind were a viable scenario . . .

Now, please don't get me wrong. I'm not one to hide from the truth. I want the truth out there. I'm, actually, rather obsessed with the truth. I passionately want people to know what goes on behind closed doors, in the dark, hidden behind pretty colors, cartoons, and false advertisements. Knowing creates freedom. Hello—I just confessed to sobbing for nearly twenty minutes over a video image. That's why I wrote my memoir. I don't hide the sexual abuse or the drug abuse or the humiliating personal moments. However, I realized today that sometimes the truth can be too much—for me. 

Am I just too sensitive?

As much as I'd like to be able to 'ban' those types of images and videos, Sir Paul is 100% right. He's right to expose the truth. We need to see it. He's narrated a documentary, titled Glass Walls (warning: this link takes you to the full 13 minute video), and I'm glad he did. We should know what we're voting for with our dollars, what we are putting in our bodies, what we are supporting by our actions or inaction. I applaud his efforts.

Now what?

I think, personally, I should stay away from Facebook for a bit. Maybe I'll just remove serial posters of the sort from my feed altogether. I'm curious to hear what others think about these types of images. Yay or nay? Perhaps there are solutions, suggestions, or supportive camaraderie out in the world for sensitive truth lovers, such as myself (and you?).

*Free To Be Me

The place where answers are often found.

The next day, I was completely done with the church I had spent my late teens and twenties in. I contacted the church leaders, and with reasons and scriptures to back those reasons, I told them I was leaving. [ . . . ]

Upon entrance into reality, I felt like an alien visiting another planet, attempting to meet new people, date, and find things to do on the weekends. Guys wanted to make-out on a first date, people drank alcohol when meeting up together, and there was no common moral standard to live by or call one another to. Yikes.

I was then romantically pursued by an actor I had met in a Santa Monica health food store. I’d watched him on television and films, admiring him for years. Though he was older than I, and I was worried about what I was ‘supposed to do’ as an adult in a dating scenario, I agreed to go out with him, based on the fact that he was quite charming and funny, and a comedian. He must be trustworthy, I thought.

We dated for a few months, enjoyed each other’s company, watched hours of Liberace footage, wrote jokes, and learned a lot from one another. Until one fine day when a friend brought over a gossip magazine showing Mr. Charming kissing another woman on a beach in Malibu. A world-renowned groupie.

So, this is what the real world looks like?

Great.

That was the end of that.

It didn’t take long before I retreated and fell right back into my naturally introverted ways. I began studying Tibetan Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism. I read books by Deepak Chopra, Chögyam Trungpa, Pema Chödrön, Eckhart Tolle, Swami Vivekananda, and Krishnamurti. I began studying the Bhagavad Gita, Tao te Ching, and Tibetan Book of the Dead. My brain was spinning with new knowledge and possibilities, yet leaving me with no sense of direction but in.

Most of my time then was spent alone, on a mountaintop, walking along the beach, driving up and down Topanga Canyon smelling the wild sage and listening to Tom Petty, Paul McCartney, or Bob Dylan, and sitting up at my old park bench in Brentwood with a hot tea in one hand, watching the sun set over the Westside of Los Angeles, feeling rather lonely, yet tentatively free to be me, whoever that may be.

Excerpt from chapter twenty-five | the seeker | Everything’sHunky Dory: A Memoir

Stuck In Parallel Play

Little me, reading at three.

So, how about ingesting a nice, healthy dose of “You seem to be stuck in parallel play,” from your therapist on a Thursday?

In late 2009, I was working on the film The Last Airbender in the Philadelphia area. My office happened to be at the director’s rustic, sprawling farm, about a forty-five minute drive from the home I rented in the historic neighborhood of Chestnut Hill. I loved the commute for the most part, driving past green pastures and incredibly ancient looking stone buildings (an unfamiliar site for a California native) but mostly for the celebrated occasions I’d have to tune into WHYY/NPR and listen to Terry Gross and her ever impressive interviews on the show, Fresh Air.

One of said celebrated interviews changed my life.

Terry interviewed the Pulitzer Prize winning Tim Page in 2009 on the topic of his memoir titled Parallel Play: Growing Up With Undiagnosed Asperger’s. (The subtitle was later dropped as the author felt, according to the newer paperback edition’s revised introduction, “ . . . it seemed to suggest that “Parallel Play” was a sort of guidebook or “owner’s manual” for people with autism, something better found elsewhere.)

I tuned in just when Page began reading a quote from David Mamet’s book, Bambi vs. Godzilla:

“I think it is not impossible that Asperger’s syndrome helped make the movies.

The symptoms of this developmental disorder include early precocity, a great ability to maintain masses of information, a lack of ability to mix with groups in age-appropriate ways, ignorance of or indifference to social norms, high intelligence and difficulty with transitions, married to a preternatural ability to concentrate on the minutiae of the task at hand.”

Had I not been on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I’d have pulled over just to sit hard with that information to allow it time to fully process. As floored as I was, I somehow managed to comprehend that particular excuse, however valid, would not be acceptable nor considered “cute” by State Troopers. So I continued on.

Was Mamet describing me? I’d felt my entire life that no one understood me, yet, in this excerpt from Mamet’s book and the too-brief twenty-minute interview with Page, I finally felt somewhere out there someone understood me.

I arrived home, entered the front door, opened my laptop and before letting my dogs out to do their biologically customary duties, ordered his book along with the fastest, most pricey shipping option available. I wanted, or rather, needed his book yesterday.

 And a year later, I received my very own, personalized gold plated Asperger’s syndrome diagnosis.

When reading Tim Page’s memoir, I absolutely fell in love with his quirky anecdotes of growing up in Connecticut in the ‘60s, memorizing portions of the World Book Encyclopedia (apparently a pastime we both shared), and tales of LSD gone wrong. I also partook in my usual habit of extracting all relevant data and storing it in an organized fashion, securely, in my cerebral hard drive. Somehow I completely missed dissecting its title, Parallel Play.

This past Thursday, after taking a two-month hiatus from seeing my therapist, I went in with a plan. I wanted some solutions, some answers. I wanted to get to the bottom of my social deficiencies, if any could be gotten to the bottom of, that is. The fidgeting, the unpleasantness of direct eye contact, the face blindness, the almost complete inability to trust fellow humans, the desperate need for ample solitude, the nervousness and anxiety. Are they all autism related, or could they perhaps also be the results of my, at times, rather horrendous upbringing?

“It sounds like you’re stuck in parallel play,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, after a moment of slow motion memory montage.

She began to explain that young toddlers, starting at about the age of twenty-four to twenty-nine months, engage in what is known as “parallel play” or “parallel activity”, a form of play in which each child engages in an independent activity that is similar to but not influenced by or shared with the others. They eventually, round about potty training time, begin to face other children and engage in the more advanced associative and cooperative stages of play.

So, not quite collaborating on how they, along with their peers, plan to reform their future education system, but perhaps mastering the art and science of speedy jigsaw puzzle assembly.

What could have happened to cause this affect, besides the sprinkling of autism I’d received? We explored that question.

Between the ages of two and three I had, among many other moderately stressful events, lost my father, gained a new one, moved house three times, gained a brother, then lost my parents to my brother who'd become the next big thing. I agreed, he was pretty darned awesome. I couldn’t keep away from the pudgy little troll. But I was on my own.  Parental guidance had ceased to be.

Bingo.

Since this revealing discovery occurred, I’ve spent the last few days sifting through a box of old photos of my toddler years, searching for clues. I am mostly shown either alone or playing alongside others, but not quite engaging. Especially the rare times when there were large groups, such as swim class. It is obvious in the photos the little girl in the pink bikini is in her own little world. She wants to learn how not to drown, not how to engage with rambunctiously loud mini-people. I'm either shown staring off into space or looking to the photographer to rescue me from this hell, and pronto.

When swimming with others, I recall merely wanting to splash about on my own pretending to be a dolphin or mermaid (and sometimes suddenly freak myself out, convincing myself the dark shadow was indeed none other than Jaws). I hated the loud screams of the others, “Marco!” “Polo!” They’d splash me, getting an unpleasant twenty-five gallons of highly chlorinated water up my nose and in my eyes without my consent.

The rambunctious mini-people were always huddled together, likely engaging in higher, more age-appropriate stages of play than me, such as pointing and making fun of others, comparing and contrasting swimsuits, and showing off their pee-pees to one another. Activities quite similar to that of some adults I know today.

In the photos where I was a bit older I was reminded that when not alone drawing, reading, or attempting to lay on the floor like a dog, the others I did engage with tended to be younger friends or family members I would instruct.  My friend Julie, who I’d met when I was four, was younger than I, yet just as logical and precocious. If I wasn’t teaching her the latest dance moves I’d learned from watching others in school, we were in fact working alongside each other creating. She was an exception. Sort of.

Tonight, in an attempt to shed some more light on this newfound wisdom,  I listed some of the activities I could remember actually enjoying with others as a child:

·      Swinging on swings on the playground

·      Visiting the zoo (though with adults)

·      Coloring/drawing

·      Video games

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit—bleh.)           

·      Making up my own games and directing others

·      Investigating

I realize all of these activities became overwhelming to me if I shared them with more than one other child. My reaction to said overwhelm would be to shut down, become mute, hold my hands/arms in a strange uncomfortable looking manner, and try to fade into the background as quickly as possible. Basically, if an invisibility cloak had been an option, I would have taken it.

I then listed some of the activities I actually enjoy with others as an adult:

·      Dining in restaurants (preferable in a corner or near a window for ample people watching opportunities)

·      Reading books

·      Working on separate projects, side by side (art, writing, gardening, fixing/building things)

·      Classic Car shows

·      House painting

·      Disneyland (Except for the waiting in line bit-bleh. Some things never change.)

·      Visiting the zoo (Yes, its true.)

·      Taking scenic drives

·      Traveling by airplane

·      Traveling by train

·      Exploring new places

·      Watching movies

·      Hiking

All, from childhood to adulthood, seem to potentially be parallel play type activities. And all of them I also enjoy doing alone.

Standing side-by-side with another, viewing something from our respective occupied portions of the earth, is non-threatening. We are both free to judge the strange partially striped zebra/giraffe/alien-like Okapi at the zoo, or revere the perfectly polished engine of the 1966 Chevy Chevelle at the summer car show. But what to do when viewing and experiencing aren’t on the agenda?

I am forever kicking myself for leaving the only place I ever truly felt at home—Malibu, California. For a little over four years I rented an incredibly quaint, modest guesthouse (and when I say quaint and modest, I mean 400 square feet of absolute charming, simple, converted garage with terracotta floors, studio heaven). I’ve never stopped reminiscing about how incredibly at peace I felt there, just me and my Great Dane Audrey, happy as clams in a place as tiny as a clam shell. For the first time in my life I was proud of my home, and found myself relaxed enough to be a bit more open to having somewhat of a social life. Was it the view of the ocean? The friendly neighbors? The simplicity?

My husband and I began dating when I lived in my Malibu sanctuary and things were perfect with us. All fun and gobbly googly goop. And now, since this revealing observation from my brilliant therapist on Thursday, I’m able to connect the dots and see how with the way that place was set up was never threatening for a parallel player such as myself: one wall all windows facing the water, two deck chairs facing the water, sofa facing the window facing the water, no where else to go but those two seating arrangements. I never felt overwhelmed by human contact, by relationship, by emotion. I was safe to be me, an individual. I could listen to him talk and stare out toward the ocean. And when you’re at the ocean, this staring behavior is absolutely acceptable. It’s expected. At my current home where there is no ocean but rather a house across the street, I can’t very well stare out the window. I might be arrested. If I turn my eyes toward my bookshelf, my only other option, this behavior is unacceptable to other humans, including my hubby.

I was yanked from my little teepee of love when I accepted the job on the Shyamalan film in Philly. And there my soon to be hubby and I sat, facing one another in Chestnut Hill, and the vetting of therapists was inevitable. 

“How did things become so hard?” we’d ask.

I realize now that sitting down and facing another for extended lengths of time somehow causes the brain to go bonkers, the ecstasy of enjoyment to end, and looping thoughts of “God, I can’t wait to be alone and back to my routine,” begin.

A good friend of mine I am most fond of is someone I worked with and was lucky enough to share an office with on a film in 2005-2006. It was the perfect set-up for parallel activity. She did her job, I did mine, and we could joke and laugh, but never forced our way into each other’s space. Even now that we aren’t working together I find we, within about a half hour of an in-person visit, end up on our respective laptops or iPhones doing separate things, close in proximity and still together. Others might find this incredibly bizarre. It works for me. I assume this may be the factor that brings gamers together, artists, mechanics, scientists perhaps. It’s why the majority of my friends are my friends—we’ve worked together before. Without the parallel activity supporting environment found at work, I believe I’d have an incredibly hard time finding and making new friends. It would be impossible. And now, without an office to report to, I found myself with a plan in my therapist's office on Thursday.  

I wonder if the brain with its incredible plasticity will be able, with much work, to move forward in the stages of play or activity for a very young thirty-eight year old woman. Do I want to progress? How many other adult parallel players are out there in the world? Am I indeed stuck or an I merely slightly autistic? How many of my self-proclaimed introverted friends are simply stuck in parallel play as well? Do I reach out to others who, like me, would be happy to ride up the coast on a train, only independently viewing the scenery, knitting, reading, or napping? More importantly, will my hubby be happy to spend his life side-by-side with me, enjoying life in a parallel manner?

The million dollar question is: Do I force upon myself an attempt at changing the wiring of my brain or will this simply be a time of kind self-realization in which I can choose to further embrace ‘what is’ and see where it takes me?

We’ll see. At least I know where to begin.