*Steve Moutain

“Let’s play a game! Awe you weddy? Who’s undo my bed?” I yelled out as I jumped up and down on my “big-girl bed”, flailing my blue Beatrix Potter themed bed sheets, causing tiny cyclones amongst the coloring books and assorted messiness sprawled on the floor.

“Nobody.” Julie answers. Such a Julie answer, always years ahead of herself.

“Awe, come on, just twy an’ guess.”

Julie slowly knelt down, hesitantly peeked under my bed and replied with an expressionless freckled face, “A shoe.”

I’m now aggravated beyond belief. She’s not my friend anymore.  I’ll never talk to her again, ever, if she doesn’t try to guess. “Guess a name. Anybody’s name.”

“Your mom?”

“Nooooooooo! It’s Steve Moutain! Steve Moutain is undo my bed!”

I, of course, was referring to my future husband, at least in my dream world of a brain, who’s poster hung over the head of my bed. In his dapper white suit, black tie and handkerchief, and unforgettable green and yellow rubber trout slightly poking its head out of the lapel, he was cupping his hands together, mouth open, as if genuinely exclaiming, “There you are! I’m so happy to see you!” In fact, that is exactly what I imagined him to be saying every time I entered my octagonal shaped bedroom and looked at him hanging there on the wall, so comforting, so loyal, so safe.

“Who’s Steve Mountain?”

It wasn’t until second grade when I insisted on properly pronouncing the word “fart” that I’d begin to pronounce my “r’s” like a real-live human being from planet earth. I couldn’t fault her for mistaking “Martin” for “Mountain” (although, I believed the choice should have been quite obvious).

“It’s not Steve Mountain. It’s Steve Moutain. He’s behind me on the posto! I’m a Wiiiiild and Cwayzay Guy!” My earliest celebrity impersonation, performed unrestrained to no avail.

Julie, apparently, had never seen Saturday Night Live, which was not an optional viewing choice in our home. It was a requirement. I don’t know what kind of standards they were operating on in her home, but I certainly was not impressed. Steve had hosted SNL an unprecedented seven times by the time I turned five, just enough times for an obsessive child to become, well, pretty obsessed with him. He’d also had a cameo in Jim Henson’s The Muppet Movie (another obsession of mine), playing an insolent waiter. I sometimes wonder if I attached to Steve as I would have my real father, who disappeared when I was three.

This was my first time allowing anyone into my little “Steve Moutain” secret world, although thankfully, Julie was such a logical thinker, even at three, it seemed my strange choice in sleeping partner passed right over her sophisticated little head, never to be mentioned again. I blushed uncontrollably - a characteristic I, to this very day, have never gained control of. 

Being five years old, and having the idea that a thirty-seven year old man with white hair and a dashing sense of style and humor was under my bed is probably something I should discuss with my therapist, as most would find it a tad on the creepy side. (I can’t say I would have minded it in my older single days, although I can’t imagine him feeling all that comfortable hiding under there day after day at his age – he has things to do, after all. The man’s a genius.) What was he doing under my bed? Well, hiding, I suppose, until it was time to go to sleep. Then he would crawl up onto the bed, give me a warm squeeze, then fall asleep next to me, making “the dark” not such a scary locale after all. Steve Martin was my comforting, invisible friend.

Either we’re all born with a “type” or my pal Mr. Martin set a precedent for me that I’d take with me in to my adulthood. He had those eyes, the ones that hold a great intensity, as if they are so interested in what is before them that if not for the physiological build of the eyelids, they might jump out and explore, maybe even gobble you up. Jerry Lewis had those eyes, George Harrison, Ravi Shankar, Jim Carrey, Peter Sellers, and the boy I had a seven-year crush on through junior high and high school (although unlike the others his seemed to dim with age, possibly due to being deemed “Most Likely To Succeed” in the sixth grade yearbook – that’s a rough one to uphold). You can almost read their brains. Creators. It’s as if an entire library lies right beneath the surface of them and I want to dive in through the pupil, make myself comfortable and meditate on each and every word.  The sorrow, the joys, the crushing embarrassments, I want it all, and I can remember I was drawn to those eyes even as a little girl.

Julie had a yellow gingham blanket she affectionately named “Meemers”. Julie refused to sleep without Meemers. Meemers couldn’t play the banjo, tell jokes, nor juggle kittens (at least not with any prowess). Meemers was an acceptable security item for a three-year-old girl. My choice, an accomplished actor/musician/comedian . . . not so much. Though in secret, I was convinced I was the coolest kid on the block and I didn’t need that stupid nightlight anyway, thank you very much. 

  

Excerpt from chapter five | dear mr. fantasy | Everything's Hunky Dory: A Memoir

The Emphatical Electrical Ear Extravaganza!

Along with my Asperger’s diagnosis came the awareness of my sensory issues. Although others consider them “issues”, I like to refer to them as “super-powers”. :0)

Since my sense of hearing is what is mostly affected at this moment, I will focus on that.

OK, so music played by others is often too loud for my taste. In fact, at times, depending on the type of music, it can actually hurt my ears. But maybe that is because as I type, I can hear the electrical current running through my MacBook power cord. At the same time I can hear crickets outside, an owl in the tree across the road, my dog breathing as she sleeps, another dog barking in the distance (probably 2 blocks away), my own heart beat, two tiny gnats flying around the room (one just flew past my right ear and became very loud . . . until I smashed it - oopsie), the refrigerator recharging 2 rooms away, and the slight buzzing of the light bulbs in this room (living room) and the adjoining one. All at the same time. 

Morris Arboretum,Philadelphia

getting a real ear-full.

I had no idea other's auditory functioning was not as “super-powered” as mine until I began doing research on what this whole “Asperger’s thing” is. When I’m alone, it does indeed feel like a super-power of sorts. I can hear a car from a long ways away which helps when I’m out for a walk to get to the opposite side of the road. I can hear if a raccoon or squirrel is in the yard – a warning not to let my dogs out. I can hear the slightest sound when I’m walking so as not to step on a tiny frog or lizard (which there are a lot of where I live!). I can hear a spider crawling on the wall or bug crawling on the floor. I can tell by the slightest “off” sound that there is something wrong with my car and can easily locate where in the engine the sound is coming from.

Where this super-ninja ability (OK, OK . . . I just took it too far) becomes an issue is when others are around. I sometimes have difficulty hearing a person talk when there are a lot of other sounds happening at once and have to ask (sometimes several times, embarrassingly) for the person to repeat what he/she just said. This can be quite annoying for someone and because I am aware of that I sometimes won’t ask and miss the opportunity to really hear that person (and feel REALLY stupid when I’m caught in the act of faking it).

FADE IN:

INT RESTAURANT - MORNING

FRIEND

Blah, blah, blah blah blah. And then I found blaaah, blah.

Aspie Girl

Oh! That’s funny.

FRIEND

What’s funny? The Herpes or the Hepatitis C?

Aspie Girl

Oh . . . no . . . I meant . . .

Aspie Girl, red-facedly dying a slow, painful death of shame, attempts to redeem herself with terribly un-witty, improvised retort.

THE END

I can become frustrated when I hear something alarming, such as a slight sound in the garage (possibly a wild creature) and when I am with another human, they tend to step loudly, whisper, and touch things around them as they move, skewing my ability to precisely pinpoint the sound. My dogs on the other hand, will know exactly what I am doing and will actually tip toe and “slink” to hear it alongside me. When I am in the car alone, I enjoy listening to NPR or my favorite music as loud as I want, but dislike having anything playing in the car when another person is with me because then, if they speak, it is difficult for me to focus and really hear them. I dislike working on my computer when it becomes hot and the fan goes on because then I feel it is taking away from hearing the sounds I want to hear, such as the birds outside or my own thoughts. Distracting.

This “issue” has caused me to avoid people. There are certain people who are just loud—in their movements, in their voice, the way they eat—even their cars and pets are loud! You know the type—they yell "hello" from across the street and continue in the same volume when three feet away. I have a neighbor who every time he takes his classic car out, he spins it out in the drive way, screeching so loud I feel I need to duck for cover. Why?!!! What’s the point?! I’ve seen parents in stores allowing their kids to scream and yell and stomp and throw and they just push the cart by as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. In electronic stores, they will have every television on, blaring, with different channels AND someone is testing a car audio system not too far from there AND there is “ambient” music playing in the background. Why?!

Which is why I’ve made a vow to be kind to myself. I can’t control the noise around me but I can certainly control the noise inside by utilizing that most amazing, brilliant invention - earplugs. What a gift!!!

All in all, natural sounds are fantastic – the wings of tiny hummingbirds flapping at 53 beats per second, crickets discussing the latest gossip in the insect world, the powerful ocean waves hitting the shore, the slight rustling of leaves with a passing breeze, trickling water finding pathways in which to run - which is why I choose carefully where I live and spend my time. I will never be able to completely contain the bothersome and sometimes piercing sounds, but I can be kind to me by being prepared. I may not always hear what someone is saying, but I can be kind to them and me by just being honest.  

I’m not sure where my hearing abilities, super-powers if you will, could be used to save the world, but I know I’m armed and ready to fire! (Where’s that red cape? I know it’s in here somewhere . . .)

Oh ya, and by the way, that time you farted and thought I couldn't hear it because you covered it up so well with the clearing of your throat . . . you'd better guess again.

My definition of Asperger’s today: I can hear clearly now the rain is gone. ;0)

Figuring It All Out—What brought about obtaining a diagnosis.

Hello folks. It’s been a while. Since I last wrote I’ve been married, started school for Holistic Animal Massage, was let go from a job for “lack of work,” learned how to take apart and fix a lawnmower and much, much more. Each of these items are, in my mind, “blog worthy,” however, I will save those topics for a later date . . . once I’m able to get my head wrapped around them.

It seems I’ve been approached with the following question from several people lately: “What made you look into a diagnosis at the age of 35?” It’s tough to answer that without going into a signature Aspie dialogue, but that’s what’s so great about blogging! I can write, you can read (or not), no awkward moments!

I always knew as a little girl that I didn’t quite fit in with others my age. I was never one to be attracted to groups or cliques, group sports, Chinese Jump Rope, or playing with baby dolls (I admired dollhouses, but really was only interested in the technical aspects, such as how they were able to so precisely scale a house down (the beginning of my fascination with movie set miniatures).

When not imitating a dog, I preferred to play on the swings where I could be alone and think—figure out the Universe as it were. There I would conjure up stories in my head about how I could be a hero—save the world, fight for the underdog. I would silently converse with myself about the facts I had read the night before in the Encyclopedia Britannica because I had learned the hard way that my classmates had no interest in the fact that Oxnard (the town I grew up in) was named after the Oxnard brothers who grew sugar beets or that the Potato Bug is actually a Jerusalem Cricket even though they don’t originate in Jerusalem, nor are they related to crickets.

I enjoyed playing in my head over and over again the images of Steve Martin (have I mentioned I was in madly in love with him?) doing his “King Tut” and “Wild and Crazy Guy” skits. After school I hung out with my grandfather, a computer engineer—to me the smartest man alive—or younger kids such as my brother and cousins, as I only felt comfortable in the student or teacher role, never the peer (wow, just realized that still applies . . . I’ve got some work to do!). I didn’t know anything about Autism back then—I just knew I was a little different. I believed I must have a special purpose, I must be linked in with some higher power . . . and maybe, just maybe, magic.

Dec. 1976. 1 1/2 years old, no doubt pondering

the aerodynamics of Santa's 8 tiny reindeer.

As I grew older things didn’t change much. I began at age seventeen locking myself in my bedroom after school so that I could read the entire bible and completely ‘figure it all out’. If that book was ‘the truth’, it was a must read. Seeing that the King James was the only version we somehow managed to have in the house, it wasn’t easy to translate (as intended). At age eighteen I completely involved myself in a church and became a celibate monk until hitting my late 20s. While others my age were dating, socializing with co-workers and learning to be “grown-ups” I was spending hours in prayer, fasting, and studying. It was never a challenge. I loved the discipline of it, the rules were easy for me to abide by and I felt I finally had a chance to be a “hero”. Until I stopped.

I attempted to “socialize” with others my age once I left the religious life behind. I went to a dance club with friends. A guy grabbed my arse. I instinctively punched him hard in the stomach, then realized how illogical it was for me to be at such a place. I wasn’t looking to know any of these people! So I left, never to return. I went to a bar with a friend. I took three sips of a Corona, then began to psychoanalyze everyone in the room (which is one reason I don't drink today): 

“He walks hunched over because he was criticized by his mother all of his life. He’s speaking to that older woman because he’s looking for a woman to be the mother he never had.”

“She is still trying to get her daddy’s attention she never received as a child so dresses provocatively,showing as much skin as she can get away with even though for California standards, it’s considered freezing outside.”

Terrible! My friend wanted to flirt with the guys. I thought one was attractive—in fact, a Television actor I’d had a silly crush on for years. He approached me. I began a conversation about my recent journey down the path of Tibetan Buddhism, studying Taoism and my most recent book purchase, Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi. That was the end of that.  I had no clue as to why I was so awkward. I would watch my friend act strangely —what I suppose you’d call “flirting”—and didn’t have the slightest idea on how to do it, nor did I feel inclined to. I figured if you want to get to know someone, you should be direct and just tell em’. Stop the game playing. There’s got to be somebody out there who doesn’t want to drink, get high on illegal substances, and intimately touch strangers. Is there a human in Los Angeles that knows anything about humanity, psychology, real spirituality, oneness with the Universe?! Conversations became increasingly difficult with women and men alike.

"I don’t need to buy shoes, I already have 2 pair. Let’s watch a documentary about blood diamonds instead!"

“No, I’d rather not go dirt-bike riding. Why would anyone want to take a boisterous, oily contraption such as that into the beauty of nature and scare all of the wildlife away? Makes no sense!”

I gave up on socializing with twenty-somethings and took a stab at stand-up comedy, something I had dreamed about since I was four years old, staring at the Steve Martin poster on my bedroom wall, watching "Saturday Night Live" and Eddie Murphy's "Delirious." Boy, this was good times. I’d write, get on stage, do my thing, then slip into a quiet corner in the back of the Comedy Store, just observing. All us comics were freaks so I finally sort of fit in somewhere, with some of the guys at least . . . until I did enough self-work to realize I no longer needed applause to be happy. Eight years later, on to the next special interest.

I began working in the feature film industry.  What I learned here was that there were two kinds of people on set:

a) those that spend their per diem drinking, getting high on illegal substances and intimately touching strangers

b) other freaky geeks like myself

I have met some of the smartest people working in the film industry. Some geniuses that had invented special cameras, some that could build anything in a matter of minutes, creativity at it’s best. Amazing. On some shows I thrived socially, mainly because I was able to do what I do best - learn. On some, I flopped. A few years prior, a friend suspected one of our crewmembers had something called “Asperger’s.” Wow. All I could think of was how funny “ass burgers” sounded. Terribly amusing, the name appealed to my earthy, childish sense of humor. She then wrote out by hand what Asperger’s was, at least did her best at listing the diagnostic criteria and what not, and though I laughed like a child at the name, I was humbled by the familiarity. It was as if she was writing about me! Since that time I researched and read books and asked questions and speculated. It was a situation that occurred during the last movie I worked on that led me to finally look into a diagnosis.

I discovered that eating lunch alone on this show really worked for me as I loved to read and just revive myself by getting away from the chaos for a bit and breathing. A few of the girls in the production office had asked several times if I would join them for lunch. One day I finally gave in and decided it would be a “good thing” to get to know these women. They were sweet enough to ask, why not? It won’t kill me to put down Autobiography of a Yogi for one lunch hour! We all sat down outside on a warm Philadelphia spring day. They each began sharing updates on their favorite reality TV shows – who cheated who, who slept with who, who was pissed at who . . . and on and on. I had no idea what they were referring to, as the only shows I would watch on Television (if I watched at all) were 'The Dog Whisperer', 'NOVA', and 'The Daily Show with Jon Stewart'. A few days before I had begun writing a research paper I was doing for myself on the affects of alcoholism on indigenous people, so when they asked me what I had been up to, I began to share with them my amazement on how entire countries have been taken over with alcohol being the force and weapon.  

"Aboriginals in Australia, Maoris In New Zealand, Native Americans, the Native Alaskans . . ."

silence hit the table, you could hear a pin drop. 

Until one of the girls looked at another and said, 

“Are we getting drinks tonight? Where do you want to go?” 

Then I realized, "You know, I just can’t seem to hold a 'normal' conversation it seems." So I found a psychologist in the Philadelphia area who began observing me, asking me questions and giving me tests. I wrapped the show, returned to California and was referred to an amazing doctor in Santa Monica who specializes in Autism. I then received my official diagnosis which helped me to get a grasp on the “whys” of my social quirks.

Though in my blogs I discuss the differences between myself and Neurotypicals (those not on the autism spectrum) I want to share that these stories are all a part of my journey toward understanding self, how my brain works and ultimately seeing that though my brain is wired differently than some, we are the same. I am finding more “sameness” each day in others and myself as I study more about my overactive amygdala and asking questions as I go along. All in all, acceptance is the goal—acceptance of differences, because I believe love is a child of acceptance as well as the wellspring of life. 

My definition of Asperger’s for today: A gift of leaving no stone unturned - ever. ;0)

I'm OK, You're OK

I haven’t written for this blog in quite some time and I miss this outlet, the interaction, the going inside and finding little nuggets of interest others may or may not relate to. I questioned myself as to why I haven’t written in so long. The answer was simple – having “special interests” is a part of identifying with Asperger’s Syndrome. Putting this blog together and learning about having Asperger’s and all it entails had become a special interest.

Within three months I had purchased and read every AS book I could get my hands on, including Aspergirls and Asperger’s on the Job by Rudy Simone (my favorites!!), Pretending to be Normal by Liane Holliday Willey, Look Me in the Eye by John Elder Robison, Asperger’s and Girls and The Other Half of Asperger’s Syndrome by Tony Atwood, Thinking in Pictures by Temple Grandin, Parallel Play by Tim Page and more. I couldn’t seem to get enough of “figuring it all out”. (And now I believe the majority of people I know are on the Autism Spectrum. . . that’s a future blog in and of itself.)

I found so much peace in writing and sharing what I had learned, yet at a point just couldn’t drag myself back to my computer to enjoy that passion. Amazing how it happens so quickly (I wonder if other Aspies feel the same). I'm like a 'player', moving on to 'the next' at the drop of a hat. I realize I've hated myself for it.

I’m learning that what I once thought were limitations aren’t in fact ‘limitations’, but just aspects of me. Not the ‘me’ I’ve always wanted to be. Not the ‘me’ I have mimicked in the past in order to fit in. Not the ‘me’ I have believed others wanted me to be. Not the ‘me’ that feels the need to be accepted by everyone. Just ‘me’, now, and being OK. I can socialize sometimes and sometimes not. I can socialize then need a few days of ‘down time’ and that’s OK. I can wear a hat in bright places and that’s OK. I can wear earplugs when places are loud and that’s OK. I can take breaks throughout the day to clear my mind and that’s OK. I can wear my favorite pair of jeans and Uggs everyday and that’s OK. I can not look like a supermodel and that’s OK. I can write and enjoy my blog sometimes and sometimes not and that is OK. There is peace in that and that’s OK. 

My definition of Asperger's for today: Cramming for no test. :0)

Asperger's Syndrome: It's an order

Oxford American Dictionary definition of “disorder”

disorder |disˈôrdər|

noun

a state of confusion : tiresome days of mess and disorder.

• the disruption of peaceful and law-abiding behavior

• Medicine a disruption of normal physical or mental functions; a disease or abnormal condition : eating disorders | an improved understanding of mental disorder.

Word has it that Asperger’s is an Autism Spectrum disorder.  I’m not so sure I believe that 100 percent. Now Autism Spectrum, I get, as there is a vast spectrum of characteristics within the diagnosis of Autism. But disorder?

I’ve put together a list of words I’ve heard used to describe those with Asperger’s, and those traits are as follows:

March to the beat of their own drum. Unique. Genius. Odd. Focused. Different. Innovative. Logical. Organized. Knowledgeable. Loyal. Practical. Honest. Literal. Utilitarian. Visual. Hyperlexic. Dedicated. Detail oriented. Direct. Zealous. Orderly.

Here is a list of opposites for those words:

Following the herd. Common. Dunce. Conventional. Unfocused. Similar. Unoriginal. Illogical. Disorganized. Ignorant. Disloyal. Impractical. Dishonest. False. Decorated. Non-visual. Dyslexic. Indifferent. Careless. Indirect. Unenthusiastic. Disorderly.

Just where exactly does the “disorder” lie?

Do You Like Me? Yes or No (Please Check One)

“Twirl my hair? That’s absurd.”

“EYE CONTACT?! Forget about it.”

In my teen years I read all the 17 Magazine articles on How to Let Him Know He’s The One, Flirting: 101, and How to Catch His Eye - to no avail. No matter how hard I’d try to make that initial eye contact, smile, or toss my head back when laughing – it was an epic failure every time.

The day after I had put my toys away and ceased barking like a dog at school (see previous blog, Unleash the Hounds), my life changed. Like canines, dinosaurs, The USS Kitty Hawk naval aircraft carrier, and any other special interests I had conjured up in my young life, a new special interest appeared and in human form. He was tall, thin with dark hair and dark eyes. He was in my Homeroom class. His name was Bobby.

I’m learning that “special interests” are an integral part of the Aspergian nature. Some might define them as obsessions, some hobbies, but whatever the definition is for others, I see them as a means for expertise and mastery. I can only speak for myself, and my pattern is as follows:

• Find something that strikes my interest.
• Research online all I can find on the subject (Wikipedia is a good place to start).
• Buy or borrow every book I can find on the subject.
• Do nothing but read those books (anything or anyone else gets in the way, unless they too want to discuss the subject).
• Bring this subject up in just about every conversation I have with others (which others love . . . not).
• Visit locations where I am able to gather more data.
• Find something else that strikes my interest.
• Repeat the cycle.

I found an insightful blog which goes into detail on the special interests of those with Asperger’s, and you can find it here: Life with Asperger's: The Dreaded Special Interest

“Where was he born?” “What is his birth date?” “What is his astrological sign?” “Are our signs compatible?” “What is his nationality?” “What type of music does he like?” “What are his hobbies?” “Where does he live?”

The questions multiplied. There were so many questions that I began to list them on paper, hoping one day I’d have the courage to ask. Day after day I would walk into class and see him sitting at his desk, three rows up and to my right. I would turn a deep red, feel heat pour over my body, and was sure my forehead displayed in blinking neon the word “crush”. I thought I could hide under my long, blond bangs, doodle on my “Pee Chee” folder, or pretend to read and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t notice.

One day he started laughing, and took his school book up to our teacher, Ms. Juarez, pointing at something in the book.  They then both started giggling. He then pointed to me and said “this picture looks just like you!” Kids began jumping out of their chairs to look as I sat frozen, mute, and blushing.  I felt like I was going to melt into a puddle of lava. I was wishing I WOULD melt into a puddle of lava and just be done with it all. I’d rather face a horrible, grueling death than to look this boy in the eyes, much less bat my eyelashes at him like the articles said. The bell rang, and I ran my sweaty little armpits out of there.

At some point I ended up with Bobby’s phone number. I’m sure a friend gave it to me, for other girls seemed to have no problem speaking to him in person. So I would call. And we’d talk. And I’d ask my questions. And I’d see him at school - and would avoid him like the plague, behaving as if he didn’t exist. I did this for years. Now that I am aware of the characteristics of Asperger’s, I believe I was perfectly satisfied knowing the information of Bobby, not Bobby the human, not Bobby the soul, not Bobby - the clueless teenaged skater boy in physical form. I had become an expert . . . , which eventually gave me the space to discover another special interest: theology.

I never did learn to flirt and still don’t understand the concept. I’ve learned that if you are interested in someone, just say it – no games. In my adult life, I’ve only had two serious relationships, but my method seems successful as I am now engaged to be married to the most amazing human being I’ve ever met, and maintain a great friendship with my previous beau.

I did learn, as I grew older, that seeking a person’s “data” is not nearly as satisfying as actually having a relationship with them. Though it may be difficult at times, it sure is comforting to know someone is in your corner and on your team.

Years later: While visiting London in 2003, out of the blue I received an email from Bobby. He had tracked me down through the high school reunion website. Though I admit the eye contact was minimal, together as friends, we attended our ten-year high school reunion. Isn’t life amazing? Not bad for a timid, Aspergian girl. ;0)