Autism for me as a worker

Autism for me as a worker

I haven’t written for some time as life has had many challenges thrown my way over the past few months. I haven’t written simply because the natural creative spark hasn’t been there; creativity isn’t something you can force: it’s either there or it’s not. When the tap has frozen over, you can either get stressed about it, or you can just make peace with it in the knowledge that, sooner or later, the ice will melt and the water will flow again. Water is a life force, water always finds a way to flow again. Water works on its own time, it ebbs and flows, it slowly erodes the most steadfast of walls and buildings. It will eventually find a way to seep through, somehow. Thus, creativity comes and goes, like the tide lapping the shore. Today the tap is gently turning clockwise, I feel.

I have written about my experiences of autism before, both as a child and later as a teacher. Two quite specific categories. But I wasn’t always a teacher per se: I didn’t become a teacher until I was in my late 20s down in Australia. For over 12 years before that, I worked various jobs in hospitality. I started working full time when I was 17. I had worked part time before that and, honestly speaking, hadn’t enjoyed it much at all… I had dropped out of college, couldn’t be bothered anymore with education. Education had been a nightmare for me, I found it so hard to simply listen and learn, I found it overwhelming. Looking back, I can understand full well now why I struggled so much with education and human interaction on the whole, I was autistic but I didn’t know it, nor did anyone else for that matter. I was just another annoying, disruptive child that needed to ‘concentrate more’ and ‘muck about less’. I left the education system under a bit of a cloud really. I couldn’t wait to get away, in truth. I sleepwalked into a full-time job in a small restaurant in my hometown. A pretty little riverside restaurant in a sleepy, drunken town in the southeast of England. I worked as a waiter for most of it. I loved the money at the end of the week, especially as it was almost always paid in cash (a rarity nowadays). Imagine a 17-year-old lad from a poor, working class background suddenly being given the best part of 2-300 quid in cash on a Friday afternoon. It doesn’t matter what your currency is, it was a lot of money for someone who had grown up getting hand-me-down clothes from older cousins that had outgrown them! The money, though, didn’t cover up the reality of my situation: I was now thrust into the real world, I had to interact with people, be presentable, and be professional at all times. Because I was unaware of my autism and therefore my ‘shortcomings’, I found some of the simplest tasks a real challenge at times. There were regular flashbacks to the conversations with my dad and being sent to find something in the shed when I was a little boy. What made it worse was that I was almost legally a man, so I was expected to be capable, reliable.

One example that I remember in particular was when I was working at this restaurant, the head waiter at the time was kind of ‘training me up’, and so he gave me a few jobs to do both before and after service. One of them was cleaning this rubbish old coffee machine that we had. So he stood there, listed the 4-5 steps of the cleaning process to me, then went on his way. Now, a ‘normal’ person would probably consider that to be clear enough, and then expect the job to be done. However, all I remember is the panic and fear within me as I realised that I had zoned out, so then I tried to remember all the of the bits he said (it was a lost cause!), then I panicked and suffered from what some might call ‘a mind-blank moment’ or a’ rabbit-in-front-of-the-headlights moment’. I withered under the intense pressure, but I knew I had to try something… so I played around with this machine, but to no avail. I was consumed by this panic, this fear. What was I going to say to him? How could I cover this up? What excuse could I find? It was a Sunday morning at 10am, so I couldn’t ‘blame it’ on customers, or having to clear tables as we didn’t open until midday! It’s funny even writing this now, as I think back, I remember all too well the feelings as if they were yesterday. Quite often I would panic, but I would also become defensive, something I have seen a lot in some of my brothers, and now with one of my stepchildren, too. Anyway, this head waiter inevitably came back after having popped to the shops, and quickly saw that I hadn’t done the job as he had instructed me to do. As it happens, he cut me some slack seeing as I was the new boy, and he kindly decided to take a different approach. What he did instead this time was he wrote the instructions down on a bit of paper. Problem solved, right? Hmmm, perhaps not. Whilst he was writing these instructions down and actively trying to make sure I could understand him, I found myself nodding, agreeing, yet completely daydreaming in my head, thinking about the most random things!! This still happens to me now, although I’m obviously much more aware of it than I was back then! Next thing I know, he’s handed me the scrap of paper with the instructions, and then he’s walked off. I started reading the instructions, only then to be totally distracted by his poor spelling and shoddy grammar! I was then daydreaming about why certain words are spelt a certain way in English, wondering why it’s such a non-phonetic language compared to its European counterparts, and so on. Truly, the last sentence or two could completely sum up my interactions with people, or should I put it more aptly: my struggles to interact with people throughout my 33+ years on this earth. These kinds of whimsical tales of yesteryear are ten a penny! It happened so often that it became ‘normal’ for me.

Imagine, for 12 years I struggled through life and work without really being conscious of who or what I was! I kept trying to apply this normal template to myself, only to come up short every time. It’s like trying to force a cylinder through a square-shaped hole over and over again, only to be consistently frustrated, disappointed, angry…only to be left wondering ‘what’s wrong with me?’. It was a heavy burden to carry, one which I carry a lot more easily now in the knowledge that I am wired differently and that doesn’t mean that there’s necessarily something wrong with me - there’s something different with me. That subtle change in language could work wonders, I feel, in terms of perspective.

Things were even more challenging when I started travelling abroad. I remember my first experience of travelling in Europe (when we Brits say ‘Europe’, we mean continental Europe)… I had passed an interview to work for a French company called Club Med, which, if you don’t know it, is a kind of holiday company that organises ski seasons at resorts, or mountain activities, and so on. I had been given specific instructions on the various connections I needed to catch in order to reach this remote village in the French Alps. I remember it all too well: I had to get to London, first of all, fly from London City Airport to Frankfurt in Germany, specifically. Then I had to catch a connecting flight from Frankfurt to Lyon in France, then catch a coach from Lyon bus station to go to a small town called Landry, then from Landry I had to catch another coach to some remote hamlet in the middle of nowhere, then there I had to meet my taxi waiting for me sometime around 10pm to finally take me to the village in Peisey-Vallandry. Sounds straightforward enough, right? Wrong!

Things went awry when my flight from Frankfurt to Lyon was delayed, meaning that the rest of my connections would then be affected. To give you some context, if this happened to me now, I would take it all in my stride, I wouldn’t worry or panic, but this has come from travelling around the globe and, more specifically, from experience, from trial and error. Back then in 2011 as I was running through Lyon airport, speaking my best school French and not understanding a word, it was a different matter altogether. I did eventually make my destination, albeit about 3-4 hours later than planned. It would have been a lot for any 21-year-old lad to deal with on his first travels, never mind someone on the autism spectrum with serious concentration issues to cope with! What made things even worse was that I had been given a specific list of clothes and attire to bring with me to the village in order to participate in the differently themed soirées; of course, I didn’t read my email properly, and so I turned up with clothes for only 3-4 days, forgot my shaver, as well as a whole host of other things. Seriously, when I look back at my first season with Club Med, I have to laugh at how absurdly chaotic it was, else I would likely cry. To make things even more interesting, I was now being given specific instructions in French on a daily basis!

Most of the time, I couldn’t understand what was going on around me, I think I must’ve lived on pure adrenaline for weeks and weeks until I finally found my feet. I didn’t even get paid for the first 2 months because I couldn’t work out how to provide my company with my IBAN/BIC number from my U.K.-based bank. In reality, it’s incredibly easy to do, I’ve now done it a dozen times or more, but back then I had never been shown how to do such things. You see, that’s the thing with people on the spectrum: they almost always need to be taught how to do something, because they won’t naturally pick these things up like ‘normal’ people do. So, yeah, I spent the first few months in this alien environment in the middle of nowhere without so much as 5 euros to my name!

Anyway, I’d like to make it clear that I don’t regret any of this experience, nor any other ones that I’ve had. They were the epitome of a ‘baptism of fire’, of the ‘sink or swim’ philosophy. Somehow I managed to swim, I managed to keep my head above the surface and not drown in my own pool of self-wallowing, self-loathing pity. Now, here, 12 or so years later, it seems all like a blur, a hazy dream that I dreamt a long time ago. I only remember it to be true because I can quickly tap into that feeling of pure anxiety, the sense of being truly lost. Now, here, 12 or so years later, I understand myself a lot better. That doesn’t mean to say that I no longer struggle with human interaction or basic messages at times, because I still do. But I’m lucky for many reasons: firstly, because it’s so open and talked about now within my close family, I no longer feel that sense of embarrassment or shame; rather, we that are on the spectrum have platform to talk about it in a freer way. Also, I’m incredibly fortunate because my wonderful partner is incredibly open minded and understanding of it. She doesn’t judge me or make me feel foolish, she tries her utmost to understand it, even if it’s often a challenge for her to do so. I count my blessings as often as I remember to do so.

Also, as I’ve got older and as I’ve progressed in my teaching career, I have encountered so many people that have borne the hallmarks of ‘being on the spectrum’. Now, I’m no expert on this topic, I can only talk of my own personal experiences, but I recognise many different aspects and qualities of autism in others. A case of self perception through others, like the metaphorical mirror being held up to my face. Some would run from their own reflection, but I choose not to. I think it’s healthy and fundamentally important for one to admit one’s difficulties, perceived failures, and struggles. If we don’t talk about these things, they won’t just go away and take care of themselves. There needs to be room for healthy, non-judgemental discussion with people that are brave enough to talk about who and what they are. I am no longer embarrassed by being autistic, I am proud of it. I see it as a gift. This is why working with children has been so important for me, I’ve had many opportunities to put my arm around the struggling kid, to take them under my wing, rather than be impatient with them and shame them in front of their peers. What has that ever achieved, anyway?! I now have stepchildren as well as another child on the way. I have been blessed. One of the children is without doubt on the spectrum in some way. It’s kind of funny, isn’t it? The irony isn’t lost on me. The fact that I now have to deal with, manage, try to nurture, and guide a child with learning difficulties on a daily basis is indeed ironic. I see it as a blessing; in fact, I see it as part of my role, part of my path towards love, compassion, and understanding, away from judgement, derision, and impatience. My unborn child may also be on the spectrum in some way, something I have pondered about here and there when I finally get 5 minutes to myself. If she were on the spectrum, she would be a very lucky little lady as she would have understanding and compassionate parents who both have had firsthand experience of autism, both directly and indirectly - the very thing that I didn’t have nearly 34 years ago. How many other children have there been like me across the countless generations? Too many to remember, sadly. But what we can do, as humans, is we can learn from our past, both recent and distant, we can break the cycle of repetition by taking a different approach.

Here’s the outgoing question: should we be giving our children on the spectrum enough medication to keep them ‘calm’ and easier to parent, or could and should we perhaps change our perspectives on what autism is? Remove the stigma, wipe away the awkwardness and embarrassment, sit down and try to empathise rather than judge.

What do you think?