Introduction
In 2013, my beloved Manchester City signed Fernandinho from the champions of Ukraine, Shakhtar Donetsk. Given the percentage of Mancunians that support Manchester City, never mind the whole of these rugged and precipitous isles, I doubt this moment in history proved to be epochal for anybody.
Anybody but me.
For I long held suspicions that I was, for want of a better phrase, "on the spectrum". My secondary school social life was fairly turbulent and I really struggled through college (though I concede, the laser-white fringe probably didn't help). My limited social and emotional intelligence affected my ability to recognise who were my actual friends, or whether or not my then-girlfriend really liked me. But when Fernandinho signed for City, my mental consitution collapsed. I became obsessed with his name. Its origin, its etymology and its pronunciation. Fer-nan-dee-knee-oh. My mind would reverberate his interesting moniker around, up and down and out of my body. I'd slip his name into almost any conversation, just to feel some tangibility to this confusing world as my porous and permeable body shook out his name from within.
I'd lose entire nights thinking of his name. Fer-nan-dee-knee-oh. Each syllable heralding a new hour as the sky darkened and my mind expanded, contracted and folded in on itself before dawn came and I'd drag myself, always on the 7:52am 383 bus to Marple, to college. Each resignatory coffee I made throughout each sleepless night would come in regular intervals. The spoon would crash against the side of the mug to each syllable. Fer. Nan. Dee. Knee. Oh.
My weary and tired physical self had no energy to match the ferocity with which my mental self would throw his name around the following days. Indeed, since 2013 this has happened with more and more aggression, more and more regularity with an increasingly diverse range of names, ideas, expressions, facts and behaviours. The details of which this blog is going to chart, share and give a bit of light ribbing. Hopefully you join me on this intrusive but thoroughly cathartic experience. I want you to expunge any lessons from this blog you can, reflect on your personal circumstances and hopefully live a less worrisome, anxious life, and potentially even feel less alone. This applies for those who: a) are relatives, friends and loved ones of those on the spectrum and b) those who aren't on the spectrum at all.
My formal diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder came in January 2020, at the age of 23. My dad accompanied me, and I was fine. I rang my mum; she became slightly upset. I was fine. The following days I reflected on how lucky I was to receieve this diagnosis, giving a sense of order and regulation to my disordered and vulnerable mind. I thought about how long I'd felt different, or incomplete, and hoped that my journey had ended. Then, upon advice, I checked out the National Autistic Society's homepage. They had a short, informative video on what autism actually is. One minute into this, and as the soft music played under the narator's deep, soothing voice, I found tears streaming down my face. I concluded that I must be upset, the gravity of my diagnosis smashing through the dam, the protective barrier, I erected around myself. I didn't feel any acute sense of sadness, or grief, or a sense of lost time.
Yet, I continued to cry and finally accepted that I was different. If I could explain the mechanics of what went on watching that video, I would be able to 'resolve' the mental chaos that is part and parcel of autism. There'd be no reason for any of us to suffer. I realised I didn't owe it to myself to explain, or potentially even understand. But I've come to realise that I now need to give people an insight into what living with autism feels like, and what it physically and psychologically looks like.
I had major reservations about doing something like this. Not only does it require some self-reflection, it takes some ego. It seems like something I would laugh at for being white-girl and middle class. A trumped up sense of self-importance, giving someone a false sense of self-righteousness. Yet, I need to let people know how I function. Or lack, thereof, as a few of my friends will undoubtedly tell you. I proudly claim the regal name of Flake Sheppard. I usually hate drinking, unless its sunny outside or I've had a recent shot of happy juice. I find typical social spaces too confining and I hate roads and corners that are too obtuse. Are they really corners? Actually, though? I want people to realise that the depth of autism is far greater than the remarks we are all-too fimiliar with: "... but you don't look autistic?" When you're watching City vs. West Ham at the Etihad, a fairly typical social space, to decide the Premier League title and you're thinking about the differences in Fernandinho's Brazil and Portugal, in terms of personal name etymology, it feels deeper than anybody could know.
Which is, incidentally, how I chose the name for this absurd, ridiculous blog. As any friend of mine will let you know, Bruce Springsteen is not just the Boss, he's Big Daddy. His 1975 hit Jungleland is about the death of the American dream; the infliction of hope smashed to stupid pieces by the weight of existence. I'm, philosphically speaking, a pessimist and the sheer indifference of the universe outweighs any sense that we can matter. Similarly, the sheer spectre of the outside world overrides any feeling that today, my autism will not define me. I step into the cold, wintery air of Stockport, Greater Manchester, and the wind annoyingly buffets my lanyard until I reach a point where I recognise that if a benevolent God exists, he would not inflict this upon my poor, innocent soul.
So JungleLand it is.
Extremely trivial, it sounds. I know. And I rationally know nothing will happen. But the overriding sense of injustice and irritation carries over into the day. Productivity drops, my mood drops and in combination with pre-existing social deficiencies, it can be extremely damaging to morale and everyday relationships.
I will, of course, cover all of this and much more over the lifespan of this blog. I hope you've found the introduction fairly palatable and not too boring. Please consider staying tuned for some keen observations about walking, the Russian Empire and continental bearings in the near future.
If that doesn't hook you, nothing will...
Anybody but me.
For I long held suspicions that I was, for want of a better phrase, "on the spectrum". My secondary school social life was fairly turbulent and I really struggled through college (though I concede, the laser-white fringe probably didn't help). My limited social and emotional intelligence affected my ability to recognise who were my actual friends, or whether or not my then-girlfriend really liked me. But when Fernandinho signed for City, my mental consitution collapsed. I became obsessed with his name. Its origin, its etymology and its pronunciation. Fer-nan-dee-knee-oh. My mind would reverberate his interesting moniker around, up and down and out of my body. I'd slip his name into almost any conversation, just to feel some tangibility to this confusing world as my porous and permeable body shook out his name from within.
I'd lose entire nights thinking of his name. Fer-nan-dee-knee-oh. Each syllable heralding a new hour as the sky darkened and my mind expanded, contracted and folded in on itself before dawn came and I'd drag myself, always on the 7:52am 383 bus to Marple, to college. Each resignatory coffee I made throughout each sleepless night would come in regular intervals. The spoon would crash against the side of the mug to each syllable. Fer. Nan. Dee. Knee. Oh.
My weary and tired physical self had no energy to match the ferocity with which my mental self would throw his name around the following days. Indeed, since 2013 this has happened with more and more aggression, more and more regularity with an increasingly diverse range of names, ideas, expressions, facts and behaviours. The details of which this blog is going to chart, share and give a bit of light ribbing. Hopefully you join me on this intrusive but thoroughly cathartic experience. I want you to expunge any lessons from this blog you can, reflect on your personal circumstances and hopefully live a less worrisome, anxious life, and potentially even feel less alone. This applies for those who: a) are relatives, friends and loved ones of those on the spectrum and b) those who aren't on the spectrum at all.
My formal diagnosis of autism spectrum disorder came in January 2020, at the age of 23. My dad accompanied me, and I was fine. I rang my mum; she became slightly upset. I was fine. The following days I reflected on how lucky I was to receieve this diagnosis, giving a sense of order and regulation to my disordered and vulnerable mind. I thought about how long I'd felt different, or incomplete, and hoped that my journey had ended. Then, upon advice, I checked out the National Autistic Society's homepage. They had a short, informative video on what autism actually is. One minute into this, and as the soft music played under the narator's deep, soothing voice, I found tears streaming down my face. I concluded that I must be upset, the gravity of my diagnosis smashing through the dam, the protective barrier, I erected around myself. I didn't feel any acute sense of sadness, or grief, or a sense of lost time.
Yet, I continued to cry and finally accepted that I was different. If I could explain the mechanics of what went on watching that video, I would be able to 'resolve' the mental chaos that is part and parcel of autism. There'd be no reason for any of us to suffer. I realised I didn't owe it to myself to explain, or potentially even understand. But I've come to realise that I now need to give people an insight into what living with autism feels like, and what it physically and psychologically looks like.
I had major reservations about doing something like this. Not only does it require some self-reflection, it takes some ego. It seems like something I would laugh at for being white-girl and middle class. A trumped up sense of self-importance, giving someone a false sense of self-righteousness. Yet, I need to let people know how I function. Or lack, thereof, as a few of my friends will undoubtedly tell you. I proudly claim the regal name of Flake Sheppard. I usually hate drinking, unless its sunny outside or I've had a recent shot of happy juice. I find typical social spaces too confining and I hate roads and corners that are too obtuse. Are they really corners? Actually, though? I want people to realise that the depth of autism is far greater than the remarks we are all-too fimiliar with: "... but you don't look autistic?" When you're watching City vs. West Ham at the Etihad, a fairly typical social space, to decide the Premier League title and you're thinking about the differences in Fernandinho's Brazil and Portugal, in terms of personal name etymology, it feels deeper than anybody could know.
Which is, incidentally, how I chose the name for this absurd, ridiculous blog. As any friend of mine will let you know, Bruce Springsteen is not just the Boss, he's Big Daddy. His 1975 hit Jungleland is about the death of the American dream; the infliction of hope smashed to stupid pieces by the weight of existence. I'm, philosphically speaking, a pessimist and the sheer indifference of the universe outweighs any sense that we can matter. Similarly, the sheer spectre of the outside world overrides any feeling that today, my autism will not define me. I step into the cold, wintery air of Stockport, Greater Manchester, and the wind annoyingly buffets my lanyard until I reach a point where I recognise that if a benevolent God exists, he would not inflict this upon my poor, innocent soul.
So JungleLand it is.
Extremely trivial, it sounds. I know. And I rationally know nothing will happen. But the overriding sense of injustice and irritation carries over into the day. Productivity drops, my mood drops and in combination with pre-existing social deficiencies, it can be extremely damaging to morale and everyday relationships.
I will, of course, cover all of this and much more over the lifespan of this blog. I hope you've found the introduction fairly palatable and not too boring. Please consider staying tuned for some keen observations about walking, the Russian Empire and continental bearings in the near future.
If that doesn't hook you, nothing will...
Comments
Post a Comment