Give in to the stim.

I’ve had a lifelong relationship with stimming. And for so much of my life, I’ve tried to stop.

Why did I do that to myself?

I’m such a stimmy autistic. I’m more noticeably stimmy than many autistics I know – to the extent that other autistics comment on just how stimmy I am. I think now about how much I stim, and how obviously I stim, and I wonder at the fact I went undiagnosed for so long.

For quite literally as long as I can remember, I’ve used my teeth and jaws as a drum kit. At various points in my life, it would occur to me that this was something others didn’t do, and that, thus, it was not “normal”. But it was a discreet enough stim that did no harm to either myself or others, and so it continued.

As a preschooler, I had an old, ragged velvet curtain that lived on my bed, the hem of which was delicious, soothing, soft delight to rub against my upper lip.

As an older child, I enjoyed “crash-landing” at bedtime. I’d take a run-up, jump forward, and sharply twist round to land with a crash, on my back, on my bed. There was a glorious release in doing so. Rather than working me up into a frenzy, the combination of twirling, twisting vestibularity and proprioceptive sinking contact of body-with-bed seemed to relieve me, ground me and relax me, albeit only for a few minutes or so.

I’ve never truly been able to lie still in bed. I find it something close to torture to lie still. One of my favourite in-bed stims is to repeatedly flex one of my feet at the ankle, rubbing the foot against the sheet beneath me. Sometimes I have both feet going, and I concoct rhythmic combinations, one foot accompanying the other but each rubbing out its own distinct motif; at other times a simple back-and-forth motion will suffice.

My sensory sensitivity means that in moving my feet when they’re covered by bedlinen, I’m hyper-aware of sweat, snags, abrasions, contours and anomalies. They agitate and irritate and prevent me from powering down. I must always keep my toenails neatly trimmed. My feet must always be freshly washed before I slip under the covers.

Sometimes in bed, I rock or wiggle my hips, or contract and release my quadriceps, feeling my knee joints tense and relax as I do so. But mostly it’s the feet.

For so many years I thought something was wrong with me. I seemed unable to relax in bed without moving my feet. From so many sleep-overs, residential school trips, Girl Guide camps, and holidays with cousins, I’d observed that most other people didn’t need constantly to move their feet as they lay in bed at night. I had a strong sense that this wasn’t “normal”.

(There was also, of course, that whole thing of everyone else around me going to sleep way before I did. On some sleepovers, I literally lay awake all night. But that’s an aside.)

I tried to stop, but couldn’t.

I carried on moving my feet at night all through my teens and 20s. And I kept on trying to stop. Because it wasn’t “normal”. But trying not to move my feet in bed was torture.

It wasn’t just bedtime. I needed to stim every waking minute of the day. In classrooms, I’d swing my legs under the desk. I’d compulsively tap my foot or drum my fingers while waiting for a bus. Once I’d started learning to play the trumpet, I’d emulate the fingering in mid-air, tapping the middle three fingers of my right hand against my thumb in mimic of the notes played on the real instrument, evoking the tunes I could hear in my mind.

Around the age of 10, I discovered split ends in my hair. This ushered in two decades of calloused finger tips and tension headaches as I squinted at the hair in front of me, closely inspecting the ends, and then picking, peeling and snapping, thumbnail digging into index or middle finger as I pulled the ends of my hair to shreds.

Split-end-picking was one of my distinguishing traits as a teenager. Another bit of ammunition the other kids could use to taunt me. But focusing on the ends of my hair helped block out the rest of the world.

But it didn’t feel healthy. And neither did picking at the skin on my arms and legs, or clawing at my scalp. Neither did smacking myself in the head. And yet I did all these things.

I wanted to stop doing these things. But I just couldn’t.

Why was it that I felt such a desperate need to move all the time? Why did my body cry out, scream out, for this input?

During my teens and university years, I moshed at gigs, bounced around at indie discos, and gyrated at clubs. I flailed and jerked about on stage in bands. In my mid to late 20s, I exercised to extremes; hours and hours of running, spin classes and free weights every week. At these times, my body got the feedback it needed in vast quantities, and I didn’t feel quite so twitchy as I do now, and as I did as a child. I still stimmed, or course, but with less frenzy, fever or freneticism.

But at times when I was less able to be active, and times of anxiety, anger or sadness, the really damaging stims returned. And nothing could ever soothe my body or soul to my own satisfaction.

I picked my skin. Peeled the ends of my fingernails. Pulled at split ends. Scratched at my scalp. In meetings at work, I worried about what others thought of me as I did so. But I couldn’t stop.

In all those years, I never realised there was a name for what I’d been doing.

When my mum first suggested to my husband and me that our daughter was autistic, I started to read. At that time I was seeing things from the “parent-of-autistic-child” perspective. I started to learn about the need to self-soothe. I gradually learned about fidget toys. And gradually, as I began to discover the writings and videos of autistic adults, I realised that a lot of this applied not just to my daughter, but to me. I realised what it was that I had been doing all my life.

There was a name. And these things I’d been doing all my life, that had this name, were a recognised part of a culture. A culture that I increasingly found myself gravitating towards, associating with.

For a time, pre- and post-diagnosis, I kept my stims discreet. Tangles or worry stones in my pocket. Tactile jewellery subtly fiddled with. I realised there were things I could do, things I could use, which were far less damaging than split end picking or scalp clawing.

And when I was with my children, I could move as they did. I could dance, sway, and spin. I still do.

But there were – and still are – times when this wasn’t enough. As I walked to work, I yearned to windmill my arms, skip, hop and twirl. I wished that dancing could be my default method of commute. I longed to clap my hands, and sing at the top of my lungs. But I was a grownup. A professional. What if someone saw me?

But my body needs movement, and I’m so damned tired of not giving it what it needs.

I need to stim as much as I need to breathe.

It’s part of my neuroqueering to stim more obviously these days. I do make dance-like movements with my arms when I walk sometimes. I do sing, and whistle, and clap. I do clamber onto walls, balancing for a time before leaping off. I reserve most of these activities for quieter, less busy spaces – attracting attention to oneself is risky. But I’ll still let my hands be a little freer with their movements, even in public.

At work, I worry less now about what others are thinking as I wiggle my fingers next to my face as an aid to the thinking process. I sway, twirl and dance by the photocopier as I wait for my documents to print. I tap my hands on my legs as I walk along. I flap them as I wait for the kettle to boil. It’s not a flap of frustration, but a relieving movement that in that moment is necessary.

Of course there are times when I tone it down. We’re not in a world where autism is that well accepted that I can freely be myself at all times. And at times, I suffer for this. Any autistic who’s in employment would do.

But outside of meetings, teaching sessions and polite conversations, I let my guard down more often than I once did. I stim more obviously these days in part because I’m now better attuned to what stims really help me. But in another part because I actually want it to be noticed. I’m still a competent, capable human being; I just happen to be one who needs to stim.

I wish stimming were more normalised. After all, everyone does it. It’s part of emotional regulation – why else does an otherwise calm person pace a hospital corridor waiting for news of a sick loved one? Why else does a student click their pen or bite their nails as they agonise over a tricky maths problem or essay question? Why else does a parent drum their fingers on the table-top as they anxiously wait on hold to have a difficult phone conversation with the headteacher?

It’s just that many of us autistics do more of it. We do it bigger. We need to because of the ways we experience our environment, and our emotions.

I wish I’d understood that when I was younger, instead of torturing myself by trying to stop.


[Featured image: ‘Wave’, by Rob Witcher. Image description: black and white photograph of a hand waving in front of a stroboscope, against a black background.]

Connecting

We’re nearly at the mid-point in January 2018, and I’m only just now writing my first post of the year. I didn’t even do an end-of-year retrospective to see out 2017.

Initially, I was reluctant to do so because the final few months felt so negative. My anxiety and stress levels during Autumn and early Winter of 2017, brought on by matters entirely outside of my control that are still yet to be resolved, had put an unpleasant slant on the entire year. Besides, a lot of people I know had a rough time that year. 2017 wasn’t something I wanted to celebrate.

And then curiosity got the better of me, and I watched the video Facebook had “made” for me to summarise my year. And what did it feature? My beautiful, happy children. Plus a handful of very positive posts about things I’d done to increase autism understanding and acceptance over the course of the year. My Times Higher Education article.  Professionally, I kicked ass.  In other ways, I merely got by, but that in itself was something to celebrate.

Of course, we often self-police our own social media profiles, personae and presence, airbrushing, sugar-coating and self-censoring to project the image we want the world to see. But still, I reflected back, and realised that, on a personal level, a lot of good stuff happened to me in 2017.

I still didn’t have time to do my big retrospective, and anyway, I’m often scornful of such things. They seem so contrived, and the point at which our calendar flips over is so arbitrarily set. But one of the biggest highlights for me about last year, and something I want to truly build upon and expand in this, was connecting.

Connecting with other people like me.

I spend so much of my time trying to “spot the autistic”. And I often forget that most people I’m surrounded by are not autistic. I still often assume, because it is my reality, that everyone experiences the world the way I do. It’s only recently that I realised just how different my reality is from that of the majority, and I’m still coming to terms with this. Maybe I never will come to terms with it entirely.

I never really forget that I’m autistic – why would I want to? It’s who I am – but in those moments when I’m jolted from a reverie and suddenly remember how much of a minority we are, I feel momentarily crestfallen. How can it be that there are so few people like me? How can I have spent so much of my life alone?

Not literally alone. The “atypical” autistic socialises, networks, interacts. She has close friends and family. She has social circles. She gets things wrong a lot, intellectualises every interaction, and internally she may struggle profoundly, but still she has many connections, and many of them are meaningful.

And it isn’t that I don’t still love my non-autistic friends and family. There is more than one way to find connections with others; more than one thing I can potentially have in common with another individual or group.

There is a lot of love in my world.

But we still need to connect with people who see the world as we do. I need this, at least.

From way before my formal identification (I’m moving away from “diagnosis” as a preferred term, folks), I was connecting with other autistics online. This was valuable. Insightful. And hugely helpful.

In 2017, I began to connect physically with other autistic people.

Not all autistics like actual physical contact – I mean, in this case, touch. I’m one of those who sometimes does in some circumstances at least, but I’m selective, and also responsive. With autists far more than the rest of the population, I can usually gauge pretty quickly whether a hug is going to work or not. Sometimes, the urge to hug is instantaneous, generous, and entirely mutual. And this is a wonderful thing. That deep pressure, that warmth. It’s beautiful.

But it isn’t necessary for meaningful connection.

The best thing about physically being around other autistics, is feeling able to be myself. Feeling able to be…autistic.

Imagine a world in which you are almost never allowed to sit, stand or move in a way that is natural to you. A world in which you are forever monitoring, checking, analysing and editing your behaviour in real-time. Forever conscious that the way you naturally want to behave – need to behave – in order to feel comfortable and well in your own mind and body, may not be acceptable to others, and thus may need modifying.

And this is all on top of potential difficulties with the processing of verbal and non-verbal language, and the need to cope with potential environmental distractions, information overload, or sensory overwhelm. It’s exhausting. This is the world of the “mildly” autistic.

When I’m with other autistic people, it isn’t like that. We understand each other, we accept each other, and we accommodate each other. I revel in being able to move, speak, and emote like an autistic person, and in seeing others do likewise, unchecked.

In the past year, I’ve met autistic people. In “real life”. I’ve met up with individuals. I went to a local PARC event in November 2017. And with another late-diagnosed female Aspie colleague, I’m in the process of setting up an informal peer support group for autistic staff at work – we’re currently a very small, select group and have met just once so far, but in time I hope this will grow.

In the meantime, the two of us who are organising the group also meet separately. We have coffee, or lunch, and we talk as friends.

It isn’t just autistic people, of course. There are other people with whom I can be myself, and these are predominantly other disabled people, and other people whose brains are wired somewhat differently from the default. My network of disabled and neurodivergent friends is growing, and whilst our challenges may vary, there is a mutual appreciation of the difficulties we each face, and recognition of each other’s intrinsic worth as people.

Somebody I know who is bipolar, and with whom I delivered a well-received conference workshop on neurodiversity back in September 2017, is one of very few people I’m comfortable having lengthy telephone conversations with.  We’re very different in the way we each see the world, but he accepts my weirdnesses, and I accept his. We celebrate these things. We check in with each other and support each other.

Alongside that gorgeous, proprioceptive loveliness, firm physical hugs release oxytocin. The “love hormone”. The deep pressure of physical contact, and this surge of love, is what made me love carrying my babies in slings, and makes me dread the time when my younger child is too big to sleep cuddled up on my chest.

But the surge of love and emotional well-being can come from many forms of connection.

Here’s to much more of it in 2018.


[Featured image: two people hugging, with one person facing towards the viewer. This person is light skinned with red hair and a purple top – their arms are around the shoulders of the person turned away from view, who is blonde haired, wearing a green top. The two people are surrounded by rainbow colours, radiating outwards.]

Why I “can’t possibly be Autistic”, Reason #3: I’m not THAT rigid, right?

Over a decade ago, when I was working as a low-level administrator in a university student support unit, I remember a student who was a regular and frequent visitor to our service. He came in virtually every day. He spoke in a staccato, “mechanical”-sounding voice. He always wore the same choice of clothing: blue outdoor coat; dark tracksuit bottoms; white polo shirt. In all the time he was studying at that university, I never remember him wearing anything different.

I was, and am, nothing like him, right?

My mum used to work with a boy who ate Chicken McNuggets every day for lunch. Always the same number of pieces, heated to the same exact temperature. The local McDonald’s staff knew him well, and understood what he wanted, and needed.

I was, and am, nothing like him, right?

Whatever I watched, heard, or read about autism, I couldn’t relate to. I was nothing like these men and boys.

As a child, I never had visual schedules. I enjoyed back then, as I do now, a wide variety of tastes, textures, and types of food. I didn’t wear the same thing everyday; nor did I want to. My days were not uniform. The same thing didn’t happen every day. Nowadays, I get easily bored of too much of the same.

People like me can’t be autistic, right? We’re not that rigid, right?

…right?

But the reality is far more complicated, more nuanced, than it first appears. 

I remember the time when my secondary school switched to a fortnightly rather than a weekly timetable. The fact that I had to remind myself which week I was on; the fact that I couldn’t neatly draw out my timetable in my planner without having to devise a “system” to neatly display both timetable variations – these things bothered me immensely. I could never quite escape the vague sense of unease about the inelegance of the arrangement.

Then there’s my extreme (internal. I keep it well hidden) perturbation whenever my regular fitness instructor isn’t working and someone else is covering the class. To the point where, at the moment, I’m not doing my favourite weekly Body Max session because I know the instructor is recovering from surgery. I’ll just do my own workouts until I spot her exercising in the gym between classes, and can find out for certain that she’s back in charge. 

And then there’s the fact that (and I’ve quote-unquoted my dad on this before) drawing was “the only time I was ever truly spontaneous”. Everything else in my life had to be rigorously planned. Prepared for. Structured.

That’s still the case today. It’s why I struggle with keeping momentum at work during university vacation time, and why I often experience sudden bouts of acute depression when I have too much time on my hands if I’m on holiday.

The routine isn’t there. There are too many individual, on-the-fly, ad hoc decisions to be made. There’s not enough structure, and so I struggle to keep the chaos of the world around me at bay.

There are countless other examples of my need for rigidity. It’s ingrained.

Right now, I’m going through a horrendously uncertain period at work. Nothing about me personally, but the details of which I’d rather not go into here. Partly because I, and those around me, don’t actually know anything. But it’s preventing us doing properly all the things we should be doing as part of our regular jobs. We’re hamstrung. Stymied. 

Not only is my anxiety heightened because of so much uncertainty, ambiguity and unpredictability; the regular structure of my daily and weekly work has been disturbed.

So I’ve imposed my own structure.

I’ve blocked out every day of every week with repeated, regular chunks of specific types or topics of activity. I’ve thought about what I work best on when, and organised a “timetable” accordingly. What I may be doing in each time-chunk may vary, but knowing, for example, that most Mondays and Fridays I won’t have any meetings, that I deal with anything to do with our Salesforce database on a Wednesday afternoon, and that Tuesday and Thursday mornings are my designated times for dealing with difficult email correspondence, certainly takes a load off my beleaguered mind.

My context-based Google task lists fit neatly with this structure, and I try and plan meetings to fit in too – recognising, of course, that sometimes I will need to switch things around. But even with the understanding that some flexibility is needed, I have, at the very least, a framework. Everything’s not quite so gapingly uncertain.

More recently, I’ve been having a go at bullet journalling. It’s early days, but so far I’m loving it, and this analogue, paper-based system integrates surprisingly well with my digital organisational tools, whilst also thankfully taking me away from so much screen time. I’m sure I’ll write more about it at some point…

A fellow autistic woman at work talked to me about how being organised is not a natural trait but a coping mechanism, and I’m certain this is true of me too. Many of us have to work really, really hard at organising our work, our lives, and our minds, simply to keep our heads above water and not drown in a sea of too-much-information.

But the initial effort of introducing some structure is something worth doing.

Amidst the chaos and uncertainty, a little rigidity can be lifesaving.


[Featured image shows a screenshot of the first result of a Google search for a definition of the word “rigid”]

Director’s Commentary

I talk to myself. An awful lot.

When I do this, I’m almost invariably verbalising my thinking about, and processing of, the thing I’m doing at that particular moment.

This isn’t the same as the inner monologue that runs incessantly over everything that I do; the one I hear at every waking moment, but which remains silent, inaudible, to others. This is outwardly-focused. Truly verbal. 

My husband calls it my “director’s commentary”.

Most of the people who know, love, or work with me find it irritating, distracting, or downright abhorrent. Of all the stims I indulge in, this one seems to be the one that most grates among other people.

Why do I do it?

Because there are so many other stimuli that are in danger of drawing my attention away from what I’m doing. So many noises. So many lights, flickering images, and movements on the periphery of my vision. So many people.

And because I’m afraid that because my working memory is so poor, I’ll forget even what I’m doing right now unless I verbalise it. I’m afraid my own thoughts will run away from what is directly in front of me.

By verbalising the exact thing I’m doing right right now, I can zone in on it, focus on it, and (at least make a decent stab at) block(ing) out all else. My own noise to cancel out the noise around me, but a systematic, deliberate noise geared towards focusing all the different component parts of my brain on the one task at hand.

It’s a source of pain and frustration to me that working in an open-plan office means I can’t freely use my director’s commentary every minute of my working day. I’m sure I’d be more productive if I could. Of course, when no-one else is in the office, I do incorporate it, temporarily, into my box of workplace productivity tools. But mostly, I must make do with noise-cancelling headphones playing very loud white noise. It’s not quite the same, but it gets me through.

It might seem strange, for someone who finds the processing and use of verbal language difficult, to do something so emphatically “verbal”. But I suspect it’s a different part of my brain taking charge here from those involved in direct communication with others. I do often wonder what’s actually going on in there – the distinct workings of my own brain are an increasing source of intrigue to me. I don’t know; I’m sure a psychologist or neuroscientist would be able to offer an explanation.

In the meantime,  I verbalise when I can. And at other times, sadly, I must struggle to remain quiet.

[Featured image credit: ‘Microphone‘ by Matthew Keefe (2008). Used according to terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic licence. Image depicts a close up photograph of a condenser microphone, the type often used in the vocal recordings or voiceovers.]

The same crap, on top of everything different

[Feature image description: close-up view of the trunk of a Weeping Willow tree, viewed from behind the metal railings of a bridge, diagonally leading away from the bottom left to the top right of the image. The tree is resplendent with masses of bright green leaves hanging downwards. Behind the tree and its branches, a calm river, with a grey stone wall on the opposite bank, is vaguely visible. Photo taken in the grounds of University College Cork.]


A couple of months ago, I was away presenting a session at a conference in the Republic of Ireland. I’m a very infrequent traveller, especially abroad, and so I was pretty pleased with how I got on with getting there. Okay, I allowed far too much time between taxi to the railway station and my train’s departure time, and far longer than necessary at the airport before my flight, because I get anxious. Air travel is an unfamiliar activity for me; I wasn’t sure what to expect, I hadn’t travelled from this particular airport before, and I wanted to allow for any unexpected incidents, occurrences, or disruptions to my itinerary. Getting anywhere “just in time” leaves me stressed, agitated, and liable to meltdown at the smallest trigger.

I had the luxury of a day to myself before the conference. Time alone is something I crave, and rarely get. I had a glorious afternoon walking extensively, visiting art galleries, exploring the streets, sampling the food. A lingering bath in my hotel room. Uninterrupted time to read a book. To say that this was refreshing and rejuvenating would be the biggest bloody understatement imaginable.

That evening, there was a pre-conference drinks reception.  Finger foods. Lots to drink. And my God, I networked like a pro. Like a boss, as goes the modern vernacular.

The next day was a full day of workshop sessions. The conference was deliberately “unplugged”, which meant no tech, no PowerPoint, no videos. Delegates had been asked to read papers in advance and be prepared to focus on discussion when in the sessions. The emphasis, therefore, was on listening, and on spoken interaction. I had one session to chair, and another to present. By the end of the day, of course, I was tired. My employers had only paid for me to attend one of the three days, but that in itself was pretty demanding.

Despite the intensity of those two days, I managed well. I enjoyed it. And I had a day off work once I got home to sleep, rest, and recuperate. But throughout it all, there was one thing that bothered me. That angered me.

And it had nothing to do with work, or autism.

It had nothing to do with poor wifi coverage, extra high sensory demands, or fellow presenters not adhering to the strict guidance about the format of the sessions. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, anxiety over social interactions with strangers, or the fact that, upon setting up for my own session, I realised I hadn’t brought some of my kit with me (don’t worry folks; it was nothing essential, and I coped well regardless).

No. It was none of those things.

You see, I have no full-length mirror at home. And so I often move around blissfully ignorant as to how my clothes fit my body, how “thin” or “fat” I happen to be looking on any given occasion, or whether what I’m wearing is flattering or otherwise.

From time to time I do glance at my reflection in shop windows, or the ground-to-ceiling glass panels of modern office blocks (pity any poor person sitting on the other side; but then, they’re probably used to it). And I’m quite particular about clothes and how they look on me.

But a full-length mirror is just one of those things we haven’t ever got round to buying.  The house my husband and I have lived in since late 2006 still resembles a tatty student dwelling. We’ve updated some rooms, but now that we have small children, and a distinct lack of spare funds or precious spare time, much of our home resides in a state of notable dishevelment. Our bedroom doubles as a storeroom, our toddler son is also still in with us a lot of the time, there are other bits of the house we need to work on before we get round to our so-called master bedroom, so buying a pristine new mirror isn’t exactly high on our priority list.

So occasionally I get caught out. Often it’s when I see myself in photos, captured unawares. But that evening, it was a mirror.

Before heading out to the conference drinks reception, I bathed, got dressed, did my hair and makeup, and all the usual “getting ready for an evening out”-type things. I looked in the full-length mirror of my hotel room, to check all was to my satisfaction.

And I looked again, aghast.

I had had no idea how fuzzily undefined my waist appeared in my chosen outfit; how much it merged with my hips; and how much my thighs merged onwards and upwards in the opposite direction. No idea how seemingly vast was the expanse of my (not actually that enormous) belly. No idea just how small and out-of-proportion my bust appeared in relation to everything else.

And to think – oh, silly me – that I’d been pootling about quite happily in this outfit on numerous occasions, enjoying the many textures, patterns and colours of the details on that tunic top, thinking I’d looked okay in it! What must have possessed me? How dare I?

And then I got angry.

Here I was.

A professional woman, here to deliver a workshop based on the highly acclaimed work of my team, its submission accepted on merit after being rigorously assessed by a judging panel. A woman with two university degrees, a postgraduate teaching qualification, and senior fellowship of a national professional body. A wife of a loving husband and mother of two wonderful children. A person with many friends. A writer of words which, on the basis of comments and messages I have received, have resonated with so many. Someone with wayward biomechanics, anatomical oddities and congenital joint abnormalities, and with limited time to exercise because of a full-time job and young children, who has somehow managed still to maintain a fairly decent level of fitness.

And on top of that, I’d achieved everything I had achieved despite years of confusion, torment, anxiety and depression, living in a word that wasn’t build according to my needs; twisting, bending, and contorting my very being to try and fit into a space that was an unnatural fit to me. 

And here I was, worried about my bloody appearance.

Like so many women, I’d spent a lifetime trying to do the same thing to my physical body that I had been doing for so long to my behaviour, my outward personality, and my responses to the world around me. And after all these years, after all that has happened to me – good or bad – I was still preoccupied with wanting my body to be something other than it was. A body with faults, yes. But a body that is mine, that has done so much, and that has been with me through everything.

Even after coming to terms with the life-changing news that I am who I am, that I’m autistic and that’s okay, I was still dealing with the same crap, on top of everything different.

Many autistic people do not care in the slightest bit about what others think of them. But to say that we are all this way is a gross generalisation. I am not one of these autistic people. This is one area where I cannot relate to so many of my neurosiblings.

Sadly, sometimes, I care all too much, and for all the wrong reasons. And that added layer of “womanly” insecurity on top of it all does no-one any favours – me least of all.