A lot of folks are temporarily working from home nowadays. I don’t know how you can all manage that.

Not the working from home part. The temporary part.

I don’t see how people manage not to do this all the time.

Working remotely has pretty much saved my life as an autistic working professional. 

Commuting. Variables. In-person stressors. Impacts on routine. Exposure. Compounded social anxieties, interpersonal ambiguity, even the fact that I walk funny — you name it, I just wouldn’t have had as good a professional experience if I wasn’t able to work from home.

That would have deeply, profoundly impacted my ability to function, provide for my family, accommodate change — all of which have been crucial to my quality of life.

Here are some of the “lifesaving” benefits it affords us autistic people:

An “opt-in” vs. “opt-out” approach. People say I’m really well-networked at work, which is unbelievable. But it would have been impossible without the setup to be intentional about my meetings and meetups. I plan. I come prepared. I get to assess my own social bandwidth and spend it only when I need to. And only when I can.

Selective exposure. I’ll travel and work at one of our locations from time to time. It’s great, but it’s hard to sustain for me. I can struggle with walkups, impromptu meetings, passersby, or frankly — my own unspooled curiosity in finding a peer to get a convo going after eavesdropping something of interest.

Emotional shielding. In my career,I’ve had maybe three great days, a lot of good ones, and some profoundly bad ones. I spend so much time masking even when I feel normal that it’s nigh impossible to maintain that in crisis or legitimate duress. Remote work allows me to disengage, recharge, and reboot without compromising my “image” or comportment.

Communication. When you work remote, you write a lot more. That helps SO much. If you get me talking, then I get myself into trouble. It’s no fun. But if my primary working mode involves more writing, planning, careful thought into what I say: then that’s a benefit!

Freedom to stim. I haven’t written about this yet, because I’m saving it for later — but being able to stim or otherwise pace at autistically-frantic speeds is a wonder for my own mental soothing and health. Can’t exactly do that up and down the aisles at work . . .

Routine safety. I am a creature of habit’s creature of habit — everything from my workspace is ordered, clean (kinda), and arranged for me, by me, with very few disturbances or otherwise unexpected happenings. That kind of routine safety takes away a major stressor.

If you’re not used to working remote, I understand it’s not for everyone. Hang in there. Drop me a line; I’ll be happy to help and hear you out.

But for those of us on the autism spectrum: remote work can be a lifesaver for us. 

It has saved mine.

(Oh, and it probably kept me away from COVID-19 too. That’s nice.)

I’ve been reading about the need for “social distancing” in the wake of COVID-19, where the CDC defines this as “remaining out of congregrate settings, avoiding mass gatherings, and maintaining distance (approximately 6 feet or 2 meters) from others when possible.”

Well, gee, if that doesn’t sum up the autistic experience in a nutshell, then I don’t know what does.

This is a challenging time for neurotypical people, where losing out on handshakes, hugs, and general human proximity is a distinct challenge. And it’s tough for most regular folks to practice social distancing subconsciously.

Unless, of course, you’re autistic: people practice it pretty well with us, and us with others.

We’ve lived a life where people definitely don’t go out of their way to close the distance with us. They just know we’re “weird” and “different” and subconsciously they’ll maintain that safe distance (approximately 6 feet or 2 meters) without being asked.

We can be cold, robotic, and unless you’re another robot, people don’t generally look to gravitate toward that.

It’s ok, though. It’s our life autistic. We’re used to this.

I’ve grown up greeting new people with a “hello” and leaving it at that. I already try to find the least crowded space in people spaces. Handshakes and hugs? Well, OK, I’ve gotten better with those, but there’s a quota.

I’ll wave. Smile. I can project to where you can hear me across a table. I’m not going to sit close. You don’t want to either. I’ve mastered a certain kind of “bristled” expression that dissuades contact. I’m not even sure if I do that intentionally now.

So if you’re having a hard time with social distancing, ask the autistic people in your life about it.

We have a lifetime of experience and expertise with this.

When this pandemic clears, go enjoy hugging.

We’ll wave and smile.

 

I’ve gotten incredibly good at poaching eggs. I can poach them better than most. I can poach them without custard cups. I can poach them better than Alton Brown (he cheats and uses custard cups, sorry).

The first time, I boiled the water and eggs over my pan and got angry. It took me a while before I tried again. This time, I chose to try. I’m autistic and resilient. It took multiple poaches, but I got this down.

Every morning, I poach three eggs.

I pour water into a small, shallow pan in which I drop a capful of vinegar. I use a spatula, and a slotted spoon, and I wait for a boil. As my water develops bubbles, I shoo those away with my spatula. I then crack my three eggs over the flat granite countertop and lay them into the warm water.

After I turn up the heat, I sneak the spatula under each of my three eggs, giving it some lift from that pan. They float in amorphous clouds. They poach until tender, oblong, perfect.

The other day, as I was cooking breakfast that morning, poaching three eggs, my wife asked:

“Is there any way you could make me a breakfast sandwich?”

I wanted to be able to say “Yeah, sure” but my autistic reaction is my core within my core. I tensed. I froze. I could feel my retracting in a way that drew back my shoulder blades and reared my neck back, like my body recoiled at the thought of violating what had been an otherwise precise routine of poaching three eggs.

Deep breaths. Willing my nerves to undo their fraying. Thinking twice before speaking. Finding some avenue that would somehow imbue this with grace.

“Andrea,” I sighed. “I . . . is there . . . what can I make you that will work with the ingredients that I’m working with?” 

I could only change this so much. Otherwise, I just couldn’t. 

I’m just trying to poach an egg here. Three eggs, to be exact.

In a stroke of fortune, she said she’d enjoy a poached egg with an English muffin.

I can do that, I thought. I’ll just eat two eggs instead of three. And I can make English muffins. Breakfast as usual, only less so. 

The eggs turned out perfect, yet again, as always.