I am not allowed to fail. 

That sounds ridiculous, but think about how you react to the people that fail you and the things that fail you.

Usually, people may let you down, make a mistake, do something wrong. And what’s the normal reaction? Well, varying degrees of upset, but we’re all human people. And people get people: letdowns are forgiven, mistakes are corrected, and you empathize with their human failures.

What about when your things fail you?

Your car. Your appliances. Your tools. Your computer?

Are those so quickly forgiven? 

No.

Those things are supposed to work. All the time. Just like they always have. When they fail, there’s no empathy. That wouldn’t make sense. It’s easy to get mad, stay mad, call your object stupid, etc.

That is why we are not allowed to fail.

There’s a certain, unspoken expectation of autistic people, especially the independent ones of us, with limited needs, greater independence, and routinely consistent in doing things.

One of our generally agreed saving graces is routine, repetition. We’re creatures of habit, of expectation, and the functions we serve (whether broad or limited) are often consistent. I mean, shoot, this blog still runs after YEARS! It’s its own autistic habit, nigh unfailing.

But what happens when we fail?

I’ll tell you.

It’s like when your grandma, you know, gets a little older, but she’s still cooking, baking, what have you. The cookies might not be quite right. The meals maybe a little underdone. Or maybe it’s a cherished friend or loved one, and perhaps their biscuits needed some extra love in the oven.

Do you even mention it? Do you respond?

No, of course not. You smile, nod, mention that it tastes “fine” and take another globby bite of biscuit goo with a side of extra bacon, please and thank you.

But me, I’ve sworn off making one of my favorite recipes for people because I failed it once and never heard the end of it.

It’s not just that.

We leave one thing undone that we normally, routinely do? Panic. Something comes in late? Concern.

We can’t afford to be anything but brutally, precisely constant and consistent. Even emotionally, our outbursts find less tolerance, understanding, while our downward spells are less understood and more inexcusable.

The enemy of unwavering consistency is a break, an interruption, your car not starting, as you pound the steering wheel out of rage. The functions weren’t exceptional, but essential. Until they stopped. That’s when the ire begins.

To err is human; to forgive, divine.

We autistic people are human too.

Let us fail for once. 

 

 

 

As you read each of these, answer them for yourself as True or False.

1) My differences are seen in the most positive light possible.

2) I feel comfortable discussing my autism with others.

3) If people notice my neurodivergence, they are less “revolted” and more genuinely curious to learn more.

4) The way I offer different and ‘weird’ inputs is well-received and appreciated.

5) I feel more shaped and supported by my success than shamed and slighted for my failures.

6) Others are honest about where I am challenging, but more honest about helping.

7) People ask how they can adjust their misunderstandings and seek better understanding about autism.

8) Others thoughtfully accept my explanations of autistic attributes and adapt where sensible.

9) My mistakes, missteps, failures, and faults aren’t first assumed to be negative and malicious intent on my part.

10) I feel safe.

11) I don’t worry about someone finding out I’m autistic.

12) I feel like my life has meaning.

13) People appreciate me for me. 

14) I know people undoubtedly love me, differences and all, and that my differences don’t ever appear to jeopardize that.

15) The autistic experience feels like it will get better every day.

 

It’s Autism Appreciation Month.

If you’re autistic, I hope these are all true.

If you’re not, but you read this or otherwise support an autistic loved one, help us make more of these true. Please.

 

 

“Hunter, can you check outside and see if there’s a package?” asked my wife.

“Sure.”

I stepped outside our doorway into the chill and gentle flakes of springtime snow, and there I spied the familiar blue and white markings of an Amazon envelope.

“Yep. There’s a package,” I confirmed, stepping back inside and shutting the door behind me.

“Well, where is—wait, did you just LEAVE it out there?”

I smirked.

“You didn’t tell me to bring it in.”

For my many laments, jeremiads, diatribes, and other howling cries of support with autism, there are times I play the card. 

When I do, it’s usually a joker.

Sure, my autism makes many things an uphill battle, but I’ve found places where it rolls downhill instead. It is my neurodivergence after all; I can jest and make light of it where I see fit.

Growing up, I had a problem with stealing other people’s belongings; apparently, I do tend to take things literally. (Ok, that was worth a try.)

Hugs can be a touchy topic, but I’m OK turning it into a dumb joke about “having a hugs quota” or telling people that they’re getting “one of my five allowable hugs per day.”

More recently, I’ve parlayed my penchant for pedantry into hypercorrections. When people mention things like “We’ve had a lot less time to turn this around,” I’ll amend it and chat “you mean fewer.”

“Sorry, we’ve had a lot fewer time to—wait — Hunter, you ass.”

With great power comes great responsibility and even greater irresponsibility.

I once styled myself a serious man, in a hopeless attempt to appear brooding, austere, emanating this undefinable vapor of intrigue, commingled with refinement and a superior air, in the sense that my comportment would be of ‘top shelf’ quality – assured, distant, thoughtful, and unmoved by the whims of lessers.

Yeah, I was an idiot.

I’m a dad now. I have two daughters, both of whom have more joie de vivre in their pinkies than I have in my whole body. It’s rubbing off.

Though my autistically-hyperfocused tastes in music are esoteric, offbeat, and scarcely normal – the kiddos find a way to dance to some of it. And I join in.

I take two hits to my dancing abilities, being 1) a dad, and 2) autistic. I’m patently terrible. I know I’m terrible. I’m 100% confident in my maladroitness on the dancefloor.

But that’s the trick: I’m confident, and I dance like it. The kids love it.

I have learned some things about being autistic. About being ridiculous.

As long as I can be me.