I’ll be traveling for work this week, so this may be more an endeavor in collecting stories than writing them.

Maybe I can share one Hunter-level quirk, though — airports and air travel don’t much bother me anymore.

You’d think that’d be triggers within triggers, but not anymore.

I’ve done this so much that it’s its own routine. Even the delays. Waiting. Standing by. Being in close proximity with others. Cramped spaces.

In a way it’s gotten predictable. And I like predictable. I like that I can plan.

Granted, I hate not having my family around, so I do feel a bit exposed. But with AirPods and with a good ability to have something to work on (like this blog) or to sleep at the drop of a hat, I’ve come around on autism airborne.

Sure, it only took about hundred flights over my few decades of life, but I’ve arrived 🙂

Catch you next week; I can’t wait to share some upcoming tales.

There’s always a point in my life where I can look back and say that “I didn’t know any better, and that’s what did me in.” Third grade was one such time.

I seem to recall that class experience as having been terrible, in general: I don’t adjust well to things, and plopping down mid-winter into cold-hearted, unwelcoming elementary group only exacerbated that more.

A month in or so, as things warmed up, I’d started to manage – kept my head down, clammed up more, gravitated toward the kids who were just less incorrigible and coarse, and learned the “game.”

Back then and at that age, Valentine’s Day was a mere functionary party-vehicle. We didn’t get into the “mushiness” of it — it was just baskets at the front of the desks, perhaps a bit of chocolate, with some added festive decor slapped to the bleak walls of the class in the form of a paper heart or two. Simple. Innocuous.

I should have known better.

My dad enjoyed a bit of bitmap art on MS Paint back in 1995, so he designed and printed Valentines for me to dish out. Pretty cool, I thought. At least it’d be unique, and the pixelated renderings had a certain robotic quality that appealed to me.

I passed out and slipped in each printed, cut Valentine – deft, light, bespoke. Sure, some of the kids sneered, but that’s what they did, as I’d long made peace with the fact that I’d just not be liked, or that their souls would rot in Hell — whatever comforted me at the time.

As we lined up to leave after the “event,” one of my classmates had their sheaf of valentines on hand, rifling through them. Then I heard her read mine aloud, in hilarious disbelief:

“Happy Valentine’s Day! LOVE, Hunter. LOVE?!?!”

I don’t recall where I was in line, but they all turned to find where I was and laugh. Scorningly, blisteringly laugh me to shreds. I don’t know if one can be the butthole of a joke, but I was right then.

In the din of chuckles, giggles, bellows, asinine guffaws, I flooded in tears, my face red hot, my mind racing to backtrace and think of how I could have stopped this. “What was I supposed to do? It’s Valentine’s Day. Of all days, surely this would be the one where—”

I should have known better.

Little autistic H2 didn’t have the frame of reference and self awareness to stop and tell dad, “No, PLEASE, just say “From, Hunter.” Trust me, it’ll spare me an episode.”

I came home miserable, my dad felt awful after I shared the story, and I learned a bit more about self-awareness, perception, and how I was so underequipped to handle this stuff.

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At Christmastime, I take out a box of tags – for presents. For my lovely wife of ten years. For my daughters, brilliant and delightful, cheerful girls. There, on each tag, I see two fields.

To:

From:

I still remember this Valentine’s Day from 3rd grade. I think about the one word. The wave of shame. The juvenile idiocy. Not having enough to know to make one key change.

But I know better now.

I cross out From: and write LOVE.

This post was originally published on February 13, 2020. Thanks for revisiting this with me.

To learn more about autism from an autistic person’s perspective, follow & subscribe to The Life Autistic here and on YouTube — or follow the more whimsical, spontaneous, and amusing content on Instagram.

Speaking of things you’ll love, you should check this important (and kinda funny) episode on “High Functioning” autism:

It’s not you, it’s me. But it’s you, too.

In my years on The Life Autistic, I’ve gotten good at social adaptions, situational perils, and the conversational/relational equivalents of being dropped into the wilderness with little else but a match, twine, a dull knife, and a modicum of survival skills.

But I can’t do this with everyone. I just cannot.

If that’s you, it’s not personal. I’m not as malicious, standoffish, or unapproachable as people seem to think.

It’s human to get along with some people better than others, just by dint of emotional intelligence, relatability, and conversational fluency — but when I can’t latch on to a few key elements, I’ve got nothing. 

And it gets awkward. 

Here’s some of those areas where my ability to relate, converse, and be an openly genial autistic human dwindle and winnow away:

No overlapping interests. My guard goes up when someone asks “So, Hunter — do you like to hunt?” Once they deduce that I don’t live up to that part of my namesake, nor do I fish, or do other woodspersony things, I’m basically scrambling at that point, hoping they like sports other than baseball and NASCAR. Sometimes I get lucky, and they’ll talk football. If not, I hope they just start telling fishing and hunting stories; I can listen, nod, follow along, smile, and say nary a word. Safe. 

People who aren’t talkative. I can make it through most any conversation as long as I’m not doing the talking. When people talk, they give me strands, ropes, threads that I can use to string together another topic and keep things threaded. But with a more laconic person, I’m not the best at teasing out words. That’s awkward. 

Unpredictability. I don’t drink, so my company among people drinking tends to be limited. But golly does it stress me out, not from any sort of violence or inappropriate behavior, but the unpredictability. For the most part, I can map a person’s range of mood, conversations, but when they are losing the ability to maintain course — I gotta abort. 

Concretely-mired thinkers. “But I thought autistics couldn’t think abstractly.” It might just be me, but I can dig a good hypothetical deep thinker. You might not have an answer to what your dream job would be, or what you’d do with a million dollars and a time machine, but if the answer is no answer, then that’s just not fun. Creativity isn’t a spectrum/non-spectrum thing.

I will try and do try — so bear with me! Sometimes, with some people, it is just hard.