Tag: aspie

The Life Autistic: Why We’re Never All That Excited about Anything

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My wife, a wonderful human, has come to me quite often before, expressing her jubilation over legitimately awesome things: artwork, design, experiences, even things that happen to me — you name it.

She’ll then turn and ask:

“Aren’t you excited?”

I nod.

I grin, even.

I do try to sell it.

“…yeah….no?”

She hasn’t yet stormed off after asking what’s wrong, or how any normal human could fail to be excited or enthusiastic about things.

But we know.

I’m not a normal human.

I don’t get all that excited about stuff.

While depression is a serious challenge that many of us autistics face in some shape or another, that’s not always the root of our excited-less-ness.

Emotions are tough for us to understand, to process, assimilate, and synthesize. Not that we lack them, but they wax and wane in different ways, and not always for what we should get excited over.

But it’s OK.

We get that you’re excited, and we’re happy for you.

We’re just not always on the same bandwidth. We get excited about different stuff.

My wife chided me for being more giddy over the BattleBots final than I was for when I was promoted at work, or something truly important.

We’d help if if we could.

So am I excited, ever?

Rarely.

But I’m OK.

 

 

 

 

The Life Autistic: Why I Made the Mistake of Summer Camp Only Once

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Oh man, Hunter’s got a SUMMER CAMP story!

A poorly adjusted autistic teenager, packed in a bus with a church group who rarely talked to him, going to a camp more than three states away.

What could go wrong?

 

Folks, I hate to disappoint, but the camp story is boring.

It was uneventful.

I didn’t embarrass myself, didn’t fall off a zip line, never had someone stick a lobster down my swim trunks, didn’t sit on a vaseline-covered toilet seat, and didn’t melt down in an awkward, autistic mess.

Not yet.

After a week of camp, my family came to pick me up and drive me back home.

I was elated – nothing went terribly wrong, and I felt like I got along and went along with everything that went on, so I babbled on during the car ride back home.

As we drove, I noticed my folks taking a different way home.

“Mom’s got to handle something at work,” Dad said, as we drove onto the nearby Navy base.

So on we drove, keeping on in conversation, when I noticed something in the distance.

“Oh, look! That person has a New Beetle just like Mom’s—”

At that moment, they all (all six of them) shouted:

“WE MOVED!”

Yeah.

My family literally moved houses while I was gone for the week.

Moved.

Up and relocated without me knowing.

 

On the plus side, at least they came to get me.

I did have my own room there.

Did I have an awful, abject, autistic meltdown and weeping fit?

Yep.

And did I ever go back to summer camp?

NOPE.

The Life Autistic: Bridge Building & Lessons in Risk

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In my short elementary school years at A.T. Mahan in Keflavik, Iceland, I was ‘selected’ for their Talented & Gifted class. I don’t know how they came to their selections, but given my entry, they must have been pretty lax that year.

One of the class projects stood out: Bridge Building

We were given our raw materials (toothpicks, glue, paint), budget, and some architectural guidance (“Use lots of triangles!”). After we were finished, our bridges would be judged on their design, fiscal discipline, and strength.

I constructed mine with meticulous, exacting care, decking it in red and blue as if it were some causeway of American patriotism. Across the table was another team, lamenting their need to rebuild a section of their bridge.

It was then that our teacher, Mr. Feige, dispensed an important anecdote:

“We once had a team who had to rebuild their entire bridge. And even though it went over budget, it was the strongest bridge we’ve ever tested!”

Did you catch all the important lessons there?

I sure didn’t.

Judgement Day arrived, and all our bridges were up for judging – and of course, the fun part, seeing how much weight they’d support.

The other teams tested their bridges to the absolute maximum, wrecking them in spectacular fashion.

When it came to my bridge, it held about 5 pounds, buckling quickly.

I stopped there.

I could have kept going. Could have risked a little more. But I didn’t.

In the end, my bridge didn’t win a prize for being the best looking, or the most fiscally sound, or the strongest. But I did have one takeaway the others didn’t.

I took my bridge home, intact.

So, what’s the lesson?

In my life autistic, I’ve learned that I toe a fine line between confidence and caution. Even recently, I found myself plugging in directions, even though I’ve done the drives dozens of times. I’m not as quick to get places, but I’m also not getting lost.

Sure, I could have out-designed and budgeted better to at least win the “smart” way, or I could have wrecked my bridge and set a new strength record.

But I know myself: rarely first, rarely worst. My bridges don’t win contests, but they do stay standing in the end.