My Aspie Quirks


My first inclination when I see someone in public that I know is to scurry for a hiding place.

I go berserk inside when someone is following behind me or I sense someone’s eyes are feasting on me.

A tiny noise such as someone chewing, sipping, or humming makes me cringe.

Although I despise talking on the phone, have anxiety when the phone rings or a message is left, I bought the newest of a brand of cell phones because I’m obsessed with Android apps.

When a social function is canceled, I respond with “That’s too bad!” and then I CELEBRATE!!

I don’t have to listen to talk radio to hear a conversation.  I have plenty of pretend conversation going on in my head.

I owe a debt of gratitude to whoever came up with the idea of the store SELF check-out.

Instructions: “It’s on the third shelf from the top on the left side of the closet next to the package of red, yellow, and green folders.  You can’t miss it.”  You wanna bet?  Just watch me!

I am obsessed with raking or picking up leaves.  I have a hard time finding a stopping point UNLESS the neighbor comes outside.

Most of the conversations I plan out in my head never take place.

I was such a jerk for saying that forty-nine and three months ago.

Quadruple check alarm before going to bed.

I’d like to make friends with someone who doesn’t like making new friends.  Weird, I know.







Spectrum Challenges

Below are some of my challenges I have lived with but didn’t know what was behind them until learning Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) wasn’t something only someone else had.  I found out I was on the spectrum near the end of 2016.  This challenging list doesn’t apply to all with ASD because when you’ve met one person with Autism, you’ve met only one.

Rules are not mere suggestions to me.  I welcome and need them.  In an unstructured environment, I feel as uneasy as a polar bear would on a beach.

Routine is almost as essential as air.  I guess it has to do with feeling safe and secure in the world.  I do change my routine occasionally, but if it is beyond my control, a change in routine can put me in meltdown country.

Stuck with no means of a graceful escape to hearing music that is pushing all my buttons.  I don’t dare complain to the one playing the music, much less scream or cry because it would draw unwanted attention.  I must, as I often have to do, pretend I’m just fine while boiling underneath.

It takes me longer to respond to someone.  I need time to process what has been said in order to come up with a response.  More often than not, I ask for a repeat to give me a few more seconds even though I may have heard them the first time.

I love hardball conversations about any one of my limited interests.  Social chit-chat is hard for me to sit through.  I often manage by drifting into daydream land if I can’t make a graceful exit.

It is stressful for me to be as busy as a bee or to be bored out of my skull.  I love a schedule with the consistent rhythm of one thing after another instead of things happening all at once or nothing happening at all. 

Physically and mentally, I’m years passed the half-century mark.  Emotionally, though, I am about the same age as the elementary students I work with. I’m reminded of that when I’m behind the steering wheel stuck in traffic.  Even though it isn’t the steering wheel’s fault, it is what I take it out on.

I don’t like it being pointed out in a group I am the quiet one.  I’ve been a quiet person for more or less fifty years and so it isn’t news to me.  

Timekeeping to me is crucial.  If it is going to be around noon that someone will show up, I’d rather they say “noon-ish”; please not say noon if one won’t be there before or on the dot.

Highly sensitive!  Such as when a check-out cashier says she’s not open.  I will beat myself for not noticing the sign that she was closed.

Groups are my nightmares.  I always seem to be the square peg in the group of round pegs.  I don’t know if I’m more afraid of being spoken to or not at all.  

I don’t write about my ASD to complain or seek sympathy; I write to offer empathy to those on the spectrum and to provide knowledge and understanding for those who aren’t.

I have a choice about reading about Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) or talking about it or writing about it.  I don’t have a choice about living with it.



His Sidekick Sub

Due to an elementary school coach’s sidekick having to be out for two weeks, the six-foot-tall coach/former college football player had something a tad better than no sidekick at all – me.  A substitute is at least an extra pair of eyes and someone to watch the kids when one has a nature call.

We had a few things in common.  For one thing, we graduated from the same high school.  I was in the class of 1977 and he was in a class that graduated in the following century.  We both value exercise as a means to improve our health and mental well-being.  He tosses a football and I hit a tennis ball for stress relief after a school day of spending time with pretty much the entire student body.  It beats my having a meltdown and possibly tossing or tearing up my own stuff.

I did my best to help him out.  I showed up at the school gym on time and wasn’t late coming back from lunch.  He monitored the kids playing outside on the tennis/basketball courts on one side of the field and I monitored the playground on the opposite side.  I helped maintain order for the indoor games.  Most importantly, I left the toilet seat up in the coach’s office restroom.

An amusing story was my encountering an odd problem in the restroom.  The light switch didn’t work.  I had to use my “smart” watch’s flashlight application which was sufficient enough that I didn’t fall over the “john”.  I noticed later the light was on but I didn’t dare ask what’s the deal with the light.  The common sense thing would be to ask but it remained just a thought because a lack of common sense is a common trait for those on the autism spectrum like myself.  Either I continued to go in the dark or I figured it out myself.

I did solve the mystery when I spotted another light switch that did the trick.  I didn’t feel bad, though, about not asking the coach for enlightenment.  I was just relieved the coach didn’t catch me coming out of the dark restroom and saying something like, “Wouldn’t it be easier with the light on?”

With the weather cooperating, most of the classes were held outdoors.  The kids played various outdoor games such as basketball, football, soccer, or hung out on the playground.  When I found a basketball that wasn’t being used, I commenced to dribbling it.  The kids might have thought it strange for a gray-haired 58-year-old lady dribbling a basketball.  In my humble opinion, they should view it as an encouraging sign.  When I see an 80-or 90-something-year-old taking a stroll in the park on their own two feet, it gives me some hope that I might still be doing such if I should live so long.

Actually, when I dribbled, I wasn’t only dribbling.  I was doing two things at once: dribbling for physical exercise and stimming for mental exercise.  I had the advantage of having a job-related task that masked my stimming.  Dribbling is as much a way to stim as rocking or pacing the floor since it is repetitive movement.  For someone living on the autism spectrum, stimming is a way of keeping me cool, calm, and collected while the kids do what they are so successful at — noise and mischief making.

I knew the coach missed his “regular” sidekick and the kids missed her too.  I never thought for a second I could replace her or for that matter, any aide I sub for.  I do hope he’ll miss me some as I will him, the other staff members, and the kids.  That assignment was a reminder to me that two people born decades apart can work together as if they weren’t.










Phone Madness

I never in my teen years got grounded from using the phone.  Taking away my TV would have been torture but the loss of phone privileges?  It wouldn’t have hurt the least little bit.

Since I realized I was living on the spectrum, many truths about myself have seen the light of day.  Past moments over the years from childhood to present now make sense in light of my diagnosis. I see myself and my actions through a different light.

I am anxious on the phone because I struggle with verbal communication.  It is hard enough in person, but on the phone without the visual of the person’s face, it is even tougher.  I am an “ace” when it comes to written communication (e-mail).  People who are used to corresponding with me via email or via the post office might be surprised about this. On the phone and in person, the words don’t always come out right because I don’t have the luxury of time to process what I’m hearing and come up with an adequate response.

People are hard for me to hear over the phone.  Since I have the habit of asking people to repeat themselves in person in order to process what they have said, it is no surprise that over the phone is a bigger challenge.  At least with face-to-face communication, I have the visual of the person’s facial expressions and their hand gestures.  I miss a lot of details because my brain can’t keep up and doesn’t hear all the words.

People tend to talk faster on the phone and don’t appreciate my pausing to process their words and respond.  However, I need time to think before I speak; otherwise, my response will probably be one that I’ll kick myself over and over again, rehearsing what I should have said.  The entire thing is phone madness!

So if someone wants my best response, e-mail is your best shot!



Challenges of Living with my Constant Companion – Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD)

People in my personal space feels like someone poking a needle in my back.

I wish people would ask me about my interests; on the other hand, I don’t because I’ll be a like a wound-up toy that everyone in the room wants to turn off.

I keep getting distracted with thoughts I am distracted while trying to read three sentences’ worth.

My routine is not up for debate!

I’m protective as a mother hen over my stuff!  Sometimes I take the high road and share, but it doesn’t come easy.

I preferred the company of grown-ups when I was a kid; now I prefer the company of those under ten.

Being alone is as comfortable to me as wearing my favorite pair of sweats.

Knowing when to end a conversation is harder for me to pick up on than starting one.

Gripping the steering wheel on my way to a social gathering.

Sometimes I just need to stare out the window.

Keeping under control when someone interrupts me from pursuing my passion.

Communicating via e-mail is my strength; face-to-face is my weakness.

Losing all sense of direction when someone asks me on the spot for directions.

I call my constant companion “Autie” for short.  Autie never sleeps.

I can be quite social with one person I feel comfortable with.  At the max, two.  But add another person, I go silent.  Being with a group of people can be overwhelming.

I rehearse what I should have said in a situation that happened yesterday or decades ago.

Intense anxiety when my routine is interrupted.

I am far better at remembering my failures than my achievements; criticism than praise; awkward instead of my graceful moments.

I’m not fond of talking on the phone but I prefer it over talking to an answering machine.  The machine isn’t accepting of my monologs and it doesn’t let me erase what didn’t come out right which is most of what I said.










Keep off the Grass!

It was a gorgeous day and the coach decided to take all the classes outside for P.E. class.  I was the coach’s sidekick for the afternoon since the regular assistant had the day off.  The coach told the students they could NOT play on the grass.  It had rained hard the night before and the ground was still muddy.  She emphatically repeated her instruction to “keep off the grass!”

She had me take a couple of the classes out and stayed behind with some students.  No sooner had we arrived at the play area that some kids were in violation of the grass rule.  I yelled for them to get off the grass and they obliged.  I would continue repeating “keep off the grass” since one student after another opted for the grass instead of the sidewalk.

The coach and the rest of the kids joined us.  I welcomed having the coach to help me enforce the grass rule.  But I was disheartened instead.  The kids walking out with the coach sidestepped the sidewalk too.  I didn’t say a word!  Why?  Because the coach violated her own “Keep off the Grass” rule.

I thought of raising my hands in the air and yelling, “I give!”  Just a thought in my head.  I didn’t act it out.  HA!

I think this was another case of my taking instructions LITERALLY!  Shortly thereafter, a basketball went down the hill to where water was still standing on the grass.  The coach only allowed one to go down and rescue the ball and she told the others who were aiming to head down the hill to stay back.  Maybe the coach’s “keep off the grass” was keep off the grass where it was muddy.  That’s just a guess, though.

Growing Up on the Spectrum

It was sixth grade’s turn to do the fitness tests of curl-ups and push-ups.  I was subbing for the coach’s sidekick and monitoring the students who were waiting for their turn to curl and push.  It would have been impossible for me not to notice the skinny boy with long brown hair that hung down past his eyes.  He would every few minutes shake his head and then carefully go over his hair with his hand.  I was impressed with his performance of doing more curls and pushes than most of his peers.  I wondered if he was perhaps only shy or if he was somewhere on the spectrum too.

The kindergarten class was excited when the coach told them they would be going outside for P.E.  Not so much when they were told they would be walking laps around the cones on the field.  I walked with them thinking if they saw an “old” person do it, then surely they could do it too.  A “kinder” who is on the spectrum chose not to walk with the others but chose me instead.  Her talking up a storm relieved me of having to talk much.  I was briefed on her life story.  She lived with grandma during the week and with her parents only on weekends.  I asked if she liked living with grandma and she shook her head no.  She didn’t like the arrangement.  As she put it, it was “sad”.

The tax man cometh.  He had finished the paperwork and called Mom saying he’d be right over for her to sign so he could then file her taxes.  Her 58-year-old daughter made the excuse of going to her favorite store to do some window shopping.  She didn’t want to go through meeting a new person and do the introductions.  I’m still growing up on the spectrum.

Autism Pride

It was only months ago that a 12-year-old girl had a profound impact on my life.  She helped solve a big part of the mystery of why I act, feel, and think as I do.  She cannot utter my name or even her own.  I could tell her my story and its impact but even if she could understand what I was saying, she couldn’t carry on a conversation with me about it.

Occasionally, I get to see her and her classmates when I fill in for a teacher’s aide at her school. I recently helped out the P.E. coach who was without his sidekick.  The coach told me that the special ed teacher had a surprise for me.

She had a special gift.  It was a t-shirt with the words: “AUTISM AWARENESS accept-understand-love”.

At the time I was diagnosed, I had confided in this teacher and her aides about my diagnosis and how their student was the one who sort of brought me out of the closet.  Their student, in other words, was the lightning rod.  The staff was so supportive in those days and weeks after my diagnosis.  I was touched beyond words of being given this gift and they being the ones to give it to me.

I wasted no time!  I did a quick change at lunch and wore one of them with PRIDE! I subbed a few days later for this class and was told to wear one of the shirts. The teacher, her two aides, and myself were all decked out in our “Autism” shirts.

I intend for these shirts to get a lot of wear.  One reason is just for “awareness” to those I may cross paths with. Another is maybe it’ll help deliver the message to skeptics around me that this isn’t a phase I’m going through and that I’ll eventually get off my autism soap box. Or, my being on the autism spectrum is some foolish notion on my part.

I shouldn’t focus on the skepticism, but the support I received from people like this teacher and her staff.  I will cherish these shirts and the words written on front; and, most of all, the people in this story, including the 12-year-old who was the lighthouse to my finally arriving at the shore of my diagnosis.


There’s Just Something About Mary

The name Mary is a Hebrew baby name. The meanings of the name are listed as being: wished-for child, rebellion, or bitter.  I knew a Mary once and she was a wished-for friend.  If she ever felt rebellious or bitter, she deserved an Oscar for hiding it so well.  I can only picture the Mary I knew wearing a smile.  If someone were to ask me who was the sweetest person I ever met, my answer would be Mary without having to deliberate on it.

Social interaction doesn’t come easy for me.  I only learned months ago there was a name for my lack of social skills and other peculiarities; it’s called autism. But talking to Mary was different than with other people.  Somehow she made it easy for me.  I “wanted” to interact with her.  It never was an obligation.  Anytime we crossed paths, I knew our cup of conversation was going to be the highlight of my day.  It always was.

She has a certain way of listening that always made me feel as if what I was saying was valid.  At my attempts at humor, she laughed without my ever having to say, “That’s was the punchline.”  I could talk to her about anything and I probably told her more than she wanted to hear about my restricted list of subjects that I wouldn’t let die.  Patience must be one of her virtues since I tested it with my long monologs.

It is a blessing beyond measure to have someone you can be yourself with.  I wish she had been around when I learned I was on the autism spectrum.  I know she wouldn’t have said, “I for one am not surprised”; although, she probably wouldn’t have been surprised.  I’m sure she would have been so supportive by listening to me go on and on about it.

She had a New England accent and I had a southern.  I loved her accent and would have gladly traded but I don’t think she would have gone for that.  We were both never-marrieds; at least, up until the last time I saw her years ago.  Maybe a guy has swept her off her feet by now.  If so, he’s a very fortunate man.  I say that because she’s so good at caring.  There’s just not that many like her around.

There is just something about Mary.  I don’t have the word for it, but I know whatever it is, it is something very special.  When I moved away, I didn’t have the chance to tell her goodbye.  Maybe that was for the best since I hate goodbyes.  I miss her so much and if she’s reading this, I just want her to know that.  And, too, she’s unforgettable!








Challenges of Living with my Constant Companion of ASD

I wish I could turn my thinking cap OFF!

When I talk to myself, I am dishing out advice or making a speech that I’ll probably never give.

My first instinct when I see someone walking towards me is to veer off the path.

I have no problem being alone with “me, myself, and I”.  It is not easy being amidst a group for a short spell, but it is much harder for me to adapt when having a lack of “alone” time.

A bad nightmare is when forced to participate in group activities

Letting go of things is hard for most people, but for those living on the spectrum, it is beyond words.  We tend to obsess about things and rehash in our mind painful past occurrences making it hard to let go.

I’d like to read an entire page without a distracting thought — better make that a short paragraph.

When I’m in a structured environment, I feel calm.  When I’m in a fuzzy environment, I feel anxious.

When three or more are talking at once, their words just become static noise and I’m wishing I had wings of a dove to fly away.

When a certain sound frequency or volume feels like a knife piercing my ears.

I prefer to figure out how to do things or put things together on my own even though there’s an expert nearby or a phone call away.  Sometimes I will only ask for help when I am utterly desperate.

Dwelling on social errors I think I made.

Responding in a conversation is hard because I don’t have the luxury of time to process it.  Thus, my responses and what I would have said if I had a chance to do it over again haunts me.

When in sensory overload and the feel of the wind blowing on my face makes me want to explode and strike out against the wind as if I could.

Sitting still is so hard to do.