The trick to getting things done

It's back to (paid) work next week and I'm starting to chew wasps over it. I actually feel more tired at the end of this week than I do normally. I've high-powered my way through lots of jobs I had to delay for quite a while. I've been on full-steam-ahead mode, with a definite time-frame.

On Wednesday, I had half a day off and felt guilty. Then I felt annoyed with myself, as I'd worked right through from Sunday and it wasn't such a bad thing, relaxing for a change!

Now I just feel plain annoyed. I've achieved more this week than I have for weeks before and have managed without falling apart or losing my thread and having to start again. So why am I angry?

The simple answer is, I'm angry because every week isn't like this. I've relished being able to do what I want, what I'm interested in, instead of running around, chasing everything else. It's been a week of working through what I'm good at and can do. It was an interlude where I glimpsed what life could be if I didn't need to do other things.

Of course, we all have to do other things, don't we? Life is just like that. If there weren't 'other things' to be done, then we'd be like hermits, in a lonely cave, nothing to do but pick bugs out of our robes and think about the Meaning of Life.

I was also annoyed at the fact I needed to devote myself wholly to this work, rather than being able to manage it all as well as normal life. You hear of people getting up at 5am to write their books, then looking after the family before going out to full-time work. I admire them but do wonder what my writing would be like if I was there, as dawn broke, slumped over the keyboard.

I used to be able to fit it in like this. I remember sitting on the living room floor for twenty precious minutes every morning before school, then before work, rattling out my latest book as morning TV played in the background. Then at lunchtime I'd bring out my notebook and write some more and again when I got home. I couldn't keep it in back then.

Now, I have to feel more prepared. I need to ease up to it, while it isn't looking, or the feeling of pressure to 'perform' prevents me from writing anything worthwhile. If I know I have an hour spare, I feel it isn't enough, as I can't just sit down and launch into it. I have tried and it comes off reading like an ad for toe-warmers.

Teeny-tiny-toes are toasty
In our special glove
Feel the waves of warmy-weather
Sent from us with love
Tuck it in your hiking boot
Tuck it in your Welly
And when the winter turns so cold
Your toes are hot and smelly

It feels like it's part of putting things off, which is why I scold myself for doing it. I want to use that available hour and do something really good, to make all the hours doing what is necessary seem like they don't matter so much. I want to be able to sit down, get on with it and not always be looking at the clock.

Before this week, I felt a lot of guilt about not using my spare time more productively. I was very harsh in my self-judgement, knowing there are many hours I spend doing silly things when I could be writing the last two poems for my Echoes book, or re-writing the chapter of my horror story or any of the unfinished works that wait for me.

Then, when I finally had this week, a cloud was lifted. I realised how much I could get done when I had nothing else to do. I didn't waste time, I spent hours working, I came away only when I had finished. Only when I had finished, readers! No sneaking off to town, or the kettle or dancing round the garden: I stayed put and did what I had set out to do. No wonder I'm exhausted.

So, all those hours I felt were wasted before, because I let them slip by without filling them with writing, were not quite as they seemed. Yes, the younger me did type away and get things done in short bursts, but she didn't have the years of responsibility behind her and she didn't have as much aspie-ness maturing gently within her.

What I have come to accept now is that, like with so many other aspects of life, what worked before may not work now. Perhaps I might learn to write in short bursts again, but given how much I achieved by dedicating myself to it this week, I think this way is better.

I have to figure out how to feel as if I have lots of time, so that I can relax and write as if it's always a holiday week. I have to pretend, I think, trick myself a bit, Maybe even say to myself, I'm not going to work later, I'll call in sick, so there's no rush now.

Of course, I probably won't call in sick, I'll decide when the time comes that I've changed my mind - tricking myself twice in one day, you see? Like cajoling a grumpy five year old, I know that half the battle in getting an aspie on track is to convince them they are in charge and can quit at any moment.

In my own experience, having the belief that you can opt out or slink off makes what you're doing much easier, as you don't have the same pressure. It may be a leap of Let's Pretend to say you're not going into work - and feel like you mean it at the time - but if it gets the job done, why not?

Next week, when I have lots of things to do, including paid work, I'll try pretending and see if it helps. I'll settle down, plus cat or tea, take out the laptop and imagine I have the full afternoon stretching out in front of me.

If it works, even if it takes practice, then I've cracked quite a big problem there. And if it doesn't work? I think, readers, the time may have come to book myself a week off more often and get down to some proper work.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Nobody moans like an aspie

I'm insulting myself here. Perhaps you don't moan at all, or only a little? Perhaps all other aspies (besides RT teen) are paragons of quiet sufferance and never utter a word against their circumstances? Perhaps I am the only moaner?

I don't think so, somehow. I think moaning is one of those aspects of aspie-hood that doesn't get mentioned in official circles, but is talked about an awful lot amongst people who have to live with us. How many times has the parent of an aspie held off from doing something that would upset their child, not simply because it would be upsetting but more due to the unending, self-perpetuating, dripping moooooaaaaannnnn that would be the result? I know I have.

When RT teen was a mini-RT, he could speak very well and had no problems holding conversations. What he did have a problem with was other people butting in before he'd finished. It seemed the worst if we were all in the car as mini-IT teen, was incredibly fond of butting in, so the two of them together were a nightmare to travel with.

RT teen would start to tell us something and he'd spend time getting the tale told, time that used to drive IT teen round the bend. A bit like a mental stutter, RT teen would hesitate within his sentences as he thought of the next words, then bring them out as finely crafted phrases. All of this was lost on little IT teen who would rail, 'Just say it! Say it!'

Being interrupted always had the opposite effect as mini RT teen would then stop, go back to the start of his sentence and begin again. He never forgot the words which came before and would repeat this process until he was able to say the whole thing, without one interruption.

Over time, mini IT teen and myself would sit, rigid, while mini RT teen told us things. Even a noise or a tut would be enough to stop him and make it all repeat. And then, it would become like a moan, as he repeated and repeated what he wanted to say.

So, he wasn't moaning as such, but his repetition and constant need to speak without interruption, were like a moan, as they were a reaction to what was going on around him and what he perceived as other people being difficult with him.

In general, f anything went wrong, normally cheerful mini RT teen would groan and grumble, flopping about as if he had weights on his shoulders. He would either make many different sounds which meant nothing, but together made a moan, or he would set up a wailing about the injustice of the situation and go on about it endlessly.

I have to admit, I was just as bad as a child. Worse, in fact, as I kept it going for much longer but with less drama. My mother and step-father were very fond of hill-walking (the inhumanity!) and as they both worked full-time, I'd be dragged out at the weekends, over yet more sodden Lake District fell tops, with sheep poo under foot and bracken pulling at my legs and midges in summer, but still somehow raining.

I hated those walks with a passion. What I actually wanted to do with my weekends was stay at home and read, but apparently I could read anytime and I should be enjoying the beautiful scenery and appreciating how lucky I was to live near such a wonderful place.

I should also appreciate the extra exercise and be glad that I was healthy enough to stride out across the fields, backpack on my shoulders and boots to protect me from the cold and wet. My step-father, in particular, was always pointing out that I was young and should be fit.

The thing was, I didn't care if I was fit or not. I had a book to read and a warm, dry house to do it in. I used to beg them to leave me in the car while they went on the walk. And the backpack always felt so heavy, digging into my shoulders and seeming like a pointless punishment in itself.

Those boots, those rotten, brown, laced boots, they never protected me from anything. If there was a deep puddle or a bog, I ended up in it and it just went right over the top of the boots. They were meant to grip but I always found the slippiest places and away I went. And they were so hot! Having to wear thick socks with them didn't help. Sometimes, the boots were what I hated the most of all.

No, what I really hated was seeing the backs of my parents as they strode off up the endless hills, ahead of me on the path as I came along behind, feeling all my troubles cluster about me as I struggled through life. They would wait at the top of the hill and be rested when I got there, then leap up as soon as I arrived and carry on going. The unfairness!

I moaned from start to finish on those walks. I really don't know why they bothered taking me. If I was them, I'd have left me behind. I don't know how much enjoyment they gained with me following along behind like a little rain cloud, drip, drip, drip with my moaning.

Everything was wrong and I would never enjoy it and they knew I didn't enjoy it, so why take me? And not everybody liked walking and I was never going to like it, just because they did. I could think of many things I'd rather be doing and didn't they care that I was upset? Didn't they care that my feet were too hot and I had blisters and my backpack was heavier than theirs?

And so on. Until, by the end of the walk, the sighs of relief had more to do with me shutting up when I saw the car than through completing their trek. Me, back in the comfort of a man-made environment, could at last take up my book or gaze, unseeing, at the landscape outside the windows.

Now that I'm grown up, I know I moan and I do try not to. I honestly do, but sometimes it's just the way things are and I defy anyone to deny that a good moan can be very therapeutic. Sometimes you just need to get it all off your chest, even if the person listening to you is in danger of pouring breakfast all over your head. Sometimes, you just cant stop.

I've had poor IT teen wriggle and gyrate in the car as he travels, trapped, with myself and RT teen, as we're both setting up a-moaning. He loses his temper and tells us both off, asking why we have to moan all the time anyway? He points out that what we're moaning about is not important, it's not worth us going on all the time.

That usually ends badly, as I sit there in a sulk, thinking that I wasn't even moaning while, with RT teen, the tinderbox of injustice is lit and he's telling IT teen why his moaning is not moaning, it's complaining, which is different, because he's being reasonable about whatever it was that went wrong. At which point, a full-scale argument ensues and I have to threaten them with dire consequences if they don't quiet down and let me drive.

After a brief silence, RT teen will always be the first to speak, adding a small moan to encapsulate the much larger one he had been going through before and then IT teen turns a funny colour and starts gyrating again.

You see, that's the other thing with aspie moans: as well as being pretty much endless once we've started, we have to have the last word. Come on, you know it's true. Even if the last word is a slammed door, a kicked wall, a growl or a broken pencil, that word will be had.

We have to put our point across, one way or another, and if we feel the need to moan then we'll either do just that or find some other way to get it out of the system.

I can only suggest one ray of hope here and that is, in my own experience at least, diversion can work. It doesn't always work on RT teen but it does work on me! IT teen is quite good at it, at switching my attention and making me think about something else for long enough that I lose the thread of my moan.

With RT teen, he is much more determined when it comes to returning to the moan, so diversions don't always help. Like when he was little, the diversion is simply an interruption to his moan-continuum, so he takes notice of your diversion, then switches back to the moan and, if you're lucky, only picks up where he left off and not at the beginning.

Readers, I won't sugar-coat it: being a moany bunch does not endear aspies to the general populace but it is a good way of getting our troubles out there, even if we end up moaning about something other than what is really bothering us.

Much better to have the dripping of the moan than the inflammatory meltdown or physical reaction to stress. Better to have the voice, droning on in your ear, than to have it raised in temper or anguish.

Honestly, I know when it comes to sticking plasters that a quick rip is better than a slow tear, but when it comes to the aspie in full flow, a slow moan is better than an explosive tantrum.

And you can trust me, I've tried both.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Oh no, not like you, I'm talking about a real aspie...

That moment when someone says something so cringe-worthy about Aspergers, that you feel like dropping off the side of the Earth. And staying there.

I should add a few extra spaces here as we pause to remember moments when people we thought knew us well enough to know better said something so awful or inappropriate, we felt like we may as well have been on our own all this time.

Some of my worst moments have come when those close to me have talked about other people with Aspergers. There is a programme in the UK called The Undateables. Despite it's dreadful title, this is a pretty good show about people with all kinds of 'difficulties' who are looking for love. It deals with a wide range of conditions and problems in a sensitive way and is well worth a watch. Unfortunately, it sometimes makes uncomfortable viewing if you could star in the programme yourself.

So, I'll have watched The Undateables and identified strongly with that week's aspie (yes, they do often feature aspies, for some reason). I'll have watched them suffer with social situations, reading notes from their mother as to how to behave when they meet the date. I'll have seen them methodically offer flowers or compliment the other person on their jumper while fixedly staring at their left ear. I'll have wondered, more than once, if my voice does that when I'm monologuing but not have had the courage to ask IT teen.

Then, someone close to me will start talking about the same show. I'll know which aspie they mean before they've even got started and it won't matter if I say, Yes, I've seen it. Off they'll go, about how well the aspie was doing, how sweet they were, how funny they were and didn't they make a good couple at the end?

There will be anecdotes about how the person coped with things or what they said or how they said it. All the while, readers, I'm just dying off inside because the tone of the whole conversation is How Special They Are. And I don't mean special like people who rescue puppies or donate kidneys. The other kind of special, you know the one.

By the time they've finished speaking I am probably wearing the kind of expression that a) shows every muscle in my face is working well and b) makes me look like I just found half a beetle in my dinner.

Will they notice? Erm, well, sometimes no but mostly - and I kid you not - my expression is taken as doubt that they're telling the truth and I then have to endure, 'Oh no, it's true, they did do-' insert the difficult thing that proves aspies are not all hopeless at Life.

At this point, it's totally obvious that either the person has forgotten I'm an aspie or, much more likely, they count the one on TV as a proper aspie. You know, the kind other people have, the kind that need help with things and need dating behaviours explained to them and need to be told not to monologue with new victims.

Not the kind I am or you are, you understand. Not the ones who live in this world, with people who have known them all their lives and seen them struggle with coping, never seem to have a date and never know when to shut up if they have a new obsession.

No, the proper ones, who are on TV and have their various feelings and behaviours narrated, for the benefit of the audience who may need these things explaining so that they can understand and sympathise with the poor wee aspie on screen.

AARRRGGHHHH!!!!

Sorry! I couldn't help it! I mean, really? They need it narrated and they see them as completely different from me who has, for your information, narrated every blooming difficulty I've had to people who should care enough to listen? Does self-narration not count? Is it not a real problem if I'm the one telling you about it?

If an aspie is able to speak for themselves, does that mean they can now go out into the world and manage without incident?

The aspies on the show do plenty of speaking for themselves, it's part of the programme's charm, but the narrator still steps in and explains things, in case we missed it, or to give the aspie's words authenticity. It's true what they said because the narrator repeated it for us.

If I were to meet any of these aspies in the street, would I need to have the narrator there too? Would we understand one another without the extra dialogue? I think we would and I don't think there would be any real difference between me and them. The main difference when they're on screen is that they open up about themselves and the camera singles out their reactions and expressions in a way real-life encounters can sometimes miss.

Readers, it's fair to say that I don't want people in my life to start talking about me as if I'm Special. When I've been on a puppy rescue mission or am inexplicably missing a kidney, then they can talk about me that way. But as an aspie, I don't want to be special and I don't want to be normal either. I just want to be treated like my awkward self, someone you maybe need to keep an eye on but otherwise just a friend.

I'm not begrudging the positive feelings other people have towards the aspies on shows like The Undateables or similar - let them feel as warm and fuzzy as they like. I would just like some recognition that you don't have to be on the TV to be at all lost in life.

Sometimes, it would be good for your sympathetic friends to turn their gaze on you, instead of people they'll never meet and see you as someone who could do with that extra hand at times.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
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Safe havens

Last night I dreamt that I was driving down the centre of a little town on a steep hill. The roads curved and wound round the houses, narrow enough to make me worry about meeting another car. They were so steep I couldn't slow down enough, I just couldn't press any harder on the brake and I was desperately holding the car back in first gear to help slow my descent. I was even bending backwards, away from the steering wheel, as though I could help by pulling that too.

In the dream, the roads were very familiar to me. As I went round one corner, I even thought to myself, I know this road all too well. There were bumps in the surface where it had been covered over too many times and, now I'm awake, I think I was reminded of the old road in the village where I grew up.

Down and down I went, turning more corners and never knowing when I would reach the end. And worse than not knowing, and even worse than the fear of this out-of-control descent, was the knowledge that I had done this before and I'd do it again.

A vague thought went through my head as I drove: 'How many times do I have to travel this road before I know how to drive it properly?'

It doesn't take a psychic to work out that these awful, twisting roads are my route through life. Surrounded by the normality of a town, I am still unable to control my descent and it never seems to end. Even though I've travelled the route before, I still don't know which turn leads to the way out. And I still have the terror of coming up to each junction, not able to stop or even see if there is anything coming.

This is so much like the aspie life, isn't it? That sense of knowing where you are and what you're meant to be doing, but then feeling and acting as if it's the scariest thing in the world and you have no idea what to do. That gut-wrenching terror of being on a downward spiral again, with everything flashing past you and no way to stop.

If it was an uncontrolled spin, then maybe we wouldn't blame ourselves. We could say, there was nothing to be done, I was out of control. But like in the dream, there was some element of control. I had brakes and a gear stick, I had a wheel to change direction; I just couldn't get them to work properly, or to be effective enough to do more than slightly slow me down. Although I wasn't travelling at breakneck speeds, I was going too fast to be safe or in control.

So, fast enough to see it all fly past but slow enough to know what the ride is supposed to be like. Too fast to stop in time, slow enough so you see the junction coming up and have time to flinch back in your seat, braced for impact. Fast enough that I knew I was powerless to do anything, slow enough for me to realise, even in the midst of the dream, that I had my two sons with me.

How much worse is it, in this aspie thrill-ride, to find you're not alone, in a bad way? To be taking your loved ones with you on your uncontrolled spiral into whatever comes after the next junction?

I tried to wrestle control by telling myself to enjoy the ride. This worked as well as you might expect and by the time I reached the bottom of the hill, I was rigid with fear. There was a blip then, and the roads were left behind at last.

My destination was the beach. We were on a normal trip and I knew we were going somewhere nice. The beach is as significant as the twisted roads. The open sea, viewed from a beach, has always meant freedom to me.

From a very early age, my Granda and I would wander along the beach, choosing pebbles and shells, making up imaginary lives for the people in our sand castles. Then we'd go to the ice cream shop and, eventually, he'd say to me, 'Well, Mam will be wondering where we are!' He didn't mean his mother, he meant my Grandma and I used to think it was funny that he pretended to be frightened of her, as if he had to do as he was told.

Funnier still, when we got back she would actually tell him off, about how long we'd been out, why I had only one sock and set off with two, why I was filthy again and why did I have to get more ice cream in my hair than my mouth?

I'd show her the shells I'd collected and she'd purse her lips, nod and say, 'Yes, very nice,' in that clipped way that annoyed grandmothers do so well. I never understood why she couldn't see the magic in the shells and always wondered why she didn't come to the beach too.

Of course, what she was doing was being at home, living a normal life, holding the fort until my (no doubt aspie) Granda came back with small me. She'd have done all of her housework, maybe gone to her job down the hill where she cleaned for a Doctor and his wife. There would be washing on the line and apple pie in the oven for tea. By the time my Granda had his boots off and was in his chair, the tea would be brewing and we'd have biscuits.

My Grandma did all the stuff aspies tend to take for granted, ie she made the world work for us. She liked a nice house, clean and tidy and everything in its place. My Granda could escape to his sheds for some peace but in the house, we did as we were told. She took nothing for granted from the ironing not doing itself to never assuming you could do things later on.

I never used to wonder what she did all day as by the time I was there, she was sitting in the kitchen. I think I assumed she sat in the kitchen when I wasn't there too. But what she did was make sure that the potential chaos of living with my Granda was always waylaid by the order she brought to our lives.

He could be as eccentric as he liked, so long as he took his boots off at the door and kept his wood in the shed. His coat had to be hung at the door too, for smelling of creosote and paint. She could do nothing about his socks and would often sit there, unconsciously glaring at them when he annoyed her. His massive feet, with woollen socks slipping off the ends, somehow offended her in their neat kitchen.

I tell you all this because I realise, finally, that the freedom of the beach is an interlude. The real freedom in our aspie lives is a safe haven, like the one my Grandma made in her later years. A place that was always the same, just as she liked it. The tea trolley wheeled out, home made cake or pie and colourful biscuits. The housework, a secret art to me, made it all stay the same and be as we wanted it too.

I didn't realise at the time that, by coming home to her house, with everything in its place and the step gleaming and wet as we stepped over it, she was making it a home for us as well as herself. She liked things to be a certain way and wouldn't deviate from her standards, but she did it because that was how you made a house a home for your family.

When we came back from the beach, my Granda grinning at the thought of his 'Mam' being angry, he always had a small pot of ice cream in one hand for her. He'd pass it over, without ceremony, and she'd take it, not meeting his eyes because she was busy being mad at us and couldn't afford to see the glint dancing in the blue.

Later, as we ate apple pie, she would eat her ice cream, savouring it. Then she complimented it, once it was safely past the time when her compliment could in any way be mixed up with our earlier telling off. She still wouldn't look at my Granda as she did it though because, right on cue, his eyes lit up and waited to catch her unawares.

My dream reminded me that I'm always, in some way, out of control on a steep hill. I'm never going to have my foot off the pedal, even if I'm on a flat road. That's just the way it is and I do have to take things as they come and not panic the whole time.

However, I shouldn't always be heading to the beach. Escape isn't a necessity, freedom is a word with many places to call its own. I think, too often, I assume that the next corner, or the next, will grant me the freedom and serenity I've been looking for, if I can just get there safely.

I've had it wrong, readers. That freedom and serenity doesn't have to be a big, wide open space like the beach, it can be a small, safe space like home. Our havens are what we make them and aren't always hidden round unseen bends in the road. Sometimes, they've been here all along, just where we are, ready for us to notice them.

Today, I'm going to take another look around me and see what is right in front of my face, instead of what is out of reach. It's time for me to appreciate the safe haven close to hand, for a change, the one that doesn't mean setting off at speed, my children in tow, as I hunt for the next step to freedom.

This time, readers, I'm looking just across the room to see what was always with me.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
Find me on Facebook.and Twitter!

So, routine is an aspie thing?

I'm not really arguing with this one. As I've said before, routine can be a wonderful thing, a soothing counter-balance to the ways of the world. It can make you feel in control as well as reassure you that everything has a purpose and there won't be any nasty surprises.

But it's also a stick to beat us with. I've often heard other people go on about how their aspie won't deviate from a routine, how they couldn't do a certain thing because it clashed with the routine. I've even been accused of it myself, when I've not wanted to do something spontaneous because I could see the day stretched out ahead of me in a planned way.

I think the only time I've heard routine and aspies being seen as wholly positive is when some poor child is being shoe-horned into school and their parents say that the part their little aspie likes is the school routine, that they find it comforting. Any other time and the aspie who loves routines is seen as a fly in the ointment of this grand world, full of opportunity and diversity. Right?

Well...I'd like to put my hand up here and resist the temptation to poke you in the eye with it. You see, from my point of view, I say that the world in general also loves routine. That as much as you criticise the aspie for being a fixed creature, the world seems trapped in the same way.

For instance, what is routine exactly? To the aspie, it's the way that things should be done, either the way they are organised or thought of, or simply the events that make up any given day or hour. Routine is simply a word to hang lots of different things on which mean something to the person and which are often repeated.

For the world at large, routine means something being done over and over. The definition is:

A sequence of actions regularly followed; a fixed program.

So, to the world, the aspie follows a sequence of actions regularly, as if their lives exist within a fixed program. All right then, that may be true, but the whole world is the same!


This fixed program could apply to how we behave towards each other, from the small routines of how we greet one another to the more complex ones of how we should behave within conversations and social situations. Aspies do not follow the routines of social situations, both large and small - we are often in trouble because of this, so we know it's true.

The world is also routine when it comes to how we should progress through life. It is an accepted routine to go through school, get a job, progress in your career, meet someone and settle down and so on. These are seen as natural progressions in the world, the routine of life in so many ways.

The aspie may not be able to move through these stages in the same way or may stall and go back. In many ways, the aspie won't progress past the school part, as all of life is a learning experience and there is always something new to discover.

For the great journey of life, aspies buck the trend and don't usually follow the routine prescribed as the norm. Life goes on, people send their babies to nursery school and we all sing the same song, again.

The routine of dating is a big one, don't you think? Girls' magazines thrive on it, womens' magazines make a business out of the more seasoned daters who want to learn the rules for grown up dating and relationship ethics. To the aspie, this seems like an absolute miasma of confusion. Every rule seems written for a different handbook from the one we were given.

The smaller routines, like how to order in a restaurant, how you behave at the table, what you should and should not be doing with the knives and forks, how many napkins you're allowed to use and why no one else is washing the spoon with vinegar: all these little things, easily accessible to non-aspies, as a normal routine, have to be learned by the aspie.

If we don't follow the routine, we draw stares and are possibly accused of being too fixed in our silly routines to enjoy dining out - our routines involving having the right table, not sitting in the chair facing the other diners, having enough time to study the menu, calling to the waitress before she's ready to come back, asking for another glass, using all the napkins because you needed one for your lap, one to keep for after the meal, the one wet with vinegar so you could wash the spoon and the spare one just in case.

The routines of normal dining are broken up by the aspie routines of enjoyable/safe/healthy dining. The routines of conversation also fall foul of the aspie approach, as do so many other routines, encountered on a daily basis and treated as being what everyone does, until the aspie wanders along and ricochets through them, scattering them in all directions and wondering what the fuss is about.

You see, our silly routines, which are so important to us, are seen as a quirk of personality and they are an annoying quirk because we often follow them despite what is seen as acceptable. But I would ask, how is this so different from the routines imposed on us all by modern society? Why is it not a routine to do things in a certain way, but it is a routine for me to do things my own way?

What makes society the judge of a routine? Why does it see its own routines as normal behaviour, when so many aspies exist within society and probably don't do things the same way? Why are society's routines so rigid but must be followed when mine have to be pushed aside and dismissed?

Yes, I acknowledge that the routines within society are there for the benefit of a great many people whereas mine are just for me (and anyone else who wants a really clean spoon), but they are big and little brothers. Routine does not change to suit the moment: it either is a routine or it is not.

Don't pretend the big brother routine, grinning behind you in the playground is just what everybody does then call my little brother routine, hiding next to the fence, a silly obsession which helps nobody. They are part of the same family, you just have to take a better look at them.

The problem is that my routines are always going to seem very small compared to everyone else's and my arguments for keeping them are not as good as the arguments for following the ones other people like. This is why aspies keep to their routines in a more muted, private way, so as not to incur discussion or ridicule. If we know that you'll be embarrassed when we ask for more napkins, we'll be careful to ask when you're not looking, but we'll still ask.

Just remember, though, how uncomfortable you feel when we do something outside the norm and outside your comfort zone. It's not good, is it? That niggledy feeling at the back of your neck, like a cold finger just nipped you there. It's much better to feel happy and comfortable when things are done the right way, don't you agree?

Yes, so do we.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
Find me on Facebook.and Twitter!

Keeping a close eye on myself

Yes, that's what I'm doing today. In fact, I'm watching myself like a hawk as I'm very close to veering off on a tangent and doing things which help nobody, least of all me!

My post about making my way in the world was full of good intentions not to run off in different directions, trying to make money in ways that don't suit my personality. Well, yes, I remember everything I said in that post but last night I found myself on a wholesale website.

Gosh, but I love those wholesale websites! Just like the Hoarders who fill their homes with bargains, I fill my head with all the loveliness that other people are sure to want to buy from me, at a profit. The items look so good and they seem to shine off the page, smiling with promises to do the right thing, this time.

I actually filled out a shopping basket and it was a sensible one, readers. It was mostly full of things I have bought and sold before, so for once I wasn't rushing in blind. And I even went back and deleted a few items, this seemed to prove to me that I was being level-headed about it.

To be honest, I'm still not sure if I'm doing the right thing in not ordering or in making the order. It's so hard to tell. I could list to you very good reasons why all the items I want to buy will sell and estimate how much profit I'll make on each. I can even tell you how I'm factoring in extra costs, so that I'm not left out of pocket.

Sounds okay, doesn't it? It does to me, too, except that I know me all too well. Either I'll have left out some vital detail which just slipped away down the back of the cosmic sofa, or I'll find that what sells once doesn't necessarily sell twice, by which time I'll have bought ten.

On top of all that (and the reason I became suspicious of myself), buying these things is FUN. Yes, fun and profitable, fun and sensible, fun and grown-up. Hmm, there seems to be a common theme there.

There is the suspicion that if it's fun it isn't proper work and probably isn't a good idea. If something is fun then I'm more likely to do it and by being more likely to do it, I'm also more likely to ignore any objections.

No one knows I've been clicking away on the wholesale websites again so there were no objections this time. The thing is, as I sold the same things last time, maybe objections wouldn't come into it. And there is my dilemma.

Am I now so untrusting of myself, so necessarily paranoid of my bursts of energy and good intentions, that I can no longer recognise a real idea, a good one, when I come across it? Is everything so clouded in what I've done wrong in the past that the plans which might work are passed over, just because I promised I would?

By trying to keep on the right track, am I actually harming myself this time? And how do you tell?

Normally, people tell the difference by discussing their ideas with other people but, like me, my friends and family now have an automatically negative reaction to my new ideas. Then, if they listen a bit more as I explain and ask for advice, I can make it sound just so deliciously good, they cave anyway and are swept along in the thrill of the moment and the hope for the future.

Where does the truth lie in all of this? For a non-aspie with judgement that doesn't waver off the road and end up in the ditch, then truth usually lies somewhere between the extremes. For an aspie, extremes are often the order of the day and the truth can be whatever we choose.

If the truth happens to be that I should buy these items again because they sold in the past, is my distrust of myself based on experiences with other ideas that didn't work or are my instincts telling me something? If I give it time, will an extra factor pop up, one I simply didn't notice before, that would prove those doubts to be right?

And I must tell you, readers, my doubts are small. They are only there in the first place because I suddenly recognised the happy glow I was feeling from the laptop as I trawled through the wholesale websites. It was an alarm bell and I stopped to look at what I was doing. Then, and only then, I wondered if I was doing it all again.

This next fortnight, I have lots of jobs to do with my writing. I have a fiction book to bring to life, a poetry book to complete, a non-fiction book to polish off and I'm also working on a book based around this blog (ta-da!). None of these endeavours will bring me instant money, though hopefully they will be popular in the future. I do wonder if my brain threw in the lure of the wholesale sites to steer me off doing any or all of the above?

Am I trying to get myself off track, due to the fear of success? Am I more comfortable in the familiar behaviour of trying something new and hoping for the best, instead of staying where I am and making that everything it could be?

Am I, in fact, self-sabotaging? And if I am, why the heck would I do that? I love writing, I love the whole process of it, from the first word to having the book in my hands. I could just kick myself, readers! Would I really be so shamefacedly silly as to risk that, again?

Maybe I would, or maybe I'm going off on another tangent and blaming myself for all kinds of things when what I should be doing is congratulating myself instead. You see, unlike all the other times, I stopped. I saw myself and stopped before I clicked Buy. I hesitated and thought about it, making time for me to step back and decide if this was a plan that would help me or something else that would sit in a box in the corner of my bedroom.

I still haven't made up my mind but, for now, I'm holding back. I'll wait and see what happens when the glow has worn off and I've consulted people who know me at my worst. Then I'll wait some more and, with a bit of luck, spend some of that waiting time doing what I'm supposed to do and write the books!

Watch this space, readers. Cross your fingers that the next few blog posts are not delayed as I wade into the warm, welcoming waters of ebay selling. If there is any delay, just hope I'm sitting there, lost in new worlds and seeing the grand adventures of my characters as they battle themselves and other evils.

After all, isn't that what we all do, every day?

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
Find me on Facebook.and Twitter!

It's just that I don't care...

Now, come on, aspies, if you were all being brutally, exquisitely honest, how many times have you been tempted to respond with, 'I don't care how you feel, do what you like.' Insert other suitable words instead of feel, such as cry, or behave, or anything that other people do and expect a response for and away you go.

The emotional detach can be a wonderful thing, if you happen to be in the middle of a hurtful situation and there is no fast way out. This ability to disconnect and feel only the soothing waves of placid emotion, or to feel a numbness, a cosy blankness inside, it can be a life-saver - perhaps literally.

It's not that we are depressed, though it maybe sounds like that. It's more fundamental: it is a retreat into an inner place that is untouched by the stupendously irritating world of emotions. We are there, you are outside and you are not getting in.

This is an extreme reaction, often to a series of smaller events or one big one, where the aspie drifts away. It's a quiet meltdown, an unnoticed one. It is a leaving behind of the worries of the day and retreating to somewhere else.

But in the middle of this serenity, which can be so good for us, is the other side of the coin. What happens when this wonderful calm becomes a disinterest in someone else's feelings or situation? This is where I need you to read this honestly and not tut to yourself about what a horror I am and how you would never do that.

It's the old lack of empathy argument at work. Let's look at it like that, from the non-aspie side of life. You have a crisis or a difficult situation, you need to explain and talk about it and your aspie glazes over and asks you what time you'll be making dinner. You repeat how you feel, it's obvious your aspie didn't get the point of what you said. You state, without subtlety, that you are upset and need support.

Your aspie, devastatingly, says, 'Hmm, I know, you already said.' And they go back to what they were doing.

You challenge them and ask why they don't care, what about all the times you supported them? Doesn't it work both ways?

At this point, you may get some emotional reaction, as it is a good way of reminding the aspie that you're the one clearing up after their sensory blowouts and so, perhaps, you deserve some support in return. Or, you may get another terrible reply, like, 'Yes, but what can I do to help? There's nothing I can do is there?'

Logically, in so many situations, there is nothing your aspie can do to help, so they lose interest and turn away. You've talked about your problem, they've ascertained there is nothing to be done and that's that.

Well, it is as bad as it sounds, frankly. Your aspie truly is turning away from you at this point. They are saying they can't or won't help and they're serious when they ask about dinner. There really is no limit to the selfishness sometimes.

From the aspie side of things, it is as logical as not being able to help you but there is more to it. Your stress and upset and wailing is so distracting from being an aspie. Sometimes, aspies are just getting through their day, being themselves and doing stuff that works and doesn't make the feelings muddy. Then you come and are saying all these things which make life complex and demanding and actually need a response from the aspie - a response that has nothing to do with the aspie themselves.

They don't want to deal with your drama. Life is full of drama, it's like always living on stage with the lights shining down and someone shouting, 'Cut!' just when you got to the good bit. You can never work out what's going on because no one gave you a script so it's a constant improvisation, with real-life consequences.

Then, on top of all that, the very person who is meant to make it all more bearable and shout cues from the front of the stage, they hop up onto the boards and start improvising too and expect you to join in! And they expect you to be able to be able to shout cues to them and make it all bearable.

When did that happen? When did it become the aspie's remit to sort out anyone else's problems? And anyway, how often have we offered you advice and had it laughed at or tossed away as impractical? Aspies don't forget, you know. It may be that the advice we gave before was laughable but we still offered it, we gave it thought and tried to help, in our way.

And now, after all that, with the drama of the stage and the previously unwanted advice, you now want us to step up and make it all better? Really?

Yes, behind very turning away there is a lot of anger, fused together with the stress of life itself and the belief that you should stay in your role as supportive other, the cue-giver who does not belong on the stage and should only be waiting to make life okay when the aspie cannot stand the glare of the lights for one more second.

Horrible, horrible aspie. If we were totally honest, we might offer up, 'I just don't care,' as our first response. In a way, it would be completely true. We don't have enough left to care about your problems because by caring, they become our own and we live them and see them and feel them. Most often, you see, it isn't a lack of empathy that plagues us but a mis-placed empathy that, once released, knows no bounds and will not go back in the box.

Better, then, to avoid helping in the first place and keep a tight grip on that Zen-like calm we hold so dear. Better to fob you off with an unkind word and hope you're feeling better soon, so that we don't have to worry we'll be alone on the stage.

Better that we don't give in to the panic and the rage and the suppressed emotions which sway us into the path of imminent disaster, suddenly, terrifyingly, taking you with us because it is your disaster this time and we have to come along for the ride.

Yes, behind every calm face and blank response is an aspie staring into the spotlights, wondering who lies behind in the unseen theatre. Where will the next voice come from? What shall we say this time? Will we have good lines or bad? What action takes us forward to the next stage of the story?

Forgive me, readers, I am an unkind aspie and perhaps your aspie is unkind too. Sometimes, the best you can hope for in the middle of a crisis is for your hand to be touched on the way past or for some flowers to be ripped from the garden and placed, in size order, in a vase where you might see them.

And sometimes, the last thing you want is an aspie trying to solve your problems because once we get a hold of something, we can't let go and you never know where you might end up. Better to stick with the flowers and just get on with making tea. It will be all right, so long as we are together.

Amanda

My books and writing blog, with free stuff.
Find me on Facebook.and Twitter!