Aspies For Freedom

I was born healthy. No problems during labour.
I was born healthy. No problems during labour.

My proud parents brought me home and showed me off to friends and family.
My proud parents brought me home and showed me off to friends and family.

I got colic, screamed with the agony of it, drawing my knees up in pain.
I got colic, screamed with the agony of it, drawing my knees up in pain.

Mother rocked me, nursed me, gave me colic medicine, and calmed me with soothing words.
Mother rocked me, nursed me, gave me colic medicine, and calmed me with soothing words.

I lay in her arms, stiff with distress, glaring over her shoulder while my concentration focussed on the pain.
I lay in her arms, stiff with distress, glaring over her shoulder while my concentration focussed on the pain.

She kept on talking, soothing, calming me until I fell asleep with sheer exhaustion.
She kept on talking, soothing, calming me until I fell asleep with sheer exhaustion.

After a few days Mother had discovered by trial and error what triggered my colic, changed her diet, my tummy stopped hurting and I was comfortable again.

After a few days Mother took me to the doctor, who advised bottle feeding. Mother bought the best bottles and formula and my tummy stopped hurting.

Mother would read to me as I nursed, eyes closed, or unfocussed, in bliss.

Mother would watch television as I nursed, eyes closed, or unfocussed, in bliss.

Sometimes Mother would laugh, and ask if I could see her Guardian Angel, when I stared past her shoulder during nappy changes, fascinated by the contrast between her dark hair and the pale wall behind her.

Sometimes Mother would cry, and ask why she had a baby who didn’t like her, when I stared past her shoulder during nappy changes, fascinated by the contrast between her dark hair and the pale wall behind her.

Mother kept up a wall of happy chat all the time I was awake,bouncing in my rocker. She would comment on all the wonderful and exciting things that surrounded me. Gradually, the meaning behind the noise came into focus and I started to respond with noises of my own. Then, one day I found the source of the words, and stared intently at Mother’s mouth as she spoke to me.

The television kept up a  wall of random sounds all the time I was awake, lying in my cot with nothing to look at. Gradually I became more and more lonely and miserable as I tried to discern any meaning behind the racket. Then one day I found the source of the noise and stared intently at the brightly coloured screen of the television as it spoke to me.

She would stop talking and wait, ever so patiently, for me to wriggle and squirm, and with an almighty effort make a new noise in response.

It never stopped making a noise, and although I wriggled and squirmed with effort, it never noticed how hard I was trying to respond to it.

I learned to speak, learned the word that meant Mother was talking to ME. I learnt that the soothing stories came from the books she held and one day realised the correlation between speech and the marks on the page.

I learned that I could change the picture and the volume of noise with the remote control and then one day realised the correlation between the numbers on the screen and the marks on the buttons.

Now I could choose the story I wanted to read while rocking in my favourite chair.

Now I could choose the channel I wanted to listen to while spinning and flapping.

I would get upset when the book was taken away so that Mother could give me food, or change the clothes I was wearing, but she soothed me and explained that I would have it back as soon as I had finished.

I would get upset when the remote was taken away so that Mother could give me food, or change the clothes I was wearing, and she would shout at me and I would scream and kick and bite and bang my head on the wall.

Then came the day I was old enough for school.

Then came the day I was old enough for school.

The teacher told Mother that I was ‘odd’ and recommended she take me to a psychologist, who diagnosed me as being on the high-functioning end of the Autism Spectrum.

The principal told Mother that I was too retarded for their school and recommended she take me to a psychologist, who diagnosed me as being on the low-functioning end of the Autism Spectrum.

I had an aide who helped me by explaining everything the teacher and the other students said. I made friends who liked to look after me in the playground.

I had a therapist who tried to stop me spinning and flapping. She withheld the remote until I repeated sounds back at her or stared at her eyes.

I loved art and doodled through my maths lessons as I couldn’t grasp the whole idea, so the details were meaningless.

I screamed and cried, bit and scratched and banged my head as I couldn’t grasp the whole idea, so the details were meaningless.

I was given remedial lessons so that I could at least learn to handle money and do basic arithmetic. My principal recommended a special dispensation for Art college.

I was restrained and drugged so that I could learn to handle my emotions and do basic communication. My therapist recommended an institution.

I am now starting out on a Fine Arts degree, and have a special friend on the same course who helps me to follow the sometimes confusing rules and rituals by explaining when I get it wrong.

I am now a student at the JRC and have a special backpack that I wear which helps me to follow the sometimes confusing rules and rituals by giving me agonising electric shocks when I get it wrong.

ah, the great trousers of time...
here comes the science!

but seriously, this does highlight the effect that parenting can have on the development stage of Autism, and is a sobering reminder....
that some of us, may have gotten "lucky" with our skills...

Did you write this, Tigger?  It's very good.

Seconded and thirded - I can imagine you'll get some interesting responses if you post it on the Autism Speaks forums... *grins*

Yes, it is all my own work. Thank you for the compliment! *Blushes shyly*

If Gareth and Amy like it too, they can have the copyright for AFF. I only want to share how I feel - I  have seen so many babies and young children ignored and treated as burdens. Some may bounce back from the experience, but it is so much harder for children on the spectrum, who have to learn everything intellectually rather than instinctively. It is a composite story based on little incidents from my life and those I have read about.

I don't want anyone here to feel that the story is based on them, as it isn't - hence the anonymity of the genderless first person narrative.

Oh, Tigger, that's wonderful! I have tears rolling down my face now...sniff!  In a good way, but sad for those children whose parents don't "get it".

I've thought for a long time about children just like my son whose parents, for whatever reason, don't let them do their thing or demand the impossible of them and the child ends up on Ritalin.

And JRC and the electric shocks.....  I read the thread on that monstrous place last night, dreamt/nightmared about it and it was the first thing I thought of when I woke up.

hit me in a similar way...
lets just be grateful that we actually know about it, eh?

Tigger thats amazing!

you should either post it on the Autspeaks forums or send a copy of the writing so it can be showcased.

if you would like I can add it to the wikipedia article on the JRC center?

Don't add it to Wikipedia- it's in no way the kind of thing that belongs there.  It will (quite rightly) be regarded as POV-pushing vandalism and be deleted almost instantly.

It really is a wonderful piece of writing Tig.  I really like the structure and how it's the same up until the point where the mother takes the child to the doctor and then the television as opposed to attention.  It's a good story to make parent's realise just how much difference their attention makes.

Love your work, Tigger.

Fascinating!

Excellent work!

I identify with the situation, but to a "lighter" degree. I was a child on the black print side of things until me mum died when I was seven. Dad's new wife was as bad or worse than the blue print parent. I have often thought that I would be more functional today if mum hadn't died .

You have certainly captured the essence of the situation, and your structure illustrates it very well. Very nicely done!

I am so sorry about your mother, outsideL00kinN.

A neighbour died when her daughter was seven. Her father eventually met someone who seemed like the 'evil step-mother' from tales of old. The poor girl spent a lot of her time hiding in our house. Eventually the evil one stabbed the father during an argument; luckily her big brother was in the the dad's car and jumped into the driver's seat and drove off at high speed. A police car stopped him, then praised his careful (?!) driving, under the circumstances, and accompanied them to the hospital with the siren and lights going. Luckily the father survived, and no charges were laid against the lad for driving underage.

Thank you everyone for your kind remarks.

I was most worried when I wrote that piece that some parents might think that I was implying that it was their fault that their child was lower functioning  - I would like to point out that this is in no way the case. As I said, the story is fiction.

I do not pretend to have any idea why each of us has different strengths and weaknesses, but all the parents I have met on here have been trying their hardest to improve the lives of their children, by trying to see the world from their child's point of view - and that is the best kind of parent anyone can have.

Both realities look pretty shitty to me.

It's probably just in comparison to my own situation.

oh ok then!