Toilets.

I am terrified of using a strange toilet and will do anything not to go near a public one. A bush is fine or squashed between the car and the open door. Other people say that they have it too, but they mean that they don’t like the mess or the lack of comfort or even maybe the smell. I worry and shake and picture what it will be like for days before and for years and years afterwards. As I approach an unknown loo, my mind will sift through every picture of everything that I have ever seen. The overflowing youth hostel in Greece in 1987 to the train station in Ayutthaya last year. I don’t want these images in my head and want to tear out my eyes so I can’t see them anymore. But they would still be in there because they are a constant feature of my nightmares too. I am frightened of what I will see or hear or smell. I am told that I talk about every visit to the toilet far too much, but once I have seen it, it is too late. The image is stored, and I will see it forever. I start to retch even before arrival in the cubicle. Well, first I cough and then I retch. It is the same with travel sickness. The coughing is the warning sign. And the exact same thing happens if someone else is sick. For years, Pete has had to mop up the car sickness because I run retching into the hills.

Getting lost inside.

This is still a toilet thing normally.  For some reason, I get lost trying to exit the ladies’ loos in hotels and restaurants and any other unknown building.  I managed to get in there but getting out looks completely different and doesn’t have the same signs to guide me.  If I remember, then I turn around on the way in and try to remember the exit.  I tell myself the directions and try to picture something that will help.  Ok, so you have to go left and then past the plastic plant and round the back of blue table.  I end up standing somewhere looking around and have a small panic about where I am.  I know that it will be ok.  I can’t be far away but for a moment I panic about how this has happened.  Why am I so stupid?  I used a hotel spa with various saunas and strange steamy things once, but I couldn’t remember which was the exit door.  I didn’t try for very long, couldn’t find it, and sat down and cried.  When I finally escaped, I was drained and shaking.  Everyone else thought that this was very funny, so I tried to pretend that I thought the same thing.  I have learned that being funny or doing weird things is why people like me, and so I indulge in this with them. 

Department stores

I have always wondered why I get really flustered and uncomfortable in these large shops. I had no idea that there was such a thing as Asperger’s for women and had never considered having sensory issues and overload. Even if I had been told about these things, I would most definitely have denied that they could affect such a sociable and successful individual as me.

Firstly, I always get lost.  Well, more disorientated than lost, since I have no clue where I am supposed to be going anyway.  I can’t find the stairs and can never exit in the same recognisable place that I entered.  I feel really hot and dizzy; my skin feels prickly and itchy.  I have always presumed that I am just a rubbish woman who doesn’t understand how to shop.  I can take my coat off but then holding it on one side feels irritating and wrong.  It’s the same sensation with hand-bags.  I can cope with a cross body strap, and in fact, love having my things pinned to my front where I can see them and easily access them.  I prefer a backpack, but then it becomes awkward and complicated to remove and swing to the front.  I then end up kneeling on the floor rummaging to find what I need.  Not at all dignified and I feel like the grandma who can’t find her purse.  But a normal type of hand- bag only sits on one side which is very uncomfortable and wrong.  I can’t run with just one water bottle on one side for the same reason.  One in each hand is fine.  Maybe I need 2 identical hand- bags?

Back in the store, I wander around looking at things from a distance.  Sometimes I touch something, and I know that the material is too scratchy.  I love a fluffy fleece really, but Pete thinks that I probably have enough of those already.  I also like soft velvet but touching that makes him shudder, so I tend to stay away from it.  I can’t stand fuss and frills, lots of straps, or dangly bits, or tassels or belts.  I gravitate towards things that are bright and patterned but force myself away to look for something more sophisticated.  But I have no idea what on earth that is or what that means.  I don’t know which me I am anymore, so I have even less idea who it is that I am trying to dress.  

Gifts – why should I see this? (The line in my head is Mrs Bennetts!)

The absolutely worst thing of all is receiving presents.  I have kept this hidden from at least most people for most of my life because I presumed that I was a really unkind and ungrateful person.  I have not kept this hidden from my family who therefore think that I am an unkind and ungrateful person.  I have listened to my son say that the convention of surprise gifts is ridiculous and why should he buy something for someone that they haven’t asked for and probably don’t want.  Although I agreed with this, I also recognised that this is not the perceived wisdom of everyone else and so I tried to do it their way. 

I only succeeded a little bit, on occasions, but I really did try.  I start to worry and panic days before a situation that might result in a gift. I practice my responses days before. Why would I want something that I didn’t choose and probably don’t want? Why is this something to be grateful for? Why do I have to pretend to appreciate something that I don’t like, don’t want, probably don’t need and did not have any involvement in choosing?  Why can’t I say this without causing offence? Being given a gift that ‘isn’t me’ really upsets me and it can be days or longer before I calm down or stop thinking about it.

I have never wanted to lie about gifts and have found that really difficult and ridiculous, but even worse was Father Christmas.  I did not understand why we were going to lie to our children about some crazy man who would only visit the house if they were ‘good’.  And I did not understand why they should get lots of things for which they did not need to thank anyone and did not even need to respect because they could always point out that we didn’t pay for it.  I said that it would backfire and that our son would be really upset when he found out.  He was.  He couldn’t comprehend why we had lied in this way and I completely understood but again was sucked into conformity and told him that everyone needed a big of magic.  Lying is magic now is it?  I will never understand people!

Underwear

Why must I wear extra layers of material containing hooks and clasps and fiddliness beyond comprehension?  For years and years, I refused to wear a bra, and if possible did not wear knickers either.  Trying to get into a bra is an obstacle course waiting to trip you up.  The clip has to be controlled at the front, but then needs to go to the back, and the straps need adjusting but I have to take the entire thing off to do this, and if they are not entirely equal in position, then I need to start again.  The bits of plastic that control the straps are far too painful to be placed directly on my shoulders, so the bra is probably too tight or too loose, and why must I have a piece of metal intruding into my front.  How is this helpful?  Knickers do not present the same challenge, but they are uncomfortable.  I only want to feel one layer of fat wobbling about, and knickers encase some of the skin, but let the rest creep over the top.  If tights are needed, then this is a disaster because they do exactly the same thing, so why wear them both.  And, I have always put another pair of knickers on top of the tights because I hate the sensation of slipping and moving.  Reading that back now, I do wonder if that is normal?  I have always thought that I could easily get into being a naturalist: just so much easier. 

Clumsy and clothes.

I break everything.  The delicate necklace chain, the pearl bracelet, every light fitting and smoke alarm that I have ever tried to fix, scissors, tin openers, glasses, tubes of toothpaste and anything remotely fiddly really.  And everything else breaks me.

Chopping vegetables always makes me shake and I have never understood why, but it was only when my physical symptoms became unmanageable that I started trying to find help and diagnosis.  I am incredibly frustrated if I can’t do something; I am angry at myself for not being good enough. I tell myself to concentrate and to stop being so stupid, but I can’t chop, and I can’t cut and normally spill, splash and drop everything.  I can manage to grate cheese and carrots, but only as long as everyone is fine with the skin from my knuckles being included in the dish.  I do have a food processor that could do this but I pushed the carrots in too far and too hard and so broke the bowl and covered the coleslaw in shards of plastic.

 Trying on clothes is a physical attack on all of my senses.  The heat, the confined space, the forced multi-sided views of my body and then the top, which has probably been tried on by someone else.  The label gets twisted and my arm doesn’t fit.  If there is a small thread, I pull it and the top unravels or the buttons pop off and I try to escape.  I’m not sure what I am doing when I try to buy clothes.  I feel like I am rehearsing for a new play and need to assemble some props.  What does this character need for this role?  How do they want to be seen?  Do they want to be seen at all?  I gravitate to very bright clothes which my daughter says are too childish and calls them my ‘toddler tops’.  I thought that these things were just external displays of my outgoing and extrovert personality.  If this is not really my personality, if not knowing what to say, or how to say it, or when to shut up, is not actually a sign of the super confident wacky out-there person that I thought I had created, then maybe these clothes aren’t mine either?

Hats

I love wearing hats. Woolly hats are my favourite and I am rarely seen without a brightly coloured hat from the end of September until at least the next May.  I find umbrellas far too fiddly and too lop sided for my body so prefer a hat just in case.  For the summer I have berets and caps of all shapes and sizes.  Everyone tells me that I am really brave to wear a hat.  I don’t understand this at all; I wear a hat for protection.  I feel that I am less able to be seen if I am wearing a hat despite the very obvious fact the opposite is actually true.  When I was interviewed by the American police who thought that I set fire to the house, I found a charity shop and bought a hat.  I felt braver somehow. 

Jewellery

I wonder if it is this pressure to conform that causes so many of my physical symptoms.  I can feel my hands shaking when I try to wear a pretty piece of jewellery that has been bought for me.  Often, if it is particularly delicate, I break the chain or the clasp within seconds of taking it out of the box.  And if I do manage to extricate the item from the packaging then I will immediately get the chain tangled and knotted so that it is unwearable.  Who invented something so stupid that if moved it ties itself up in knots, and also, why should I want something so sexist that I need a man to fix the ridiculously small clasp for me?  It makes me feel uncomfortable and I don’t know why.  I think that this jewellery looks like something that a sophisticated, grown up woman should be wearing.  I can see that, and I can say that to myself, but I don’t understand who that woman is, and it certainly isn’t me.  And because I don’t believe that this is intended for me, I make the natural conclusion that the gift giver does not like me and that they are trying to change me into the sort of person who would be able to cope with delicate and feminine chains of gold.  I shake when I am trying to put make-up on and even when trying to dry my hair.  I smear the lipstick across my teeth and blink so often that I need to remove the mascara and start again.  Don’t get me wrong, I really like to look nice.  In my head I want to look nice, but my body often disagrees, and I just can’t get it right.  I think that maybe my body is shouting at me for trying too hard or being too fake or maybe I am just too clumsy. 

Nail polish.  Why?

Sometimes I try to be feminine and paint my nails. Most times, because I have no patience, the colour is smeared before it has had chance to dry and I remove it again. If I do manage to create a coat, then within an hour it has started to feel like an intrusion on my body and I start to scratch it all off. I even scratched off gels, which I am told you are not supposed to be able to do. Finger- nails annoy me too. They hurt too much and so I cut them short. And as for facial hair, is it supposed to be that painful? How do men cope? I can feel a solitary black hair starting to force its way out and am inconsolable trying to scratch, pick and pull at my skin.

I thought that all of this was normal, but now I am wondering?

Every moment of every day and most of the moments through the night, I reflect on what I have said and what I didn’t say; what everyone else said and what they didn’t say and whether or not I should or should not have done any of that. I plan in advance so I know what I am going to discuss. I presumed that was what everyone did. I write lists and print off articles which might help me provide evidence for my planned debates. I presumed that this was a positive attribute of mine and never understood why it didn’t seem to be well received or reciprocated.

I write everything down before, during and after interactions or lack of them, and then I read it out loud to myself over and over. If the opportunity arises, I tell everyone all about all of this. I need to discuss every word and every thought. I always thought that I was curious and caring and that I was just more able to analyse than other people. I presumed that they would have liked to be more like me. I thought I was adding to the discussion.

Having listened to Tony Attwood’s recent webcast, I realise that I am one of his ‘Italian drivers’ who doesn’t see the traffic lights and has no idea when or where to stop.

Fitting in – or not.

I don’t remember much about my childhood, but I do remember that I was on my own lots.  During the lunch hour, I helped the teachers fill up the paint pots or tidy the scissors.  I refused to gallop around the playground pretending to be a horse – how ridiculous, and I tried to befriend every waif and stray that came along.  I would have a friend for a while, but then they would move on and I never understood why they didn’t take me with them.  I never, ever, realised any of this until I looked back with my new filter of Asperger’s.  I feel quite embarrassed and sorry for myself, but it does explain a lot.  When I tried to join groups, I would spot their lack of organisation and ideas and offer to sort it all out for them. They would often suggest a request or complaint that needed explaining to someone else or to a teacher and they would ask me to do it.  They always promised to be with me and to back me up.  They never did, but I just presumed that I was more confident than them and less scared of authority. 

Acting. Which is the same as masking isn’t it?

I did seem to fit in better for a while by taking the lead roles in all of the school plays, joining theatre groups and taking elocution lessons and speech exams.  Maybe I didn’t fit in, but I didn’t feel as lonely.  To be honest, looking back, I was surrounded by mainly gay boys or very strong and stroppy girls, so they probably didn’t pay much attention to me.  Theatre and Drama were all I cared about.  Every day, and every weekend I was taking part in something that involved acting.  I wrote my own plays and have newspaper clippings of the various awards that I won.  I think that my new fame allowed everyone to excuse, or at least try to overlook, my ‘eccentricities’.  On the rare occasion that I have found someone on Facebook, they always ask if I am a famous actress.  Obviously, I have always said no, but I realise that while I may not be famous, I have clearly been very successful at it.  I didn’t just fool all of them; I fooled myself as well.

If anyone asks about my life, I tell them that is like the scene in Love Actually where Emma Thompson realises that her husband has bought a necklace for someone else. The awful truth hits her, she goes into her bedroom and cries, she wanders around trying to calm herself and distracts herself by tidying the bed. She composes herself, wipes the tears away and goes back to join in with just a bit too much enthusiasm. That is how it is to be me. Over and over and over again.

Topics for conversation

Apparently, I go on and on about everything and normally end up offending someone.  They refuse to speak to me again and I sit and cry on the bathroom floor, not knowing or understanding what I have done.  I always ask people loads of questions about what they do, where they go and what they think.  I try to remember some family names so that I can ask again next time and I am always interested in any trips that they have planned.  I want to know their plans and have always been quite baffled by how little they seem to know about what they are doing.  I have always presumed that me diving in and creating an itinerary is incredibly helpful and that they will be grateful for suggestions that facilitate a much better schedule.  No-one ever told me that this is what I need, but not them.  I had no idea? 

Next, I listen out for topics that they seem to be interested in. It might be Politics or religion or health or exercise or children or whatever. I don’t do it on purpose, and had never ever considered this until now, but I then become a specialist in their field of interest and even have handy articles or books in my bag ready to prove any points that I might make. I always thought that people would be eager to learn new things about something that they were already interested in. I presumed that they would want to debate any issues and be exposed to opposing facts and views. As it has now been brought to my attention, that these are not the rules with which most people play the game: I now understand why I normally lose.

Why did no-one tell me the rules?

I have asked my husband and my daughter why they never told me any of this stuff. If they all knew that there are rules for behaviour, meeting people, saying too much or too little, telling the truth or not, expressing opinions and whether to say yes or no, why didn’t they tell me? They both admit that they just thought that I was a bit of a rebel who refused to conform. They thought that I was choosing to ignore the rules or the social conventions, when in fact, I had absolutely no idea that these existed, and I thought that I was trying my best to fit in. It seems that I was actually behaving in a way that would always make me fit out!

Writing.

Writing things down is really easy for me and is probably why I continually send letters and now emails to anyone and everyone that I feel needs an explanation about me. If you meet me and talk to me you will think that I am confident, clever and capable. For some years, I think that I believed that I was. I have been acting this thing for so long that I can’t switch it off. It is only recently, when I have started trying to be more honest, that I have realised that they simply don’t see. They hear my words, or even read my letters, but then they see me, and it doesn’t make sense. It is much easier to believe the surface chatty, exuberant and a bit crazy woman than to scratch the surface and face a much less palatable truth.

I don’t remember what I did yesterday, but yet I remember and have written down every moment of distress or discomfort for the last 20 years.  I cling to this book and feel like it is my only friend that knows what has happened and what has been said to me.  I panic if this book is not with me or if I cannot see it or know where it is. I feel really guilty and somewhat embarrassed about my book because it is just lists of what anyone has said to me that I deem to be offensive, insulting or disrespectful to me.  What if I am wrong about all of this?  What if this is normal behaviour that I am simply unable to see?  I feel terrible about this and have no idea how to establish if this is just me or if it isn’t.

Writing down my thoughts is really just me talking to someone.  It has become my only friend since everyone else stopped listening.  I need to talk and to write in order to find my thoughts. I panic if my notebook or iPad are not with me because I think that I will forget something that I need to tell myself about. Does that make sense?

Yesterday on the train, I did not have anything so had to scribble notes in my diary, but at least my diary was now listening. If only my brain could connect straight to the paper and then to the printer, it would be so much easier. I did used to talk to Pete, or maybe tell is a better word than talk, and maybe that is why he got bored and irritated and stopped wanting to listen. I have tried to share books and articles and lists, but he doesn’t read them. No-one will come when you cry, so it is better to stop crying, stop waiting and hoping. Of course, I am so stupid that the next person who looks just a tiny bit interested in me, will open the door again and I will naively believe that it will be different this time. I know that it won’t, but I always want to believe that it will because otherwise what am I doing here? What is the point of me?

I have read so much about ‘Aspies’ now and have completed countless surveys and watched every You Tube discussion with every specialist out there. Part of me wants to be excited. Everything they describe is me, me and me. I thought that I was unique in my weirdness but turns out there are other people who believe they come from the same ‘planet’. Because I am me, I have wanted to talk about this. And talk and talk. I thought that Pete might like me better again if he knew that some of the things that I do are less my fault than we thought. Every day I ask him, and ask myself, what have I done that is wrong or bad? What have I said that I shouldn’t have? Is it my fault? What did I do? Often, I find myself crumpled and crying on the bathroom floor rocking backwards and forwards and asking myself, what did I do, what did I do?

I conclude that I must be even more wrong and bad and to blame than I thought I was? I didn’t break the rules on purpose. I couldn’t have done, because I didn’t know what they were in the first place.

This needs to be in capital letters all of the way through. You need to know that I am shouting this as I type. I have tons of empathy. In fact, I have so much empathy that it ways me down and affects everything I do. I am autistic and I have even more empathy than you do – who knew?

I was just trying to be funny in a sarcastic way in my above comment. I have no idea how much empathy you have and nor would I ever intend to judge it. It’s just that the stereotype really upsets me. Of course, if you struggle with empathy then I understand that too. My husband, who is a muggle, doesn’t have any and it is destroying us. But that will be my next blog!

Ten minutes ago I was sitting on the tube in London – first world problem I know. A man of around my age was clearly suffering from anxiety and a host of mental health issues. His loud dialogue with himself sounded exactly like my inner dialogue with myself. He was angry about his decisions, he didn’t understand so much, he wanted to do things differently, he wanted to see things differently. His pitch and pace and anguish increased and intensified. I felt every breath and word and my body began shaking with a desire to intervene and help. He had a large stick with him and all I could see was the scene where Mr Hyde bludgeons a man to death. Because of this, I was too scared to go to this man. I feel terrible about that. Maybe one kind word could have made a difference to him today? I am a fan and devotee of the JB Priestly message in An Inspector Calls. Just a small act of kindness or unkindness can make a massive difference. We need to know the story behind someone. There is always a story.

It sounds arrogant to say that I feel everything. Oh well, I have been accused of worse. I really do. Because of this, I have ended up becoming a ‘caretaker’ for many disfunctional and downright destructive personalities and people. I only just realised this and my new research and revelation about personality disorders/ narcissists and autism will feature next.

I am aware that autism can impare empathy and I understand that alexithymia and similar conditions are debilitating and add extra layers to what is already a ‘disability’ of sorts. I have no idea if I am allowed to say that? I think that I am great, but I have to conclude that being me feels like a ‘disability’ when trying to function and navigate the world that I am in.

But, in this blog about me, I am talking about me, and I have loads of empathy. I actually wish I had less. I didn’t think that before. I thought that I was helping and caring and saving everyone but now I realise that I was trying to help and care and save me. I had learned to be the ‘caretaker’ early on and just carried on. All of the books that I have read recently about personality disorder make complete sense. I don’t have the personality disorder! I realised that my husband does and needed to understand. All of the books make sense, but they never take account of or allow for a relationship where the recipient or vicitm, is autistic. I think that this needs to be explored because we can be far more trusting and far more vulnerable to manipulation and abuse. But as I said, next post.

If you read the threads – is that the right word? And the forums, on ASD groups you will see more caring and compassion and concern than I have encountered in over half of a hundred years wandering around this planet. I am not seeing and hearing and feeling a lack of empathy or a capacity to care. In fact, these women have experienced trauma and hurt and rejection for years. They are confused and scared. But yet they care without judgement about the words and feelings of everyone else.

Somehow, somewhere, the myth has been created about ASD and it suited the muggles to believe it. I think that it meant they could congratulate themselves on a lucky escape and could justify their own lack of care and compassion. Ironic? Is that irony? I’m only an English teacher, why would I know?

It isn’t enough to keep preaching to the converted. Somehow I really want everyone else to know that we are here and that we see and hear and feel and care. That’s ok isn’t it?

I think, or at least, I hope, that the world is a better place now for children with autism. Whether it would have been better to know or not is something that I am debating and discussing with myself: I do not have the answer.

What I do know is that all of the things that were considered weird or worse were actually me. I wasn’t trying to defy the norm on purpose and I wasn’t trying to be different and not to conform because I was attention seeking. I was just being me. I know that now. I am nearly 52 and crying as I write this because I really want that to be ok. I really need someone to tell me that being me is ok.

That was just an example of me talking to myself but as usual I accidentally said it out loud. I am going to write about this talking to myself thing next, but for today I wanted to share a few traits that have made me stand out or made me feel uncomfortable or have simply made me wonder who I am and why.

My fantasy world is better than yours.

I remember very little about Primary school, but I do know that I was considered to be very clever, extremely articulate and precocious.  I was sent to help the others when I had finished all of my work before them, and I continually asked for extra tasks to undertake.  If I stare really hard into my rear- view mirror, if can see an area of slabs which separated the infant and junior playgrounds.  I stayed within this limbo land and created my own world that belonged to neither of the others.  I don’t remember anybody being in there with me and I don’t know what I decided it was like.  I imagine that it was a world where I was ok and acceptable; I can only guess that I imagined a place where I was liked and valued for who I am, a place where I was understood.  I was still looking for this but with my new insight into autism, I wonder if that doesn’t exist for me. 

When I was a classroom teacher my opening lesson and project for the younger students would always be one in which they could create a new world and decide on its rules and values.  I guess that I was just keeping my fantasy alive for a little bit longer.

School.

Through Secondary School, I was the teacher’s pet, the goody two-shoes who never bunked and always completed homework and answered far too many of the questions.  No-one else seemed to volunteer and I wanted to help the teacher.  I told everyone that they really should attend the lessons because this would facilitate a better life.  They told me that I was a ‘boring boff’ but I said that was fine because they would all fail, and I would go on to better things.  For my 13^th birthday I asked if I could be taken to see Shakespeare rather than attend the school disco.  By this time, I had started to be more ‘funny’, so they tolerated me a little more.  I was included in the netball group in PE now, but told not to touch the ball, just stand on the side and be funny they said.  So I did. 

I didn’t really understand the clothes and fashion and make-up thing, but I did try.  I didn’t have a pleasant or supportive mother, which I guess didn’t help.  She didn’t use deodorant and left used sanitary towels on the floor, so not the best example.  I have a photo of the school trip when I was 11 which shows lots of trendy girls and me in long socks and Pippi Longstocking type hair bunches.  I sat at the front of the coach because of my travel sickness and made friends with the driver.  I even wrote to him and his family for some time after.  I was, and still am, so travel sick that I always requested the front seat.  It wasn’t until my husband pointed it out, that I realised this was probably the seat that no-one else wanted.  Perhaps this could be the perfect diagnostic tool?  So, where did you sit, or at least, aspire to sit on the school bus?

It was during High School that I really started to notice my physical symptoms although I had no idea what they were, and they have been mis-diagnosed for the last 40 years.  I would suddenly feel exhausted and unable to function or cope with the noise and the light.  I had to find a bench or a corridor and lie down.  I described sensations of skin burning and cotton wool filling my head.  Later at University these symptoms increased in severity and I might stay in my darkened room with the heater on full blast, for a day or more.

Geography and maps.

I love the world and the possibility to see new places; I am fascinated by the landscapes and by the cultures of the people who live there.  I asked for an atlas with pictures as an Easter present rather than a chocolate egg.  What on earth is a large lump of chocolate for anyway?  The book that I received enthralled me and I dreamt that I was able to jump into the pictures and disappear.  I also loved the maps, and still do.  You can dream of a destination but only a map gives you a plan and a belief that you will get there.  My life revolves around scripts and maps; the only unknown is the way the performance will be received, and whether we will ever reach the destination. 

Science and Sociology.

I was the only pupil to be thrown out of all of the Science lessons, and I was banned from taking the O level exams.  It was a mandatory subject at the time but that didn’t seem to save me from having a circuit board thrown at me by the teacher and being told to leave and never come back. They were trying to teach us about oxygen, but they couldn’t show it to me.  I refused to accept its existence, unless they proved it to me.  Same with the electricity that they said was somehow flowing into a plug. If that was true, I said, why couldn’t this be demonstrated and proved to me? They said that I was too stupid for the classes.  I wonder now, if I was actually too clever.  Does that sound really arrogant?  I didn’t mean it to.  I meant it to be factual.  I ask what I believe to be genuine questions about life, the world, other people and myself, but they seem to contain all manner of hidden levels and meanings to everyone else, that I just don’t see and hear.

Sociology was exactly the same.  It was all just wishy- washy debate with no conclusions.  I didn’t understand why we were bothering to discuss lots of issues but never attempted to consider solutions.  It was all just talking and looking and thinking but without an end in sight.  I don’t understand the point of a ‘theory.’  Doesn’t this mean that anyone can be a philosopher or a physicist?  I was bored and frustrated at the endless discussions without definite reasons or answers.  There was no structure, no rules to follow, and so I stopped attending the class. 

Recently I was asked to help an A level student with English language.  I agreed because I thought it would be similar to the GCSE exam that I had devised scripts and systems for.  Omg!  It was sociology of child development combined with science.  As usual I spent hours trying to dissect what was needed and did create some scripts and structures for her, and I, to follow.

Memories – or lack of them.

I have found my old scrap book in which I stuck lots of newspaper articles reporting on my awards for speech and drama.  I also have copies of letters of complaint and concerns that I wrote to local newspapers when I was 13.  Not precocious at all? One of the clippings shows the group of girls from my Secondary school with whom I organised a sponsored walk for a local charity.  I organised everything and I invited the paper who then met us at my house.  I have been looking at this photograph and wondering why I can remember all of the faces and can recognise the names listed below but I have no memories of anything about them.  I have no feelings about them at all.  And then I realised.  I have no memories because there aren’t any.  I thought that I had forgotten everything that I did and felt, but the sad truth is that I didn’t do anything with them in order to create memories or feelings.  I talked to them, or at them?  But we never did anything together.  I was there physically but that was all.  I didn’t talk about feelings and I didn’t do the girly chat.  They liked clothes and pop music and boys; I read Shakespeare and entered speaking competitions dressed as Portia from The Merchant of Venice. My life has had lots of surface activity it seems but very little substance.  I’m glad that I didn’t know this before.  I would have been even sadder about being me.

University and missing the point.

Although I studied Drama and English, I never understood what I was supposed to see, and it was a running joke that I never understood the hidden meanings and nuances of texts.  When shown an image of a wall with a brick missing, I was asked what I could see.  I said that there was a hole in the wall, and I was sent out for being rude and sarcastic.  But there was a wall and it had a hole in it?? When asked the symbolic meaning of 12 disciples, I said that Jesus just probably had 12 mates in the pub.  Asked to leave again.  I wrote an essay analysing poetry that I presumed was about birds.  It said that ‘the starlings gathered like our fears,’ and then went on to describe big birds and little birds.  It never occurred to me that it was about fear.  I was told that I would fail if I continued to be so silly.  So, I stared to research and tried to remember.  I read books that told me what the poem was actually about.  I tried to say what they wanted me to say, but I am sure that I expressed my irritation and indignation about this.

Living like a Drama student in Fresher’s week.

I think that this is what I have been doing with my life.  I dive into every situation trying to be popular, trying to make my stories the funniest, trying to stand out and get noticed.  I want to join in with everyone and don’t want to be left on the side-lines.  I presume that these loud, opinionated, self- obsessed people are like me, and so will like me.  I then spend the next 3 years being bullied or ignored but with no idea about how to escape.  I don’t ever really contemplate escape anyway because I presume that I am not trying hard enough and am not doing enough to make them like me.  And so, I just try harder. 

Truth, justice and being a prude.

Throughout school I thought that song lyrics which referred to sex and/or violence should not be played to children.  I was appalled at the words within various Grease tracks and I agreed that Relax should be banned. I have absolutely no idea why I thought these words were wrong and bad, but I did.  I told everyone all of this because I thought that they might be interested in another point of view, that they might want to discuss and debate the issues. If there was evidence or research which explained the risks or issues, then I would certainly have put that before the court.

I always have lots of articles and facts printed off and stuffed in my bag – just in case.  In case what?  Well, I think in case I need a friend to back me up.  The facts, truth and the fight for justice have always been my friends and so I take them with me.  When I was teaching, I complained about the teachers who abandoned the year 7s in London prior to the theatre so they could head off to the pub.  This was not the school’s policy and was not fair on the children or their unsuspecting parents.  I refused to join any trips where this was going to happen.  I wasn’t invited to go on any anymore.

If someone pushes in, then I point out to them the unfairness of their actions.  If another driver is angry with me for doing something wrong, then I cry and want to find them and tell them that I am sorry, and that it was an unintentional mistake. I would like them to understand that their negative reaction has upset me. 

Toys that talk

I liked the doll that talked to me; she was also able to walk if you moved her arms back and forth.  I walked with her and she talked to me, and I discussed what she was saying, but I don’t remember playing.  I don’t know what that means.  I pointed out to my husband that our daughter never played with any of the toys we bought for her.  I have a recording of her opening a bouncing Tigger and sitting and staring at it.  I am in the background telling her that some sort of response might be appropriate at this point.  I feel terrible about this now but at the same time, I am also quite impressed to reflect on the fact that at least I seemed to have learned something about appropriate responses in the muggle world by this point.  My husband reminded me about the Disney Princess tea set that she played with.  She didn’t play with it at all; I did.  I pressed all of the buttons and each cup and saucer said something different.  It was another toy that talked to me and it was me, not her, that was listening. 

Not eating anything green.

I told everyone that I didn’t eat anything that was green.  I always thought that my mother’s overcooked vegetables were to blame for this.  The sloppy cold mush made me retch but I was shouted at for being rude and ungrateful.  I tried to pull the chewy cardboard meat from my mouth and teeth because the repeated motion of my jaw trying to make sense of this made me feel sick and uncomfortable.  But even if I managed to remove the item and try to hide it on my plate, I could still see it and the retching would start again.  I can see it now and am rocking backwards and forwards on the chair, trying to push this picture away.  I retain images, and they force their way back to the front without being invited.  If I see down the plug hole of a bathroom sink, I immediately see a small hotel in Austria where 24 years ago, I was sick and brought back up the garlic bread from dinner.  I took sandwich spread sandwiches to school every day for years which is unbelievable really, considering my aversion to sick!

Nightmares

I am often at school and I am trying to find the classroom, but I can’t.  I walk backwards and forwards up the corridor and panic that I will be in trouble for missing the lesson.  I never have the right timetable and am trying to find someone to tell me where I should be.  Another time, I will be in an exam, but I know that I haven’t revised. I can see and feel the days before this exam and know that I have ignored the books that I should have been reading.  To me, this is completely real.  I can’t separate this dream from reality.  I can see a classroom and know that the lesson is Maths.  I should be there but I’m not and I have missed too many topics so am not going to cope.   I wake up drained and shaking but everyone laughs when I say that my nightmares are about searching for my timetable.  Maybe this makes a little more sense to me now? 

Sometimes I am trying to escape an attack and I wake up panting and sweating.  Sometimes there is a small space that needs to be climbed or crawled through.  Everyone else manages to get through but I am stuck.  My body doesn’t move like theirs and I can’t get to the other side.  Who knew that my brain was using visual metaphors all this time?

Often when I am dreaming, I know that it is a dream and I talk to myself about this within it.  I know that there is a place that I can go which will take me back to reality.  Usually I lie down in the middle of the road and know that I will wake up.  I have no idea if any of this is normal.  My daughter says that she can do it too.

 Dolls and imaginary friends

I had lots of Sindy dolls but never Barbies.  I liked Sindy because she looked more like a proper woman and not the fake skinny blonde Barbie.  My Sindy dolls never wore hot pants or inappropriate dresses revealing too much.  Mine had trouser suits or maxi dresses with colour coordinated shoes.  I don’t think that I played with them; I think that I used them to play with me.  They would all sit down and be given various instructions or lessons.  I told them all of the things that no-one else was listening to.  I placed them around the room and on the landing.  They had a nice yellow car and a blue tent in which they could escape and hide.  They even had a matching blue lilo.  Of course they did!

I had lots of imaginary friends who came with me everywhere and needed seats at the table and in the car.  I was often away from school due to cystitis and they kept me company, and we all ate crisps together. Cheese and onion discos! As I sit here with my crisps, alone in the kitchen, I realise that the only thing that has changed is the gin and tonic.

The doctor said that I was making the condition worse by not using the toilet when I needed to go.  I think that I had been shouted at by a teacher for needing to go too frequently, and so I didn’t go at all.  To this day, my life is dominated by needing to go, and worrying about where to go, or what will happen if I can’t. 

When not playing with my dolls, I might arrange my Matchbox cars and make them talk to each other.  I had a lovely case for my cars and kept them pristine, putting them back in their places each evening. 

I have another memory that is really quite sad I think.  Well, I feel sorry for the little girl playing on her own.  I never thought about it like this before.  My 2 favourite toys were my Walkie Talkie Doll and Copykat Katy.  Walkie Talkie was about a foot tall and had small disc type records that were inserted in her back.  Then, she talked to me.  She said “but you’ve got more ice-cream than me,” and “but I washed my neck yesterday.”  I don’t remember what else she could say but I remember there being different colour discs.  I still had the doll and the discs way past University, but I had stopped listening to her and had forgotten what a good friend she had been.  Katy was equally as supportive.  She sat on one side of the desk, pen in hand, while I sat on the other.  I wrote and she copied me.  Whatever I wanted to say on my paper, she found that she liked it enough to copy it down onto hers.  I guess I liked that.