Cyber Housekeeping

Yesterday I did something that I didn’t think I’d ever do in any meaningful way. I returned to twitter.

Twitter and I have a long history (in fact, exactly as long as facebook and I do, since I joined them both on the same day). However, where facebook has provided me with a fairly steady relationship over the years, twitter has been the wild child, the passionate affair that burned brightly and eventually extinguished itself after an obsessive phase with it that saw me unable to go to bed for fear of “missing something” and some sort of falling out with a friend that I never really understood! After 44,400 tweets (or thereabouts, according to my account), we parted company around 5 years ago, and I visited only occasionally, usually to check up on major news events or occasional sporting things.

When I set up this blog I tried to set up a twitter account for it. I knew I should, but didn’t really want to return to my old account as I still wasn’t really sure at the time exactly how open I was eventually going to be about being autistic. The process had become more complicated than when I first joined twitter, and when I tried to log in from the app it wanted a phone number (which I wasn’t prepared to give it) so I just gave up and stuck to facebook.

However, things have changed since then. My friends have, from time to time, tagged my personal facebook account on the page, and, despite attempts to be vaguely circumspect about my identity (I’m not sure why – just that rather a lot of people seem to be so I figured it was the thing to do), it really wouldn’t be difficult to discover who I am. Furthermore, I’ve now reached a stage, since diagnosis, where talking about being autistic is much much easier, and this blog has taken off in a way I could never have predicted (if not in terms of readers, certainly in terms of posts)!

And I kept reading in other people’s blogs about the autistic community on twitter. About #actuallyautistic hashtags, and a whole load of stuff that seemed to suggest that twitter would be yet another source of information about autism – and finding out information about autism is, basically, one of my main reasons for living right now. As usual, the thing that has driven me, back to a social networking site I had given up, is my quest for information. As I’m sure I’ve mentioned before, when I get interested in something, I get VERY interested in it. And autism seems to have become one of my inquiring mind’s most recent victims (the other is the film Chariots of Fire, how it deviates from what really happened, 1920s sprinting in general, the 1924 Paris Olympics, and anything to do with either Harold Abrahams or Eric Liddell)!

So I’ve revamped my old account, complete with old followers and vast numbers of tweets that were probably mainly about tea and biscuits if I remember rightly! I changed the profile picture and cover photo (or whatever they’re called on twitter these days) to the ones associated with this blog and its facebook page, updated my biography to include something about being autistic, and started to engage with folk by tweet again.

So, 2000 or so random victims, who previously expressed an interest in viola playing, mathematics, running, or rats (and cats and other animals), will now likely wonder why they suddenly follow someone called Finally Knowing Me and start receiving tweets from some random autistic blogger! Although I expect discussions of cups of tea and so on will not be completely excluded – will just have to see how it goes because the whole “return to twitter” thing feels somewhat experimental at the moment.

At some point I’d like to tidy up the main pages of this blog a bit too. The Blog Guide is very out of date, the home page no longer really says what I want it to say, and the tags and categories (which I started using in a very random and experimental way because I really didn’t know what I was doing with them at the time) are all over the place. I expect there is a way to add a “twitter button” to it as well! Once I have enough energy and when I can trust myself not to stay on the computer so long that I end up unwell, I’ll try to organize things a bit better. I’m also aware that there are now so many posts here that anyone who arrives afresh might wonder what the heck is going on with it all – I know I would, but then I’m easily confused, so maybe that’s just me!

Everything is all, still, very much a “work in progress” at the moment. Eight months ago even the idea that I might possibly be autistic seemed totally wild and rather bonkers – an outlandish series of suggestions by a few friends! It was only just over six months ago that I first typed the words “I am autistic”, having done some research that indicated rather strongly that the friends were, in fact, correct. I disclosed publicly on this blog four months ago today, following the first rather disastrous attempt to get a formal diagnosis. And I was only, eventually, formally diagnosed seven weeks ago.

So it’s all very new. And I still don’t know what the final result of the whole discovery will be. I don’t know to what extent I will become “an autistic blogger” on any kind of permanent basis, or whether I’ll end up doing something else completely different. Oddly, I keep reading about people who describe discovering they are autistic as “finding their tribe”. I have rather mixed feelings about this – partly because I have actually discovered I’m not as interesting and unique as I thought I was (if you put me into a bucket full of neurotypical folk then I do, indeed, stand out as somewhat different, but if you put me into a bucket full of autistics then I’m actually rather ordinary (it’s the “autism nicked my schizzle” syndrome again))! And partly because I’ve lived without any sort of “tribe” for so long that the notion of belonging to any cohort of people, no matter what sort of people they are, seems somewhat intimidating. I have never had a “tribe” or been part of any sort of group in any meaningful way for any significant length of time. I have existed mainly on my own, as a single unit, and I was actually pretty reluctant even to get married until I discovered a husband who was also a single unit and didn’t expect much in the way of “togetherness”. If I’m going to regard myself as part of any sort of “tribe” or “group” then it’s going to require a bit of a shift of perspective – I’ve not really sought out human company in any great way in my life, and certainly the idea of “group” stuff really feels exceedingly strange.

Anyway, we’ll see how it goes, and we’ll see how twitter goes (and whether I end up with three followers and a few bots (does twitter still have bots?)), and I’ll continue to think about whether I ultimately become some sort of autistic advocate, turn any of these ramblings into some sort of book (though I sometimes get the feeling that there are now so many books that maybe I don’t have a great deal extra to add and should leave that stuff to the professional writers in any case – I’ve never ever believed that I “had a book in me”), and I’ll, obviously, continue to make random discoveries about myself and get used to my changed perspective on life and so on. And, for the time being, I’ll probably continue to subject you gentle readers to a few snapshots of the inside of my head, conveniently translated into word form for easy publication online, partly because, aside for a couple of follow up sessions with my assessor, there is no hapless therapist trying to figure out what’s going on between my ears so I have to do it myself and a blog seems as good a way to do it as any, and partly because one or two folk have told me that it is either educational, or even helpful to them!

Limit Exceeded

Two days
Out in the world.

Drinks in a pub.
Walking,
Talking,
To three other people.
Some difficult subject matter.
Decisions to be made.
Negotiating.
Head already overloaded.
Working so very very hard.

A meal out,
Eating,
While talking,
With noise,
And people.
More difficult stuff.
I managed half
My food.
Achievement.

Then home.

A stimmy evening,
Unsettled.
Sleep
A long time
Coming.
Wakefulness
Followed
Quickly.

Then up again,
Dressed again.
Coffee and a snack.
More noise
More conversation.
Lots and lots of voices
Trying to filter out
The necessary bits
And to describe
And explain.
Eating again too.

A shop.
My legs starting to tire.
The lights brightening.
A walk.
And, already overloaded,
Unable to cope
Unable to explain.
Needed neutral
Or gentle
Non confrontational,
Or silence.
Didn’t get it.
Head overboiled…

Meltdown.

Unstoppable
Inevitable
Out of my control
Fuse tripped
Bottom fell out
Of
My spoon drawer…

Trying not to bash my head
Against a stone wall.
Desperate to damage
To replace the pain
In my head
With easier pain,
To make the wrong feelings
Right again.

Collapsed on the pavement.

Pulling my hair
Tearing at my leg
Simultaneously
Regretting and glad of
Short fingernails.

Wishing I had never
Been born.

The sun
Dazzling
Through dark glasses.
Bright bright bright.

Distant voices.
Phone call.

Another universe
There are people there
But they are outside
My head.

I understand the words
But am unable to respond.

Words gone.
Connection severed.

I head for my car,
Safe space.
Mine.
Closest there is
To home.

Trying to sort
With others
By typing on phone.
It wasn’t supposed
To end like this.
I was supposed
To be stronger.

Driving home
Waves of nausea

The last emergency spoon
Used.

Sofa.
Blanket.
Darkness.
Silence.
Everything
Hurts.
Ears ringing.
Head in pain.
Body aches.

My husband messages.
He comes home
Early
To care for me.
I eat a few crisps
For dinner.

Eventually,
Exhausted,
I sleep.

I wake, tearful,
Wishing I was no longer alive.

Finally I get out of bed
At three in the afternoon.

After an hour and a half
I manage to get
A glass of water…

I know I should eat.
I don’t want to.
But I eat soft white cheese
With a spoon.

And recovery begins.

This is why
I have not blogged
For a few days.

Life is not
Easy.

Special Days

I’ve never really been a person who makes a big deal out of “special days”. I’m the one who never sends Christmas cards, the one who sends birthday cards to everyone at the same time about once every five years, the one who never bothered with bonfire night or Halloween or sending valentines or waiting until Easter day to eat chocolate or marking nearly any other sort of “occasion”. I should imagine that greetings card retailers would very soon go out of business if everyone was like me. The only days that have been an exception have been New Year’s Day, when I’ve tried to set goals for the coming year, pancake day, when we have pancakes for supper, and our wedding anniversary, when we have potted meat for breakfast!

Since the advent of the internet, however, these “special days” seem to get rather shoved in my face. And many of them are really ones I’d rather not think about. This time of year seems to be awash with “days”, and I’m not really enjoying the whole “day” experience very much right now.

On Sunday it was Mother’s Day (or Mothering Sunday, depending on your preference). As an infertile childless person, Mother’s Day really really doesn’t work for me. It’s a reminder, every year, of something big and painful and missing in my life. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way about it, for a variety of reasons. This year I tried to spend most of the day staying off facebook, but that was also, in its own way really tough – I now have very little life that isn’t online, and cutting myself off from my only real social life can feel really lonely at the moment because I’m not well enough to do anything else that would otherwise distract me for the day. I had been coping, just about, with life until then, but that really was the last straw, and I’ve really been struggling since.

Then, of course, next weekend, we have April Fool’s Day. Another day when I’ve tried, by and large, to stay away from any sort of internet or TV until midday. I have never understood the premise of April Fool’s – it seems to me to run thus: tell a lie, then when someone believes your lie, tell them they’re stupid! And some people, for some reason, find this funny. I KNOW I don’t get this sort of humour – I never have, and my memories of the day as a child were that people constantly told these lies, then told me I was stupid, and the whole thing is an exercise in embarrassment and humiliation. I got to the stage where I simply didn’t believe ANYTHING anyone said on April the 1st in order to save everyone the trouble. I’m quite happy to declare, these days, at the outset, that I know I’m an idiot, I know I can’t tell if it’s a joke if you don’t put a winky face by it, and please don’t complicate social interaction further by deliberately saying stuff that’s false (the same applies, by the way, to the internet “jokes” where someone then “catches” you and sends you a message telling you that you “fell for it”).

And now, to add to the pain of Mother’s Day, and the humiliation of April Fool’s day, there are two “new” days to add into this time of year. It is, apparently, World Bipolar Day on April 30th and Autism Awareness/Acceptance Day on May 2nd.

So here am I, an autistic person with bipolar disorder, sitting here wondering what I should do about this. Because here am I, supposedly articulate intelligent blogger with insider knowledge of both bipolar disorder and autism, and I should really really be doing something about these “days”.

But I am stuck. I cannot “perform to order”. My husband writes a weekly “column” for an online magazine, and has to produce this thing week in week out, whatever the weather, however many meltdowns his wife had that week, and however many times he was required to go to the shop that day because the only damn thing she’d eat was milkshake and cheese and we’d run out of milkshake and didn’t have the right sort of cheese. He performs wonderfully – he is a skilled enough writer that even when his spoons are running low he can still write, just as even when mine are low I can drive a car and play an orchestral viola part without much difficulty. However, I am NOT a skilled writer. What might or might not be apparent from this blog is that, although I might post the posts on consecutive days, I often write three or more in one sitting but then don’t post them all at once. I have days when I can barely even write a facebook status – so the thought of having to produce something particular for a particular day throws me into a horrified paralysis where I can’t produce anything at all.

So I feel guilty, because I should be doing something spectacular for these days. I should be making memes and posting them on the facebook group. I should be explaining bipolar disorder and autism to everyone I meet in the street. I should be helping others with both conditions (conditions was the best word I could think of here) to understand and to feel less alone and more loved and all sorts of other lovely positive feely helpful stuff. And I really can’t do all that just at the moment, because I don’t have the spoons. In recent months I’ve spent a lot of time on groups with autistic people – I’m becoming aware of the vast variability in people’s experiences of autism, I’m learning how offensive many autistic people find the “puzzle piece” to be and how it’s tied up with all sorts of harmful and damaging therapies that attempt to make autistic people “look normal” from the outside, while breaking them inside (one of the advantages of not being diagnosed as a child is that nobody actively tried to “cure” me, although the exterior pressure to conform and to behave “normally” did damage me very badly anyway – I looked great in my early 20s, and if I’d been known to be autistic as, say, a 23-year old, then I’d have been held up as a model of “success” and my graduation photos would, doubtless, have been turned into memes and plastered all over facebook if it had existed, but the damage was being done inside to such an extent that by the time I reached my late 20s it was a totally different story – they wouldn’t have been making memes about my life at 29, which largely consisted of breakdown, burnout, spending night after night banging my head against the wall, and downing bottles of whisky and boxes of pills in an attempt not to wake up the next day or ever again).

And I should be telling this tale. And I should be learning all the politics and finding out which organizations are listening to autistic people and which are not. I feel like I should be going online and telling parents to let their autistic children flap their hands and jump up and down and communicate in ways other than by speech and eat soft food and wear comfortable clothes and so on and so on and so on. And, as an autistic person who can communicate by writing, I should be advocating for all autistics to be able to be themselves because none of us should have to mask or pretend or to be abused or to damage ourselves in order to “fit in” with a world that is difficult enough to cope with anyway.

But I’m still struggling with my own issues right now. I’ve had my diagnosis for only just over 5 weeks. I didn’t even have a clue I WAS autistic until just over 7 months ago. I’m still adjusting. I look at the people who have written much better blogs than this and had books published and all sorts and I feel like I should be doing the same (I was brought up to be a high achiever – the fault of the exam results discussed in Expectations Gone) but then I remember I’m really very very new to all this. I’m also coming to terms with my own childhood whilst being exposed to parenting issues in a way that is really tough as I’d largely withdrawn from anything to do with childhood or children prior to autism stuff entering my life. And I’m in the midst of the menopause and getting used to the idea that my father has terminal cancer and trying to navigate the stresses of applying for benefits so we don’t end up bankrupt. So my head is rather full.

I lay in bed this morning wishing I’d never met my husband – because he is the one who has kept me alive and if I’d never met him I’d be dead by now and all this malarkey would never have happened. I’d have cosily committed suicide some years ago and my affairs would all be long since dealt with. (This sentence did, of course, prompt me to think that there must be a “suicide day” too, so I googled it and discovered that it’s not until September, so I don’t have to worry about that one for the time being, which is a relief). But that’s how low my spoon drawer is right now. (I KNOW this place, I’ve been there many times, and I’m not in immediate danger so don’t worry about sending the cavalry – my executive functioning is too poor to do anything drastic right now in any case and my autistic adherence to routine is keeping me going in a bizarre sort of a way). I’m better than I was earlier today, but in order to start to feel better my speech had to vanish – I have spent most of the day today completely nonverbal from a speech point of view (I often feel very very ill and extremely bad just prior to my speech disintegrating, and when the words go it is usually a big relief). Fortunately I didn’t have to be anywhere today or make any telephone calls!

And so, for now, I come to the conclusion that the best I can do is point people to this blog, which is the place that, so far, I have best managed to explain the many many thoughts that are in my head, and where I have translated more thoughts into words than, possibly, I ever have before. Of course, I’m not very GOOD at pointing people to the blog (although I’m trying), because I’m possibly one of the worst publicists in the history of publicity, but it’s here, and it is what it is. For myself I need to practise enough self-care to get through all this. I need to try to eat and drink regularly. I need to continue to use this blog as something to help me, rather than something to stress me (I’m not, after all, being paid to write it, and nobody asked me to write it – I sometimes wonder if anybody’s even reading it, although indications are that a few people are glancing through it from time to time).

Maybe I’ll see something on facebook that will trigger a blog post relevant to one of the “days”, or maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll be more equipped to talk about awareness or acceptance or whatever next year, and I need to cut myself a bit of slack for now – I can’t answer every question on facebook or call out every mistaken post or fight with everyone who posits some crazy idea – I just don’t have the energy. I’m very much having to choose my battles right now!

Maybe a Poem…

I was never
A poet.

Aside from:

School creations

And a few rhyming ditties,
Lost
When an old blog server
Closed
And an old computer
Ceased
To function.

Yet,
Since last year,
Since I discovered
I was autistic
And everything
Changed…

Sometimes
Brief
And structured
Words
Have become
The way
That thoughts
Emerge
From my mind.

They are sometimes
More accessible
Than
Crafted prose.
When the machinery
In my head
Is operating
A slow
Translation service…

From
Thoughts…
To
Words.

I don’t even know
If they are poems
Or not.

They are what they are.

And they say what they need
To say.

Apparently
It is World Poetry Day
Today.

And for the first time
I wrote something
That might,
Or might not,
Be a poem.

Talking About It

I described, in Strategy Deployment, how I had dinner in College a few nights ago. The routines and protocols of such dinners are generally well-known to me, and one of those routines is a loose convention that you tend to chat to one of your neighbours during the first course of dinner and another during the second. It’s not a hard and fast “rule”, and who you actually end up chatting to depends a bit upon circumstances, but you can reasonably expect to talk to at least two people during the course of the meal.

On one side of me I had my best friend, who knows everything about what’s been going on in my life over the last eight months. He and I chatted, initially, across the table (we were on a corner) to his other neighbour. My main memory of that conversation was that we discussed the renovation of a pianola, owned by this other person – for me a nice, easy, safe topic of conversation, music and mechanics combined. No problem!

On my other side was another person I know reasonably well, a former tutor of mine from nearly 30 years ago, who I last saw at a dinner in 2013. As the main course arrived, he turned to me and first apologised for ignoring me during the starter (he’d been catching up with his other neighbour), as appropriate, and then he asked me, predictably, what I was doing these days.

There had already been a slight mention of the fact that we’d sat right on the end of the table, in the corner, when we first sat down. My best friend had explained that “there was a reason” we’d chosen those particular seats, and the fact that I was wearing dark glasses gave another clue that things were not “entirely regular”.

So, at the moment the question about “what I was doing these days” was asked, I had a choice. I could either (a) try my hardest to come up with some sort of conversation that made some sort of sense and would be adequate for the occasion, (b) ramble on a bit about “life being interesting” and “a few sensory issues” (to explain the dark glasses), or (c) just give the whole “I just got diagnosed autistic” speech!

A couple of months ago, when I went Out to Dinner, I was pre-diagnosis, and just being out of the flat at any social occasion at all was a huge thing for me. That evening, there were a couple of people there who knew what was going on in my life (one was my best friend, and another is friends on facebook and reads some of these blog posts), but a third friend didn’t know, and, two months ago I wasn’t ready to tell him, in person, by speaking. On that occasion I opted for option (b) and then e-mailed him after the event, sending him the link to this blog to explain more fully.

A month later, just before diagnosis, I was at an orchestra rehearsal, and wanted to explain to another non-facebook friend, what was going on. I managed, just, to get the words out, but was shaking and terrified, even though I knew that she was the sort of person who would be absolutely understanding and, like everyone I’ve so far told, she reacted by saying “Yes, of COURSE, that makes so much sense.” However, being able to articulate, in words, out in the big wide world, to other people who didn’t already know, that I was autistic, was still, at that point, seriously difficult.

Those of you who have been reading this blog since its inception must be wondering how this can possibly be. I’ve now been writing about being autistic, in as much detail as I can persuade my head to produce, for months. Yet just one month ago I could hardly form the spoken words to describe what was going on and two months ago I couldn’t do it at all. Of course, what might or might not have been evident from the early posts of this blog was the absolute fear when I posted The Discovery as to how my news might be received, especially as I was taking a huge gamble by disclosing after the disaster of my first assessment, as described in Too Articulate and Too Complicated. At that point I decided to disclose anyway since I couldn’t work out how to carry on living without doing so, and I got to the point where I’d decided that the risk of losing what remaining social life I had was probably worth taking in order to stop the feelings of no longer wanting to exist. But it wasn’t easy.

However, the blog moved on, the response has actually been amazing, and I’m now typing stuff about being autistic into one of my various devices on pretty much a daily basis.

But I still hadn’t reached the point where I could TALK about it to people who didn’t already know by reading the blog – at least not without almost falling apart on the spot and wishing the ground would swallow me up there and then and never spit me out ever again.

So, now returning to the point at which my former tutor turned to me and asked me “what I was doing these days”, what did I do?

I started with a couple of sentences reminding him that there was a “reason” I was sitting on this side of the table, I mentioned the dark glasses, and then I finally got to the point where I went for option (c) on my list above.

I’m certain I talked too much, and probably didn’t obey the proper rules of back and forth conversation. I also couldn’t quite multitask and eat my dinner at the same time. And my “I’m recently diagnosed autistic and this is how it came about and so on and so on and so on…” script is still very much in its embryonic stage (part of what I’m doing when I write these blog posts is teaching myself how to talk about it, part of what I’m doing when I read other blog posts and articles and books is giving myself the vocabulary to be able to talk about it, and starting to form my own ideas and where I fit in to the autistic world and how being autistic affects my life).

But, for the first time, I told someone who didn’t already know, and managed to do it without falling to pieces and shaking so much that I nearly dropped my drink, or starting to feel my speech fragment, and was able to have some discussion about it.

Admittedly, for me, dinner in College, at a place that has now been familiar to me for the best part of 30 years, feels like a safe environment. I’m lucky to be able to return to the social world, gently, in such a place, following familiar routines, and knowing that the people around me are likely to be sympathetic, and, on the whole, interested. So it was a good place to start.

However, I think the other thing that really helped was the confidence I have gained since I was formally diagnosed. I don’t think I could have had that conversation at this stage without that extra confidence.

But, whatever the circumstances, and whatever the reasons, it was the first time that I had been able to sensibly discuss being autistic with someone who didn’t already know. It was the beginning of being able to talk about it to other people – actual talking, not typing on a blog post, which is very different. I have known since the “autism hypothesis” formed, right back in August 2016, that if the hypothesis turned out to be true then I would need to find ways of talking about it, and I would need to construct scripts and work out how to explain to people (maybe, even in the fullness of time, be able to educate and inform and advocate, who knows). I’m not fully there yet, but I’m a huge step nearer than I was this time last week!

Fragments…

67-2017-02-15-14-27-23Sometimes my words flow smoothly and fluently, but sometimes they don’t. Even the written ones can sometimes be difficult, especially if I’ve used them a lot. The system needs time to reboot. I spent nearly all of yesterday writing, information for the forthcoming assessment. As a result, today, I’m aware that written words are not flowing terribly smoothly and even the skeletal draft blog posts that I have I don’t have the power to edit them and work on them before they go out because my head is simply saying that it needs a rest. The busy times of last weekend, then yesterday’s endeavours, have left me in need of recuperation.

Often, when I can’t manage to write prose I will try to make some sort of a poem. When things are at their worst, I can’t even manage that, and I am left with a few fragmented words. Here are four such fragments, which, I suspect, will never be completed, because their moments have now passed…

 

Wanting to Write

So many things
I want to blog about.

So many feelings
I need to sort.

I have a list
Of posts I want to write

But it only works sometimes.

 

 

Old New Autistic

Being newly autistic is very very tiring.
Except I’m not newly autistic.
I’ve been autistic for over 45 years.
So being an old autistic is tiring.

 

 

Slowly Words

The words come slowly this morning,
Often in a jumbled order.
Back to front, front to back.

No wish to talk, no need to talk.
I stay quiet.

Even the written ones are an effort.

 

 

Overdid Stuff

So
Crash

Overdone
Too much.

Please Communicate…

65-2016-12-29-12-40-19Just looking at the title of this blog post is enough to raise my heart rate. I chose the words deliberately, even though they, and many variants thereof, are triggering for me. As I type this, just thinking about it is making my legs jiggle wildly, making me want to stop typing so I can chew the ends of my fingers, and making me feel slightly sick.

“Why?” I ask myself. I am a reasonably intelligent person in my mid-40s and I consider myself rational and logical in so many ways, yet when I’m asked to communicate I turn into a petulant child and have to use every ounce of my energy to make myself do what I know I have to do, because somehow it is so very very difficult. When I am well, and have lots of energy it becomes easier. When I know exactly what I need to say or it is something easy and straightforward, it is also easier. But much of the time it is really really difficult and triggers something completely irrational in me. I didn’t realise why until a few months ago.

I was reading an e-mail from my Open University tutor. She’s a lovely tutor, and is being really amazingly good considering how badly my work is currently going, and she’d said she was fine with an extension but since it was over the extension limit I would need to contact student services too…

And there was the trigger. I slammed the iPad down on the sofa and sat and cried for 2 hours.

Unreasonable reaction?

By any ordinary standards, and by the standards of my logical brain, yes, of course it was unreasonable. The woman had asked me to send an e-mail. That was it.

I eventually contacted my husband and told him that the degree was finished. Even if I could eventually get enough brainpower together to do the mathematics, the communication and the form-filling was so way beyond me that I might as well give up.

And then the penny dropped. The trigger wasn’t anything to do with the work or the extension, but with the request, by one person, that I communicate with another. It’s bad when there is just me and another party involved, but becomes exponentially worse when a third party is added, especially if I need to communicate something unknown or not simple.

And we started to look back on incidents throughout my life. I went back to summer 2016, and to sitting on a bench with one of my colleagues from the viola section and saying to her that I needed to cut a rehearsal because I wasn’t feeling well. She said to me that I really should tell the section leader. That remark triggered a meltdown that saw me run away across 2 fields, have an asthma attack sufficiently bad that I had to empty my handbag out onto the grass to get at my inhaler, and meant that I missed lunch and spent several hours crying in my tent.

And I remember back to an occasion when my father-in-law visited our house, not long after we were first married. My late mother-in-law was very fond of writing letters and he suggested that it would be a nice thing for me to do to write to her regularly. I very nearly hit him. I ended up running up the stairs in tears on the landing of the house, screaming about how horrible my life was and how I was so overstretched that I couldn’t possibly imagine being able to write letters. It took several hours of very gentle work by my husband to calm me down.

One post-Christmas time as a child. I always found thank you letters really really difficult, but my parents were very keen for me to do the polite thing and write to the assortment of random folk who sent me postal orders or whatever. One year I’d actually done the letters, without being asked. They were in envelopes, with stamps, ready to post. My mother came into my room and said “Have you done your thank-you letters?” I felt the anxiety rise, I felt the stress, the angry, the bad. She walked out of my room and I took the thank-you letters out of my desk drawer and ripped them into tiny pieces. I’d done it on my own, but the being ASKED to do it had ruined it. The feeling of stress that this was something I’d been told to do was so overwhelming that I couldn’t bring myself to send them.

And all of these things, when I consider them logically, make no sense. They’re simple requests – write a letter, talk to someone, send an e-mail. What on EARTH is so difficult about this? Why do I find these supposedly simple jobs so challenging? Why do requests to communicate send me into meltdown? It’s utterly incomprehensible.

Until I factor in autism. Until I view these incidents (and many more like them) from the perspective of someone who has a condition that is partly defined by problems with social communication. Until I sit here at my desk, looking at my “master” jobs list and see that the jobs that are still to be done are mostly ones saying “E-mail x about y” or “Message so and so” or “Contact somebody about something”. The contact and communication jobs are the ones that fall by the wayside as soon as my energy levels fall and as soon as I start to feel at all unwell.

I can “perform” on this blog, and, to an extent on my facebook wall – I regard both of those, ironically, not as communication in the same sense that sending an e-mail or even a facebook message is. They are the equivalent of standing on a stage giving a presentation. I can do that. The e-mails are the equivalent of sitting around in the pub talking to people individually after the conference is finished for the day. Unless I have a lot of energy to spare, I can’t do that.

My e-mail inbox has always been an issue. I have a limited number of days per week that I have sufficient energy to send e-mails, and they pile up. The jobs left on the jobs list have always been the ones requiring communication. And many many meltdowns have been caused by someone asking me to communicate either with them, or, even worse, with somebody else.

As for the telephone? The ringers on both my telephones have been turned off for months. I only turn them on if I’m expecting something specific (such as I will be next week when the car goes in for its M.O.T. test and the garage will need to contact me for authorising work). The number of nonverbal episodes I’m currently experiencing make the telephone impossible at times in any case. I do still use the phone from time to time, but currently only for well-scripted conversations, or with a very few known people, and at times that I’m feeling particularly strong and capable.

When people first started suggesting to me that I might be autistic and when I started reading about autism, I came across the notion of a “communication disorder” and, at first, dismissed it. I can talk. I can communicate. Me? Communication problems? I was, of course, thinking of more overt communication difficulties, of those who are unable to speak at all. I can speak perfectly competently for much of the time (not all – there’ll be a blog post about that at some point), and so I didn’t instantly think any of this applied to me.

Until I started to investigate, to find out what was going on under the surface, to discover just how much energy sending a simple e-mail takes, to observe the leftover items on my jobs list, to think about how many people I’ve lost touch with over the years because I haven’t communicated with them, to observe how easily a meltdown can be triggered by someone asking me to communicate with someone else or pressuring me to communicate with them.

And I asked myself why a logical sensible grown-up person like me should react quite so badly to all this stuff. Why am I so exhausted by sending a few e-mails? Why am I sitting here now feeling angry and triggered and upset even by my own blog post?

And I realise that it is because I find communicating with other people so very very difficult.