hello-patricks

[hello-patricks]

Family of Origin

I saw an acquaintance drive two hours, at night, with a young kid, while in the middle of an anaphylactic reaction, just because her mother saw her sick and told her that she had to go.

This is beyond lack of empathy. She, of course, continues to defend her mother's actions.

[hello-patricks]

Again with the generosity

And it happened again, one of my siblings dropped the equivalent of two months rent ion my bank account, because they know I am not making enough money where I am.

And with that money, have I splurged, as my financially abusive father claimed? No, not at all.

Instead, I have noticed that I am not postponing medical appointments, or I go to shop without fear of a returned card, or I am digging out the list of things I was going to buy, but had never had the money – like a phone to replace this cracked one, or the headphones to replace the old one that broke a while ago. Or the shoes, to replace the ones that have two big holes in the middle.

I notices that all these things are around $200, give or take, but I have never bought them because I had never had that free money – all I get goes immediately to survival, the gas for today, the food for this week, the meds for this month. Hey, I might be able to go see the doctor! It has been like, what, a year, two years?

I know I will be back on this treadmill in two months, earlier perhaps, but for now I might be able to get those basics covered, and perhaps even get a nice thing. Or fix the car noise, whatever.

I have been slowly burning on fear and stress for so many years, unaware of the clenched jaw, the cracked tooth, the tensed shoulders, the frowning face, until someone pointed that my kids didn’t know how to smile, because I never smiled. I don’t smile because I forgot.

Even now, with this money on the bank, I am wondering whether to buy the headphones or the shoes, or simply postpone the whole thing until later. An indefinite later, where perhaps I  might deem myself worthy of these things.

[hello-patricks]

Timelessness

When I say I am time blind I don’t refer to merely appointments sitting on the chair at the doctor, or arriving at the restaurant to meet with friends. These are day to day things, easily managed with a calendar an 3 alarms on the phone.

When I say I am timeblind is when years slip by, the unfinished project that I started fifteen years ago, on a subject I was knowledgeable at the time and that gabbed my attention, staring at me from a corner of my desk, or stuck at the bottom of a box where I suddenly find it, crumpled and forgotten, along with plans and sketches and books and the bill for one thousand dollars for the starting materials, or the certification exam.

This timeblindness is also found in the sudden realization that I am working already 7 years at this place that is utterly exploitative, dehumanizing, unprofessional, and that has not given me a raise in 5 years – but I forgot to check my paystub, and I have been putting the “send resume” task in the  back of the queue, and now it is urgent.

Ah, going to the doctor – I postpone that so much that my doctors have retired and changed practice five times already. The dentist does not work anymore, because her children graduated; the other myriad doctors that I see have had more children, grandchildren, even started their own other consultancy.

And the advice I seek, careerwise, is always geared towards neurotypicals: observe, orient, decide, act.

It is the act part where my brain derails, and I miss the loop entirely.

[hello-patricks]

Eugene at the photo store

When I was a kid, visiting New York or a whole summer, the whole family would go once every two weeks to this photo developing store, close to 86th Street, and drop our summer films and pick up the freshly developed ones.

Unlike anyone else we found at the bodega, or the Korean store, or at the laundromat, where we were greeted nicely, asked about our day, and we could sit and enjoy a brief conversation with the owner in between customers that would arrive at seemingly random times, with Eugene the things were different.

We know his name was Eugene, the lonely employee in this photo development store,  wearing a yellowish uniform, glasses and a name tag where his name was displayed in black ink over golden plastic.

And he would greet us every time with his  recorded script, with a smile sometimes, but always a very structured interaction, very fast, efficient, but without any space left for conversation about family, or the summer, or what we had seen that day or that week.

Eugene was part of our summer routine there, but unlike all the pother shopkeepers, he was cordial but stuck to a script, so  much so that my parents commented on that every time we went there. Eugene, the script man, Eugene, the face of corporate greetings, Eugene the guy that doesn’t have anything else to say.

Over the years, and those are many, I have come to realize that I know that style of communication, the script, the inability to know what to say, the scarce social graces and the fast and efficient way to treat customers that, somehow, leave unsatisfied.

That is me.

[hello-patricks]

Basement

Many years ago, in London and San Francisco alike, I refused to life in basements: looking for a place to live was difficult, and the prices didn’t help; mostly, I was utterly unable to make a decision. That was one of the memorable encounters with executive dysfunction that mostly meant longer walks, but also caused terrible pain later on.

I could not take the plunge and rent whatever, but also I remember adamantly refusing to rent the basement apartments that I found through listings, because I knew those were simply a depressive trap, a place where my mind, without windows or wind or light., will perish.

Today it has been six months I live in a basement since my separation, 8 years of working on a basement for a company that doesn’t really care about people.

There was a space that was mine, and now it is gone.

[hello-patricks]

My Internal dialogue

Do we all have this internal dialogue, a series of long convoluted conversations exploring the world, and that initially shows as “next time I see her this is what I will say.”

I have to come to understand that there is no next time I would be able to say all that.

But I also have learned that this imaginary conversation is my own self, explaining to my audhdh brain, all the issues that I have had dealt with, the problems that I found, the boundaries, the preferences.  It is the way I teach myself what NT do instinctively, and the internal dialogue is a socratic approach top managing the limits imposed by my autistic brain. It also verbalizes the concepts that I have lurking on that amazing brain, and puts into concepts those patterns and makes them more palatable for NTs.

[hello-patricks]

All the partners

All the partners I have had were somehow patient enough, or on the spectrum themselves.

They all saw that I was not on the path with the rest of the world, and decided that it would be a fun ride.

Also, though, it must be noted, they were compassionate souls. They cared about the other, they cared about making the world better, and although we had different values most of the time, they did care for more things that just the immediate.

The ones that didn’t make it? The business majors. I did business in school, and had a ton of friends in the business school, as well as crushes and ongoing flirty acquaintances. Not one of those went anywhere, and over time I have to come to realize that it was in the very nature of those consumed by their need to obtain something: I was not offering what they needed, an immediate benefit.

I have seen this lately, in a lot of colleagues in workplaces and activities, their mind soon shuts down, their eyes glaze over as soon as they see that there is no immediate benefit for them in what I have or offer. It has happened with the middle age woman across the street, very business type, and with the single mom next door, who also scanned me instantly.

I know these looks now, and I can see the people measuring others, far more easily than detecting other forms of social interaction. I can’t say anything, though, because apparently it is rude to point out to a person that they are only interested in getting something from others.

But the compassionate ones, the ones that listen and might be friends, they don’t have that predator look to them.

Beware the amused ones, though.

[hello-patricks]

Seeing Others

since I am aware of my autism, it has made it easier to understand why I don't fit with some people, like business types, and why others are so easy to talk to or interact with. Baby, we all have the same convoluted brain, your complex mechanics are simply meshing with mine.

We are different though. I don't have many social skills, at least not as many as NT friends, and now that I accept that, makes things easier.

There was a test of guessing the emotion that the face was showing, and I couldn't even decide what the mentioned emotion was! "you mean you can tell in those faces between enraged, disgusted, horrified and stomach cramps? They all look the same to me!"

That must have been a signal.

Nowadays I have opted for honesty, to stop masking as much as possible. When you have masked your whole life, that is your identity. I mask.

Trying to find who I am is complicated, but stopping masking helps, because the autistic ones will simply listen and play. The others will go, but that's what they have been doing forever anyway.

Now, trying to find a job while being audhd is difficult as a desert, because while the coworkers might be on the spectrum, the gatekeepers are all NT. Also, I don't have to compare myself with my "peers" since they have never been peers anyway. They can read social cues and make chitchat when meeting strangers. That's not my group.

[hello-patricks]

No

I went to stay at the ex house, because kids. It was jarring to be there for just a few days, and hearing again all the negative attacks from the ex: every little thing is a no, every little conversation is a rejection of whatever position I state, every comment is a dig on my station, opinion, and preferences. Having some distance has helped identify that, but it feels like walking though molasses after happily running through a field just moments before.

I had no idea, in the before divorce times, of how the ex-spouse constant put downs and mocking behavior was severely affecting me.

[hello-patricks]

Imaginary Conversations

Now that I Know I am autistic, I am changing the way I hold imaginary conversations with people.

Before, the imaginary me would have this amazing off the cuff response, a witty remark that would demolish the point made by the other part, or a perfectly crafted explanation that would simply show my point of view without any doubt or imprecision that might lead to misunderstandings.

Now that I know about my autism, and how these scenarios were my way of dealing with the cringe of my real world interactions, I am trying to remodel these scenarios. Instead of going for ultra smooth and witty, I am simply training myself to say “I don’t understand” or “these are the things I find important here” or simply arguments within my normal repertoire of responses, some of which I do remember.

It is not dramatic, but the first real response I got yesterday, when a person asked “what kind of name is that?” I didn’t get the question, and simply said I don’t understand. “Where are you from” followed up, which is the normal question I get when people hear my accent.

But it felt nice to simply allow my lack of context surface, letting the other person make the inferences and explain themselves. I don’t have to be the one knowing it all, or the one accommodating the vagueness of others.

It is a step

[hello-patricks]

Internalized

My ex is very much like me. She was called “Sheldon” by her family, in a derogative way of course; she has extreme texture issues with food, smells and clothes. She watches people intensely, and mirrors the behaviors she sees in a place – but it is likely done out of habit, and she doesn’t notice. She refuses makeup, has very comfy clothes and dislikes fashion because too noisy, and listens to the same 10 songs on repeat forever. And the traumas!

Also, she’s my ex: at some point she decided that we were compatible, for a while, at least.

Yesterday I mentioned that our son is neurodivergent, and pointed out the kiddo’s affinity for math, how kiddo needs the same shows over and over, sing the same songs over and over, and always try to mimic people, has trouble with transitions, and is picky in clothes and food.

Her answer: “Noo kiddo is just like any typical little kid.”

Ma’am, kiddo’s friends are all officially in the spectrum, diagnosed and all. Why can’t you see it.

[hello-patricks]

My own intelligence

Or lack thereof.

The one thing I have been sure my whole life was that, my amazing intelligence that allowed me to see patterns before others did, that allowed me to memorize facts with incredible ease and to refute all harebrained ideas with myriads of facts and judicious predictions of the sequelae of ill conceived notions.

I used that intelligence, or what I thought at the time was so, to cover my man other deficiencies, my lack of tact, my inability to socialize, my utter naivete around thousands of subjects, all involving the interactions with people with varying degrees of power and wealth. I didn’t know what was going, and some privilege shielded me for a while.

And then that shield disappeared.

I used to complain how I was the most capable the most hard working the most rule follower and yet, those ass-lickers and obvious clowns, unable to deliver, simply sat and sweet talked their way to managers or got the promotion I was working for. Many people rewarded the slick talker, fully knowing that it was just a person that blustered their way and got lucky most of the time, but lacked the knowledge that I was happily providing in the background.

No shield – and therefore, no promotion, no more money, no network. My work stagnated, my roads all dwindled, my degrees useless and worthless, every day a little bit worse than the previous one.

I thought that was intelligent simply because I could read and remember the book, because it was easy to answer exams and sit down to type thousands of words. Easier than to talk to people, or deal with friendships that vanished, or to try and make the conflicts disappear.

The people that protected me gone, one by one, until I was there just by myself, trying to get a job in a place that didn’t sit with me, without the group that protected me or that gave me a hand when it came to asking for things.

And now, I am alone. Everyone moved on, promoted, scaled nice heights. Everyone got their house and family, their retirement and their health, everyone sit at a nice chair drinking chocolate with their grown kids, and here I am, alone, writing this so it doesn’t die within my desiccated brain.

I didn’t understand time and goals, can’t get my ass to write another resume even though my money ends in a month, and sure as hell ain‘t getting any retirement.

All social media is former friends with their families, sitting down in their big house, with their grown up kids and even grandkids.

I got to see my kid, who goes to preK, once a week.

Why the hell do I write this.

[hello-patricks]

Other people money

One of the reasons that I am where I am is that I can’t talk to humans like the NT ones do: y’all know the issues.

So, after a million years of trying to make it in business, and then in tech, I slowly burnt out and faded. Can’t remember anything, so might as well keep walking slowly to the end of my days, somewhere in the next storm.

Ah the affluent friends though. Some of those call me one in a while, and share their stories. One sold a small property, and got peanuts, just a little money, pocket money really.

Ten thousand dollars.

For him is just two weeks of what he makes; welcome, yes, because he can buy that new thing that he spends in, more likely his new girlfriend or clothes.

That would have been rent for a long while for me.

But I am the one renting. All my peers make money, have houses, plural, and consider $10k to be spending money. Their nice new Mercedes and their gorgeous European clothes and their quarterly trip to Asia and their visitors apartment, because it is the one that they can lend to others when traveling.

Apparently, they don’t do drugs anymore, or drink, because old age has taken a toll. So, they save that money for their other carnal pleasures so discreetly pursued, yet with evident stains in their pants and their wallets. An extra $10k means that their party this weekend will have two paid guests instead of one.

 They don’t keep the old things, mementos, books, trinkets, old memories of that trip 40 years ago, because they can get a new one just as easy, and that old thing doesn’t go with the brutalist decor for the new house, so off to the trash it goes. And they have filled trucks with those. They don’t care about art either, unless there is a value attached to it:  “oh that artist hasn’t sold anything of value in the last 5 years, it is just trash.”

A bleak view of the world, one ruled by efficiency, expediency and market value.

And they will mention things like “ah, long weekend, we are going to Paris”, which why not, it is covered under their miles and the hotel is cheap anyways. If 10k is pocket money, a trip to Paris is probably $2K? And if they work one day some of that is deductible, and also the card has rewards and miles, and they do have to visit their clients and friends.

I might be envious. I am envious. My life is a hurricane of decisions whether to spend $20 in a thing I need, whether me $25 meds are too expensive and should I make do with the $10 ones, and these clothes are all have all I can afford and can’t get new ones, and oh shit I just paid utilities better wait for next paycheck for my kids gift and buddy we are not getting the membership to the museum you love because it is just too much money and every time we go there you want the $6 locopop and really that’s too much for something that is going to melt anyways and also because I can’t walk the one mile loop.

The museum is the cheaper alternative, parking is free, and we just walk and play. Seeing friends is always at places where the entrance is $20 and then you got to buy food and the other parents ask “how is your work” and they mention their grueling work week but happily they arrive home where their housekeeper has kept everything pristine and the food is made and their relaxing evening is with an $80 bottle of wine, “yeah cheap but just for home” while I prepare for my own grueling weekend of laundry and cleaning and driving here and there trying to get kids to play with my kids but we don’t have the toys or the house or the vacations “and where did you go to ski this season” is better left unanswered.

[hello-patricks]

Walk

Internalized ableism is incredibly pernicious. I used to think I am not disabled, but I have slowly realized that I consider a 15 minute walk a success is my sugar doesn't crash or if my leg pain allows me to return to my place or if don't have to stop to breathe. I used to hike ten miles with a backpack, just for fun, and now a half mile slow walk on a flat city is as much as my body manages, with just some pain.

And I have been looking at those disabled plates, wondering if these are for me, and thinking "no, I am not disabled" but the truth is that even the supermarket lets me winded after wandering from aisle to aisle. I stop at the 7 minute mark to take some breath and perhaps support myself on some shelf.

Last one-mile-hike with my kid I had to get a stick to finish the return walk, because I couldn't walk anymore from the pain, and yet I think I am somehow not disabled?

There is a park near my place, and I don't go walk there because the whole loop is two miles, and I accept that I would be stranded halfway, bent over from pain and breathless, and yet somehow I think I am not disabled.

I am thinking of getting one of those panic buttons, and definitely the medalert bracelet, and it is so hard to accept that I am disabled.

[hello-patricks]

Projects

My professional life is currently a disappointment, working with an openly racist boss that harasses and insults people, in public, daily, and does that with the knowledge of the parent company. They actually prefer this, since that assures people remain obedient and that only the ones usually habituated to insult and low pay remain at the company, which is exactly what happens.

There are few white people at work, they get to meet over teams, and we, all the other POC workers, have to listen to their happy meetings because it is obligatory to listen. We sit in silence while they yap about whatever is bothering them, all other nonwhite people aggressive when pointing out faults and errors, and strike down on any perceived or imagined criticism. It is beyond infuriating.

But that is not the point of this post. I was going to talk about projects.

See projects are shiny, and that pleases my adhd brain. It has new ideas, new implementations, difficult new processes and a shiny final goal over there in the distance.

I have adhd, and time is not really my strong suit.  I don’t see the distance, and unless I have a calendar with me right now, I don’t see the days sloughing off one by one advancing inexorably towards me, in what is appropriately described as a deadline.

I remember the dates, mostly, but the task just simply pile one on top of the other, and when I see them I remember, but acting on those is difficult, because I consider all possible nuance, all possible complications, and all possible variations.

SO my degree has to do with projects. I am supposed to be good at dealing with projects, planning them, thinking about them and , most of all, executing them.

And the funnier part? I am supposed to do that by talking to people and finding out what they really mean, what they really think. Communicate with them to convince them through gentle persuasion that my well thought arguments are valid and that their irrational emotional measures are in detriment of the goal of the project.

The skills I needed were time management, not the strong one for an adhd person, and people persuasion, again, not my forte as an autistic person.

So, I have started to change my approach to career finding. I am looking for a coach to help me, and instead of focusing on the manager role I am looking for an IC role, where I can sit on my cube grinding reasons and papers and avoid conversations and not think about deadlines and time.

[hello-patricks]

Forgetting

My whole live I have lived with abusing partners. Makes sense, as that was what was passed down, the only heirloom that I use daily. From my mother, two scarfs, from my father, a dresser bought with the last of the money my mother left for me.

I recently said goodbye to my ex wife, packed a couple bags full of dirty clothes, my computer and got to my new place.

I can barely afford it, but it has close access to my gym and some parks, and for now, just a salad and coffee will suffice.

She keeps the kids the house the furniture the pictures the friends the neighbors the spaces we built, but for once my blood pressure seems to go down, and I wake up without flinching or hiding Ina corner while she goes out to party.

It hurts like hell to leave the kids, and the lawyer doesn't see a way forward, but learning to wake up and take space is a slow process, and seeing my way little by little out of that depressive nest might help.

It hhurts to see my kids so far away, and I know what she's doing to them, but after years of postponing this I can't. Abuse internalized hurts even more, and it teaches the wrong ideas.

Will he kids be alright? It hurts. If indie, who will take care of them?

#divorced while autistic #late diagnosed #learning to walk

[hello-patricks]

Romantic blindness

At the ripe old age of whatever I am, finally I found the reason that the romantic overtures of so many went unperceived, unanswered, unidentified.

Which is a relief, really, from the many nights waking up thing that I was dumb for not noticing that another person was flirting with me, or proposing some fun.

It is also easy to remember, that not so dangerous social faux pas, the unacknowledged crush or the lost opportunity for a fun romp. It doesn’t hurt because there were no consequences, most of the time, and these people either vanished, or send cards once a year.

These romantic opportunities that were never taken hurt less that then professional ones, or the accidental insults, or the botched responses in real relationships, the ones that mattered. When I remember Susan or Waldo flirting with me, inviting me to watch a movie with them in their dorm, only for me to say thanks, I already watched that movie, it is just hilarious, ha ha, I never noticed. When I remember how managers pushed me down the ladder because I was not the correct cultural fit, it hurts, professionally, emotionally, monetarily.

The romantic blindness also helped me identify the autistic response that I had, one very centered in manners, correct behavior and proper etiquette, since those were easy rules to follow, didn’t present a problem, and, if anything, made the interaction easier and more manageable. And a couple of times I got it right.

I don’t want to remember the work relations gone wrong, because again, it hurts. Or the romantic ones that were based on wrong ideas or mistaken assumptions. Those hurt even now, decades later.

But the little misunderstanding of what those people tried to tell me, in their very not obvious way, and that I didn’t get until waaaay later when they told me?  That is fun, especially now that I know I was not at fault, nor was I deficient in any way, that only our way of connecting was different and therefore their question, their proposal, their insinuation was simply lost in the noise that surrounded all interactions.

Those do not hurt , they amuse.