Journeys with Autism

Hello friends,

I have discovered where Aspie hell is located. Okay, so maybe not all of Aspie hell, but one of its major outposts.

I just got back. It’s rare that one of us comes back with our ability to communicate intact, but I am one tough Aspie, this is my blog, and I am not going to let this information be lost.

You will be shocked—shocked!—to learn where I found it. Do you have your inhaler ready? It is located at our neighborhood, member-owned, grunchy-granola, Obama-loving food co-op. I kid you not. And when did our neighborhood food co-op morph into an outpost of Aspie hell? On Earth Day. Earth Day, people. Can you sense the evil?

Here’s how I happened to find myself there: Twice a month, I work a two-hour shift at the co-op in order to receive a 10% discount on our groceries. The co-op is a very large market that has outgrown its present building. In other words, it’s crowded. I work in the bulk food area, where I put rice or papaya or cornmeal into plastic bags, weigh them, and put a label on them. It’s actually very satisfying work, except that it happens in a location that looks for all the world like a customer-service desk. So, whenever I’m there, I’m pretty constantly interrupted by well-intentioned people asking me questions I can’t answer. It’s very annoying.

Just last night, I was telling the husband that I can’t do my member hours there anymore, because it drives me nuts. The husband suggested that I ask whether I can do some other sort of work, like helping to edit the newsletter. I thought that was a wonderful idea. What happened today was G-d’s way of telling me to remember this wonderful idea.

So here’s what happened: I got to the co-op at 1 pm to work my shift. There were some raisins to bag, so I looked for a pair of disposable gloves. Alas, there were only large-sized gloves, and I have rather small hands. I asked a staff person if there were other gloves, but he was on his lunch break and said he’d look for them in a few minutes. So, I figured I’d use the large ones for a little while.

Silly moi. I put on the large gloves, and in about 30 seconds, I was ready to cry with frustration. The gloves kept slipping and getting stuck in the raisins, and the tactile sensation of the gloves moving around on my skin was more than I could bear. After about five minutes, I decided to go in search of more suitable gloves. I ultimately found some medium-sized ones in the staff bathroom, and they worked just fine.

So, I came back to my post and began bagging the raisins. Then, all of a sudden, somewhere in the stock room behind me, someone decided it was the perfect time to bang one piece of metal against another really, really hard. I just stood there with my eyes closed, feet frozen to the floor, waiting for it to stop. After about 10 iterations, it did.

At that point, I started feeling angry. I tried to breathe and tell myself that I wasn’t angry at anyone, that it was just my nervous system having a hard time. But I sure felt angry. I finally understand why little Aspies get so upset over what looks like nothing to other people. Being an adult, I told myself that no one was to blame, including me, and that at some point, my shift would be over, and I could get the hell out of there.

Then, because some evil genius was undoubtedly in charge of today’s proceedings, music started playing. Baroque music. I thought perhaps it was someone’s cell phone ringing, but it went on too long for that. My next thought was to find the people who had brought their CD player and ask them to turn it down. So I went out walking in the direction of the music.

And what did I find? Two middle-aged ladies, playing Baroque music, on recorders. Recorders. Like in elementary school.

You’re probably thinking that a lot of time must have elapsed between putting on the large gloves and finding the ladies with the recorders, but I looked at the clock, and it was only 1:15. My heart sank, so I tried to cheer myself up by asking the following rhetorical question: “Okay, this is tough, but how long can two middle-aged ladies play Baroque music on recorders?”

Do you want to know the answer? I’ll tell you the answer: One hour and forty-five minutes. I’m not kidding. One hour and forty-five minutes. Till 3 pm. Till the end of my freakin’ shift.

Of course, I didn’t know this at the outset. Every time they finished a song, I thought that was it. Then, they’d start up a new one. It felt personal. And the oddest part was that every single piece they played sounded exactly like the last one. Exactly.

Now, I used to like Baroque music. I really did. I was a classical pianist as a kid, and I know for a fact that all Baroque music does not sound the same. At least, not until today. Today, something happened to Baroque music. Something happened that I cannot explain, and it happened right there in my local neighborhood food co-op.

Never, ever, in my life do I want to hear Baroque music again. Anywhere. I am going to go through all of our CDs, and if I find any Baroque music, I am giving it to the local thrift store. I thought about running the CDs over with my car, but that would be a waste. Surely, someone out there would enjoy the music. Of course, my husband might want to keep the CDs, so perhaps I’ll ask him to put them in a secret hiding place where I cannot possibly stumble upon them.

Anyway, after reflecting upon my visit to Aspie hell, I learned a powerful and ironic truth. I learned that I am a patient person. As Stat Mama said on her blog a week or so ago, we Aspies are not impatient people. Creaky door hinges and ladies playing Baroque music drive us crazy only after we have worked very, very hard to put up with lots and lots and lots of sensory overload. When we finally complain about something, we have been working so hard that we just can’t take it anymore.

What Stat Mama said is true. If I were not a patient person, I could not have spent two hours in Aspie hell being pleasant and helpful to people who asked me questions I couldn’t answer.

If I were not a patient person, I would have left the raisins for someone else to bag and run out of the store in tears.

If I were not a patient person, I would have removed those recorders from the hands of the lovely ladies who were playing them and thrown the recorders into the river that runs behind the co-op.

If I were not a patient person, I would have come home and found some pretext for getting angry at my husband and dumping my upset all over him.

But I didn’t do any of those things. I worked my shift, I treated people well, and then I came home and dug up some more of my lawn so that I can turn it into a beautiful flower garden. The digging up the lawn part was very therapeutic, let me tell you.

We Aspies work very hard, just to get through the sensory world. And we have jobs and get married and raise children and do all kinds of great things besides.

We should all give ourselves a lot of credit. We are pretty amazing.

© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg