As promised, here is a photo of my latest creation, hand-stitched and made entirely of Guatemalan fabric:
The piece measures 18 by 24 inches. Each of the twelve squares is made of three different strips of fabric. I loved working with the fabric and trying out different patterns for the arrangement of the squares.
Such fun!
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
A couple of weeks ago, I began reading an incredible book called The Cosmic Serpent: DNA and the Origins of Knowledge by Jeremy Narby. I won’t go into detail about the content of the book; suffice it to say that the author comes to his conclusions by looking at visual forms, and that he explains his findings by combining text with art from a wide array of indigenous cultures, ancient and modern. Both the form and the content of the book are so engaging to my visual sense that my associative mind has been running free and making connections between the author’s observations and a variety of ancient Jewish motifs and ideas.
In the course of reading the book, I’ve learned that I think in visuals far more than I’d realized. Sometimes, the visuals are clear pictures, and sometimes, they consist of outlines, textures, or colors that represent ideas and feelings. Because I’ve never been any good at representational art, I’ve never considered myself a visual thinker, but it’s clear now that I am most comfortable when I’m thinking visually and associatively, rather than verbally and linearly. I’m coming to this realization rather late, I think, because I grew up in two excessively verbal and vocal cultures—American culture and Jewish culture—and I learned to navigate so well in words that I couldn’t see the process behind the words until now.
As you’ve probably noticed, I’ve been writing about one post a week. I still love writing, but I’ve found that I need to balance my identity as a writer with living in the world of the visual. So, I’ve been immersing myself in a number of art projects and finding out just how much I love color, shapes (especially helixes), and the process of putting something together that wasn’t there before. In this post, I want to share what I’ve been doing—both over the course of the last year and at the present time.
I love making wind chimes, and in the spring, I made two wind chimes from parts that I “borrowed” from an old plastic xylophone. (The plastic part of the xylophone became a lobelia planter for the garden.) Here are the wind chimes, one made from warm colors…
…and the other made from cool colors:
More recently, I’ve made two pieces of art from the contents of an old, broken digital camera and printer dock, along with some springs and beads I picked up at the thrift store:
I’ve also been delving into sewing and quilting. First, I created a new backpack from the remains of a skirt I made last year. I love the deep blue, teal, and purple of the Guatemalan fabric, and I fashioned the backpack so that the pull straps close the top of the pack when you put it on:
Then, I started working on a quilted wall hanging made of fabric from clothing and other items that were wearing out. While I was in the process of cutting the material, I decided to make a potholder from the scraps. It’s unusual that I make anything unplanned and asymmetrical, but I had a good time patching the potholder together and finding out what would happen. I like the result very much:
I still need to sew the backing onto the wall hanging. When it’s done, I’ll post a photo of it.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
Several weeks ago, I received an email from a mom whose autistic son resisted getting undressed and changing his clothes. She wondered why he was having such a hard time. After writing back to her, I started to become more and more aware of my own difficulties in this regard—difficulties that have never really changed over the course of my life, despite my numerous attempts to “get it together” and be like other people
Unless I have to go somewhere, I find it very hard to get out of my pajamas. In the winter, I wear thermals at night, and I often find myself just throwing on a skirt in the morning and being done with it. If I manage to get out of my pajamas at all, I might put on workout clothes and spend a couple of hours on my bike. When I’m done, though, I feel quite attached to what I’m wearing. I only change into a proper set of clothes if I’m having a guest or going out. If I do manage to put on something suitable for appearing in public, I have to deal with the whole issue of putting on pajamas at night. I’ll remember to put them on if I’m lucky. Otherwise, I’m apt to fall asleep in my clothes.
For me, these difficulties all come down to my tactile sensitivities. I resist the discomfort of making a transition from one temperature to another. When I change my clothes, especially in the winter, I’m apt to get cold. Lately, I’ve been reminding myself that I can turn on the heater in the bathroom and have it direct warmth on me, but the resistance to actually getting there is very ingrained. And though I love to take a hot shower, getting myself to do it takes a lot of effort. There’s the chill before going in and the chill after coming out. There’s all this complicated transitional stuff having to do with the discarded clothing, the new clothing, the wet hair, the sound of the blow dryer, the floor mats that have to be hung up to dry, and the eyeglasses that get so fogged up that I’m apt to walk into a door on my way out.
I sometimes judge myself harshly for my difficulties around these issues of personal care, but I know that the challenges are sensory. So long as I keep my clothes clean and take a shower every other day, no one seems to mind. Yay! 
Issues of temperature aside, the very prospect of changing my clothes makes me feel more sensory sensitive than usual. To a large degree, my clothes give me a feeling of having a “thicker skin”—something that people have always told me I should try to develop (with less than spectacular results). There are times that I can’t bear to go outside because I’m in such an acutely sensitive state that my skin feels as though it’s made of tissue paper. At such times, my clothing is like a security blanket with which I don’t want to part, not even for a minute. I wear baggy, comfortable, cotton clothing that I find at thrift stores or, better yet, in free boxes. I don’t know what the latest styles are, and I couldn’t care less. So long as my clothing feels like a comfort to me, I’m happy.
Do others have these challenges? I know I can’t be the only one, but it’s not a subject I’ve noticed others writing about. Many thanks to one of my autie mom readers for raising the issue.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
I do not suffer from autism.
I suffer when someone calls my way of being a disorder.
I suffer when others invest time and money to prevent people like me from being born.
I suffer when anyone suggests that I might recover or be cured.
I suffer when others feel sorry for me or for the family I have created.
I suffer when I fear that people will consider me broken.
I suffer when my being autistic scares people away.
I suffer when others try to silence me.
I suffer when people suggest that I do not have all the same feelings they do.
I suffer because I must describe my way of being by referring to a medical diagnosis.
I suffer because I live in a society that does not celebrate difference.
I suffer because I live in a culture that does not cultivate sensitivity.
I suffer because I live in an environment that values appearance over substance.
I suffer because I live within a social order that calculates human worth based on productivity and conformity.
I suffer because I live in a world that does not honor the gifts that autism brings me.
I suffer because I have learned to apologize for who I am.
But make no mistake: I do not suffer from autism. I do not suffer from who I am.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
A year ago this afternoon, I was getting ready to see an Asperger’s specialist, and I was very, very nervous. What if he didn’t diagnose me with Asperger’s? What if he did? As the hours crept by, I kept thinking, “You don’t have to go, you know. You can still back out. There’s still time. Go ahead. Back out. You know you want to.”
I’m so glad I went to the appointment! Here are the top ten reasons I’m celebrating my autism diagnosis today:
1. I have proof that I was right all along: I am different from other people.
2. Now that I know that my limitations are neurological, I take much better care of myself. I get more rest. I take more breaks. I have more time alone. I leave the driving to others. I protect my sensitive ears. And I don’t go to social events that only wear me out.
3. Instead of feeling like a loser because I don’t have gobs of friends and a busy social life, I’ve realized that a few good friends and a little bit of socializing go a long, long way. While others have to socialize for hours in crowded rooms, I get the same benefit after only ten minutes of pleasant conversation. Imagine all the time I save!
4. I no longer get angry when people talk to my husband and not to me. Instead of spending hours analyzing all the things my husband should have said or done to render me visible, I just say to him, “So, honey, was that enjoyable for you?” More time saved! Plus, instead of engaging in a conversation that I can’t follow anyway, I can sit back and watch my socially adept husband listen sympathetically to the entire life stories of others. Such fun!
5. When I find myself getting frustrated with people, I make fewer judgments about them. I’ve learned that my frustration usually stems from a sensory issue (such as when someone speaks too loudly or too quickly) or from a difference in basic wiring (such as when someone tries to make small talk). I still judge people based on character, but only when they do something really terrible—like starting a war to line the pockets of their friends. Other than that, I tend to lay off.
6. I’ve stopped going to psychotherapists who tell me that I need to work harder on my “issues” so that I can “soar” and reach my “true potential.” Instead, I now see an autism-literate therapist who helps me find ways to adapt to a world that is largely oblivious to my acute experience of it.
7. I can now explain to my daughter precisely why I can’t go to a mall, a video arcade, or an ice skating rink. Instead of coming up with hypotheses that sound suspiciously like excuses, I just say, “Sorry, hon. No can do. It’s the autism.”
8. Now that I know that my sense of “otherness” is the result of unchangeable neurological wiring, I no longer feel compelled to talk myself hoarse trying to get people to understand me.
9. After fifty-one years of life, I am finally growing into my own skin.
10. After a lifetime of searching, I have discovered a community into which I fit.
Thank you all for being part of it.
© 2009 by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg
Journeys with Autism by Rachel Cohen-Rottenberg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Journeys with Autism