Lives with Autism

Kate

Introduction

"The thing about autism, if you suffer from it, is that you can’t tell the difference between yourself and someone who doesn’t. You can’t think any other way. You only have one perspective, and from your perspective you can’t tell that anything’s wrong. Other people say you’ve got it. You’re different. There’s something wrong with you. They give you this label. There’s nothing you can do about it. It doesn’t matter what your perceptions about yourself are; it’s other people who define you. I wouldn’t know I was autistic if people didn’t tell me I was. So it’s not what I think that’s important; it’s what other people think. No matter how much you hate it, no matter how much you try to change yourself, it doesn’t go away. It’s like the scars left by a hot iron brand; you can’t run and you can’t hide. You’re autistic and there is absolutely nothing you can do. You have no idea how soul crushing that is."

This is how an 18-year-old A-level student, Christopher, sees his autism (his full account is in Chapter 7 of this book). There is something stark about the way he compares the ‘autism label’ to ‘the scars left by a hot iron’. He feels that being labelled in this way is like being branded and left with a lifelong scar. In the town where I live, convicted prisoners used to be branded so that they could be easily identified in the future. Likewise, slaves were branded to denote ownership. Christopher says this label has given him a lasting mark, from which he can’t run or hide.

He suggests that autism is not something he recognises in himself; rather it is something visited on him. Someone else has identified him as something he does not recognise. It is always there. He thinks there is nothing he can do about it. Other people determine what will be, and he feels helpless. It is not the autism that is a problem – it is the professionals who apply the label. It is not his own perception of self that defines him; it is the perceptions others have of him. He thinks he ‘suffers’ from autism and yet he does not think that there is anything ‘wrong’; he is just himself. This is a powerful description of alienation from self and others. This is Christopher’s story.

What is my story, as the person who has gathered together the personal accounts in this book? I am a neurotypical; nothing special, just another example of the majority of the population. We neurotypical professionals are trained to identify the ways in which those we label ‘autistic’ are pathologically different. We supposedly become ‘experts’ and receive a professional salary in return. Most of us try to do our best for our ‘clients’. Yet assessment, the procedure we are paid to carry out, feels like a scar from a hot iron to Christopher. It hurts him and perhaps others like him. Our actions have contributed to a deep sense of alienation. None of us have set out to have this effect, and yet it seems to have been the consequence of our actions – at least sometimes. On the other hand, all the parents who have written in this book say that getting the label for their child was a positive step. It is like negotiating a minefield. What are we to do?

As the Autism Programme Leader at the University of Cumbria, I have been engaged with autism for the past 13 years. During this time, there has been a rapid increase in the number of books and articles on the subject, reflecting a rapid growth in knowledge about autism. Yet, despite being familiar with the literature, I find that personal testimonies such as Christopher’s provide a different, more profound, understanding of what it really means. Academic literature can define autism in a way that is often clinical and pathology-orientated, whereas personal testimony can tell us, in vivid colours, what it is like. It can also give us an insight into how our interventions make people feel. This book offers a collection of narratives from people whose lives are touched by autism. The challenge for the practitioner is to listen deeply to what is being said.

All the chapters in this book contain personal accounts from people touched by autism. The stories are mostly told ‘straight’, with little added analysis. Three chapters offer reflections from professionals but for the rest it is for you, the reader, to carry out your own reflection and analysis. For me, these stories offer the chance to think and learn in a ‘slow-burn’ way.

Many of the authors describe professional practice that is damaging and misses the mark entirely. It might be argued that the narrative created by a professional is very different from, and sometimes even counter to, the narrative of a person living with autism. The accounts in this book offer readers the opportunity to engage with the viewpoints of people with experience of autism and reflexively incorporate them into their professional narratives. There is no intention here to develop a discussion on narrative processes but, for those who are interested, a good account can be found in Frank (1995).

This approach might feel alien to many professionals who are used to reading academic and professional guidance literature. For example, this book has a fairly short bibliography because there are not that many references to list. It is all about personal narratives from people whose lives are directly touched by the day-to-day realities of autism. The contributions are not from academic experts – they are from people whose expertise comes from experience.

A personal narrative

During my time as Autism Programme Leader, I have met, and befriended, many people with autism and their families. Through listening to their stories, I have had many moments of profound challenge and insight. Some of these insights are described in the following pages, as a book about narrative should also include some of the editor’s narrative. It would be dishonest to claim that my role is entirely neutral. I chose the stories in the book and this selection was partly influenced by how each person’s story resonated with me.

Before sharing some personal insights, I will briefly explain my use of language. The term ‘on the autism spectrum’ is commonly used by professionals and authors but I know few people who use it when discussing themselves or family members. The author of one chapter refers to himself as having an ‘autistic spectrum condition’. Christopher, in the quotation at the start of this chapter, calls himself ‘autistic’.

Two other authors in this book choose this term unprompted. One author is very clear about asserting that this is what he prefers to be called. He sees himself as categorically different from neurotypicals – in fact a different species. This is not, of course, biologically accurate, but it gives a good sense of how he sees himself. He states that he is offended if people say he ‘has’ autism and that it is like being called ‘coloured’ rather than ‘black’, or like being described as ‘having gayness’ rather than ‘being gay’. He thinks that autism is the thing that sets him apart and biologically defines him.

Three of the authors use the term ‘Aspergian’ to define themselves. This is a term that tends to evoke a negative response from some professionals. It might be interesting to explore why this is the case, but – whatever the reason – neurotypical professionals seem to retain control over labels. This may come as no surprise while we continue to pathologise autism and so apply diagnostic labels. Perhaps the phenomenon of people with autism using arguably derogatory labels is similar to that of gay people appropriating words such as ‘queer’ and ‘dyke’ or black groups appropriating the ‘N’ word (as a white man, I do not have authority to write the actual word). I have attempted to limit my own reference to the label but where necessary I have used the phrase ‘has autism’.

We neurotypicals describe people with autism as having a triad of impairments, which most people reading this book will probably have learned off by heart. I have assumed that most readers will be able to understand and define the main terms used when discussing autism. Anyone not sure about the more ‘technical’ aspects of autism will need to look elsewhere. There are many excellent textbooks available, and the National Autistic Society website is a good source of authoritative information.

The triad of impairment is the basis of autism diagnosis. One aspect of this well-known triad is impairment of imagination. Yet the quotation at the start of this introduction seems to demonstrate that Christopher, a man labelled as being on the autism spectrum, has a rich imagination. Seeing a label as a scar from a branding iron is, after all, a very powerful mental image.

On the contrary, perhaps it is neurotypicality that can sometimes be a barrier to truly perceiving the world. As a neurotypical, I never really ‘got’ the enormity of this issue before reading Christopher’s account; so it appears that it was me who had the impaired imagination. Another author in this book agrees with this point, arguing that it is indeed the neurotypicals who have impairment of imagination. He describes having to use his imagination every day to attempt to fit into a neurotypical world, most of which is not suited to his needs or worldview. He believes that neurotypicals seldom use imagination when attempting to understand his world. This book is an attempt to help generate such understanding.

A second aspect of the triad of impairments involves communication. In assessing and labelling people, we decide that some individuals have impairment in communication. Yet one author has told me that when he is with other autistic (his term) people, he never experiences problems in communication. It is only when he tries to communicate with neurotypicals that he struggles. He and others who have contributed to this book find the way neurotypical people express themselves very vague and imprecise. Apparently the neurotypical impairment is in precise communication. As one person with autism said to me, ‘Why can’t you bloody neurotypicals ever say what you mean? What is wrong with you?’

As we all know, half of communication is listening. People with autism have told me on numerous occasions that neurotypicals often do not listen; we have an impairment in this area too. One of the authors in this book gave me an accolade that meant a lot: she described me as ‘an honorary aspi’, adding that ‘for a neurotypical, you are not too bad at listening’. Perhaps we can all learn to listen, but not always as ‘professionals’, with our tendency to interpret and analyse. We can listen in an open-minded way, to truly hear and attempt to understand. I hope this is how readers will approach this book. Christine Mayer, a woman with a learning disability, explains how she wants us to listen:

If you are going to work with me, you have to listen to me.

And you can’t just listen with your ears, because it will go to your head too fast. If you listen slow, with your whole body, some of what I say will enter your heart.

(Quoted in O’Brien et al. 1998, p. 71)

We can try to read in a subjective way, rather than the objective way that becomes the ‘default setting’ for so many of us who are engaged in professional practice. Perhaps by reflecting on our default professional responses we can give ourselves a chance to develop empathy. Rather than reading through a ‘how can I intervene?’ lens, we might look through a ‘how might this feel?’ lens. If we attempt to understand as fellow human beings, we might avoid some of the common neurotypical pitfalls. Understanding what it is like to live with autism, in all its nuanced detail, seems to me to be essential for practitioners. Perhaps the most important point is to understand how our interventions and interactions can impact on the people we claim to support.

One of the contributors to this book makes two observations about the triad of impairments. Firstly, he states that the notion of ‘impairment’ is wrong in this context. He believes that ‘difference’ is a more appropriate idea, that neurotypicals and autistics (his preferred term) are, to all practical purposes, essentially different species. This difference only becomes impairment when the neurotypical majority make no attempt to accommodate that difference. Those readers who know about the social model of disability will be familiar with this concept. In other words, it makes no sense to him that people on the autism spectrum are said to have an impairment in imagination, when his experience is that most neurotypicals appear unable to comprehend what his life is like. The only times in his life when he has been harmed have been when he has been in contact with a neurotypical. He says that, on these occasions, the perpetrators appeared to have little idea of what they had done.

I have reflected on these points and considered the views sometimes expressed by people on our autism course or in practice and think that I understand what this contributor means. I have come across many examples of course participants who have demonstrated an impairment of understanding when describing their practice. One teacher thought a pupil having a meltdown was ‘being attention-seeking’. A support worker thought the person they supported would ‘get used to’ the noise in the supermarket. One social worker thought a family ‘enjoyed complaining’. A psychologist stereotyped according to the label she had given, and pathologised an individual’s love of twiddling paper. A consultant said he was sometimes reluctant to give a diagnosis to desperate parents because he thought ‘autism was a trend’.

These are just a few examples – there are many more. Each of these individuals appears to be imposing their own neurotypical perspective on the world of the person with autism in their life. Some of the stories in this book describe times when professional responses like these have caused serious problems for people with autism and their families.

The use of stories

This book is based upon the assumption that, as professionals, we can learn from stories and modify our practice accordingly. This might be challenging for some readers who adhere to the current orthodoxy of evidence-based practice. Can stories ever be perceived as ‘evidence’?

As Autism Programme Leader, I have been in the remarkably privileged position of reading hundreds of assignments describing professional practice and life with autism from all over the country. The struggle of professionals attempting to do their best in difficult circumstances produces, for me, a real sense of practice community. A popular feature of the course is the sharing of accounts from practice. These narratives appear to offer the potential for deep cognitive learning. A particular example of learning and fundamental change in practice as a result of narrative is illustrated by the following story (first described in Mee 2012).

Spiderman

John is a boy who is on the autism spectrum. One day John’s mother was talking on the telephone to a friend. She told her friend that a story had recently appeared in the newspapers, saying that since the tragedy of 9/11 the makers of Spiderman 1 had removed the World Trade Centre towers from the film, using computer technology. John overheard his mother and was very upset when she hung up.

He asked his mother why she had lied. Mum assured him that it was true. He insisted it was not and took her to the TV and put the Spiderman 1 video on. He fast-forwarded the film to the exact point at which Spiderman emerges from the underground and scans the streets. The shot shows a close-up of his face and, for a fleeting moment, there is a reflection of the skyline in the black eyes on his mask. In that moment the twin towers can be seen in the reflection; the film-makers had missed it. John had found it immediately. It should be noted that he did not watch Spiderman in an obsessive way; it was just one of the films he had which he watched from time to time.

This is an account of an everyday experience that is typical for many people with autism. John experiences the world in a way that is incomprehensible to others. Tiny details that would typically go unnoticed by a neurotypical can overwhelm people who are on the spectrum. In this case, the boy had noticed something apparently unremarkable and was able to recall that detail easily.

This story was told on the autism course and led to a significant change in the support offered to Sarah, a woman with a learning disability, diagnosed with autism. She was thought to need three care staff most of the time because of her extremely challenging behaviour. The care plan included input from a range of specialists. The situation had remained static for a long time and the manager of this service felt ‘stuck’.

Then she heard the ‘Spiderman’ story and was struck by it. She already knew the facts about hypersensitivity but the story helped her to realise the all-pervading nature of this difference, and how it applied all day, every day, every minute, to every sense, and every detail. Sensory overload is not just overwhelming; it means being drowned in detail, with no escape and no means of switching off. Some of that detail might cause overwhelming nausea, pain or some other unpleasant sensation. She wondered whether the woman she was supporting was experiencing the world in this way.

The manager decided to sit in the woman’s chair for several hours, and try to imagine herself into her world, to see the world as she might. The manager reported that it was difficult to remain in this mindset, a different sort of ‘discipline’ to that usually suggested by research literature. It was like seeing a new world. She noticed the noise of outside traffic, the clutter in the room, the patterns on the carpet, the decorations on the wall, the ornaments on the shelves, the noise from the corridor, the slamming of doors, the way the staff chatted to each other, the bright contrasting colours of staff clothing, their bright dangling jewellery, the smell of garlic on the staff, the radio, and the list went on.

As a result, she drew up new guidelines. Staff were to wear subdued pastel-coloured clothes, to avoid garlic before coming on duty and to avoid chatting over Sarah’s head. The clutter was reduced and soundproof curtains put up. The manager tried to change all the things that she had observed. She reported an immediate and drastic reduction in Sarah’s challenging behaviour. The interesting aspect of this was that the manager had previously known the ‘facts’ about sensory difference for people on the autism spectrum but she now knew them in a different way.

Prior to this, there was a good knowledge base and a multidisciplinary team to plan care. There was plenty of motivation to come up with an effective care plan because people were being hurt as a result of the challenging behaviour, and there was a huge cost to the service. Nevertheless, in a six-week course, hearing the ‘Spiderman’ story was the critical point at which a cognitive shift took place. This event was the focus of this manager’s essay.

As well as including accounts from people with autism, this course has also been attended by a significant number of students with autism and their relatives. This has always seemed odd to me; surely they are the true experts? Yet, when asked why they attend a course that they should really be teaching, they usually say something along the lines of ‘I need a paper qualification to get the professionals to take me seriously’. This is a real indictment of some professional behaviour.

I have learned some profound lessons through marking essays describing the lived experiences of people with autism who have attended the course. Some of these stories have caused me to rethink previously held beliefs about autism. Some are shocking and scarcely believable. Some retain their power to shock many years after being first read. Stories from these essays form some of the chapters in this book. Others chapters are from people whose paths have crossed mine and whose stories have had an impact. All except two of the accounts in this book are from people on the autism spectrum, or their siblings or parents. In some cases the authors fall into more than one category – for example, being both a parent of a person with autism and having autism themselves.

My aim in presenting these stories is to give the reader a chance to reflect on the realities of life for the writers. I hope the stories will prove easy to read, being free of lengthy footnotes, references and other conventional academic trappings. These are true stories and it is hoped that practitioners will read them slowly, allowing themselves time to reflect on what life with autism might really be like.

KatyLou, one of the mothers who writes in this book, describes the sort of professional support that it is helpful, and the sort that is not:

…[the best professionals are those] who try to understand what it’s like in a parent’s shoes and even more importantly talk to parents on equal terms, not as experts doling out expertise, but simply people helping people, no matter how wonderfully knowledgeable they are. But the ones who will to me be forever memorable, for how they failed us, are no doubt continuing to look down on the rest of us from the ivory towers of their very questionable expertise.

This book provides a series of personal stories, rather than a battery of professional tools. Slow reading of these accounts should offer insights similar to the one gained by the service manager who heard the ‘Spiderman’ story. Testimonies like this one can highlight ways of being more useful as ‘people helping people’. All these stories have touched me in one way or another. I hope they will touch you too.

The authors

The following chapters are in the words of the people who own the stories. The writing is an eclectic mix, with a range of styles, lengths and core themes. Some were written by the person themselves; others were told to me, or to Kate Mee, and then transcribed. One is a series of email communications. Some are shocking, some focus on everyday matters, and others may appear strange. The stories are from very individual perspectives, and if all the authors were in a room together it is unlikely that they would agree on many issues. In fact, friendships between some of the authors have become strained due to differences in opinion.

My aim in presenting these accounts is that they should remain authentic, so there have been few attempts to mediate their core messages or edit the content. This offers the reader the opportunity of a secondary level of learning that is beyond the story in the narrative. For example, some of the accounts express the deep anger felt by the writer and there is little attempt to rein in the emotion. Some of the stories are presented in great detail, whereas a neurotypical account might have taken the form of a shorter summary. This can be seen as another way of attempting to stand in someone else’s shoes, to understand the world as they see it. I made this selection from a wide range of stories; the decision was based on which struck me as resonant. Each chapter has a very individual voice and I considered it important that the stories should be told in the voice chosen by the narrator.

I believe that becoming aware of very differing life experiences and perspectives on autism can help us become more effective professionals. They can enable us to move beyond simple stereotypes, which might lead us to conclude that ‘autism is like this’. The experience of autism is obviously individual and so each story is unique. Yet there are some universal themes, and each reader will be struck by particular themes that resonate with their own experiences and understanding. The concluding chapter includes some of my own reflections on the impact of these stories.

Each chapter starts with a brief introduction and ends with some reflections written by me. I had originally intended to let the chapters stand alone but it was suggested by neurotypical reviewers that some guidance for the neurotypical reader would be useful. The introduction to each chapter therefore gives some indication of the origin of the account, and the conclusion offers some personal reflections on practice based on the themes in the chapter. Of course that are many other themes in each chapter and I hope the reader will reflect on whatever aspects have resonance for them. If some readers decide to ignore my introductions and reflections, perhaps little will be lost.

Each author has chosen whether to use their own name or a pseudonym. A similar decision has also been made where family members are concerned. Each author has also decided whether or not to name particular places.

Section 1

Three women getting on with their lives

1A person with autism

Julia Clifford

2An Asperger marriage

Gay Eastoe

3A mother and person on the spectrum

Julia Pilkington

1

A person with autism

Julia Clifford

Julia is a woman with autism. She has generously shared this account of her life, which she had already written with a view to publication. She offers some vivid detail about her day-to-day life. For example, when describing her literal understanding of the world she tells us:

Whenever I pass an estate agent’s, there are always notices saying: ‘Your home is at risk if you don’t keep up payments on your mortgage’. I always have visions of people’s homes being destroyed by meteorites if the home owner goes into arrears. I often have this urge to say to estate agents ‘in reality the home isn’t at risk; all that is at risk is the people’s ownership of it’.

Julia’s account might well prompt us to question why neurotypical professionals describe people with autism as having ‘impairment of imagination’.

Introduction

It may seem bizarre to many people that I genuinely hoped my sisters were correct when they told me they thought that I might be autistic, but it can be reassuring for an individual to know that their condition can be and has been properly identified. I was relieved when a doctor confirmed their suspicions, as autism fits my symptoms and my behaviour extremely well. I am writing this chapter as a way of exploring and trying to understand my autism.

Social skills

First and foremost, I looked up the meaning of the word ‘society’ in a dictionary. The definition it gave was: ‘fellowship, company or a body of persons united for the same object’.

The problem with autistic people is that the way their brains have been wired means they have a poor concept regarding the laws governing how the other members of human society work. Those who are on the autistic spectrum have their own personal set of rules and regulations, which are often more than a little out of step with their contemporaries. To be autistic is to have a problem with other people, dealing with their reactions and interpreting the human environment in which we all have to live.

The word ‘autism’ comes from the Greek word autos, meaning ‘self’. Autistic people have a fundamental problem with themselves. They cannot help sometimes coming across as totally egocentric. They are very good at pursuing their own personal agenda and often don’t realise that they are doing this and don’t fully appreciate the impact it might have on others. They may come across as lacking in empathy. They are the world’s loners, many of whom lack the ability to make friends or establish ‘normal’ relationships. But ‘no man is an island, entire of itself’ (John Donne).

However, in many situations when they are by themselves they don’t always feel lonely. They often enjoy the pleasure of their own company and find other ways to compensate for their lack of human companionship.

It is not that autists don’t care about others; neither is it a case of them being unwilling or unable to make a positive contribution to society. The real problem they face is that when they try to make a positive contribution to society they often handle it in the wrong way. They need a great deal of direction and help with this issue.

Those on the autistic spectrum often don’t hate their fellow human beings. It is actually the behaviour of those who respond negatively to their needs that autistic people have a problem coping with. When it comes to the crunch, some autistic people are very good Christians who understand the need to forgive others who wrong them! Unfortunately the non-autistic members of society don’t often realise their need to ask forgiveness from the autistic people they may have hurt, albeit unintentionally. Autistic people are often exceptionally vulnerable and they are often put into situations with people who are quick to exploit them. But autistic people should bear in mind that they too may be guilty of not apologising to those whom they may have harmed as a result of their behaviour and inability to understand the needs of others.

Examples of problems with relationships

As a child, I had huge difficulty mixing with others and making friends with children my own age, at school, at Church and in the Brownies. This often resulted in me being left to my own devices. I was often happier and more at ease with the adults at Church than the other children. I was on friendlier terms with a lot of the Sunday School teachers, the clergy and the old ladies/men. As an adult, I would say that I prefer the company of people who have a clear ‘role’.

At school, I was accused by a ‘friend’ of using people. I am sure that I probably do. It’s not done with deliberate malice but it is more like an automatic reflex. For example, as a child I made friends