Being a “know-it-all” and a “stickler” for the rules, did not afford you any leniency when you experienced difficulties. No one would go to bat for me when I was staring another termination in the face because of being late—again.
It was never my intention to have, nor did I understand, why I had this type of reputation. I only expected others to play by the rules, the written rules, the ones in black and white that I could fully comprehend. Didn’t they understand that those were the only concrete rules that I had to cling to?
I was not opposed to doing things differently because I wanted my own way, or because I was a “know-it-all”. I had tremendous difficulty with change, and rearranging the way things were done, especially if I had been taught to do them a certain way. It was very much the same as my first day of kindergarten. The way I learned, or did it the first time, was the way that it stuck, immovable, set in stone; the ONLY correct way.
Clearly my weak central coherence (missing the whole, getting lost in the details), sensory overload, and rigid thinking were hindering my ability to be successful in the adult working world. But was my difficulty with theory of mind becoming a hindrance as well?
Even looking back now I can’t find some of the signals and sign posts that I missed along the way. Why would a private investigator want to take a young girl under his wing anyway? Yes—I was incredibly interested in Forensic Science, even though I could not make it through the schooling required for the profession, and I loved the idea of police and undercover work. So when the opportunity arose to take work as an undercover investigator, posing as customers, waitresses, or bartenders in local pubs in order to uncover employee theft I jumped at the chance.
It was a dream job. I would be able to do detective work, which I loved, and I had plenty of experience as a waitress, a bartender, and not to mention I was a professional at hanging out in bars drinking! This was definitely for me. There were other assignments as well, like spying on ex-husbands in the park and videotaping them with their children for custody hearings. Many times I needed to play the ditzy blonde who couldn’t use her camera correctly, or who tripped over the kid’s ball falling helplessly giggling into the arms of her boyfriend (the other private investigator)—hopelessly clumsy.
Even observing other people’s behaviors in the work place looking for theft was a good fit—I thought. I was used to observing people. Given a set of behaviors to watch for—I watched. I fear now though, I may have been the new creepy chick that the boss just hired.
What I did not know, what never crossed my mind was why this investigator would “train” me. Those signs, once again, I missed.
One evening after a long day of video-taping in the park, he dropped me off in front of my apartment. Before I got out of the car, he reached over slipped his hand onto my thigh, and tried to kiss me. What? Where did that come from? Was he crazy?
A slap preceded the door slamming on both the car and my “dream job”.
Chapter Sixteen
Damn That Shiny Armor
I was never more myself than when I was six years old—a lively little girl who talked too much, knew too much, spun round and round, and ripped her clothes off to run naked through the streets in comfort. She was still rigid and literal-minded, misunderstanding the world of people around her, but she didn’t notice. She was carefree—free to be herself.
Memories are marked with odd, quirky, stimming behaviors, but they were just an expression of herself; the way she saw the world, and did things. That little girl knew what she needed, wanted, and what was comforting to her. The young woman I was becoming could not make the same boast. I was rattled and confused.
Adolescence crept up on me and bound and gagged me when I wasn’t looking. Adulthood threatened to choke the life from my soul. My happy stimming behaviors were replaced with mind numbing alcohol. My intelligence was not being fed, and my self-worth began to rely on whose attention I attracted. I was on a downward spiral into the abyss of uncertainty.
I was a weird child, but adults accept even weird children. A weird adult, most especially a woman, no one accepts—not really.
I married when I was twenty-three years old, and by that time, believe me when I tell you I felt OLD, way past the age when I felt my life should have already begun and hadn’t. While my friends were finishing up college degrees, or beginning their careers and settling into lives of their own, I was still floundering around trying to find something that fit me—but nothing fit me.
When I first met my husband, I was attending a large church in Brooklyn. It was a Tuesday night in May of 1995. I had just finished taking my physical for the New York City Police Department, and had gone directly to the Tuesday night prayer meeting at church. It had been a long day; I had said many prayers to get me through that physical exam. Everyone should go to church sweaty in a t-shirt and stretchy pants.
On our way out of the building I saw him, I don’t remember very much else about what was going on around me—damn that shiny armor; here we go again.
He was the complete opposite of me; dark eyes to contrast my blue eyes; brown hair, starkly different than my light blonde; his nose and lips were full, mine pointed and thin; and his olive skin made my marshmallow complexion glow. I don’t know how we met really, I just remember looking at him. He was talking; I wasn’t listening.
When it was time to leave I offered him a ride home in a car that a student of mine lent me for the week. I was working at Arthur Murray Dance Studios in Manhattan, but was getting ready to leave that job because the next police academy class would be beginning in the end of June. Law enforcement, police work, forensics, investigations—that was where my interest really was, where my heart always lay.
Maybe it was the idea of justice, that naïve belief in the system—good vs. evil; right vs. wrong. That has always been at the core of my being, a passionate morality, a clear distinction between right and wrong; where lines were crisp, and there were no shady grey areas.
He accepted my ride home versus making the long trek from church to his apartment. I am proud to report that he was nothing but a gentleman, and in fact, would you believe he got out of the car, thanked me for the ride, said good-night, and began to walk away from the car!
I sat there slightly shell-shocked.
Beep, Beep. B-b-beep. BEEP.
He hadn’t expected me to start honking that horn.
So what happened when I honked that horn at the handsome stranger that I had just given a lift home? He nearly jumped out of his skin.
“You have a phone number?” I yelled to him still half across the street.
Stunned he walked back to the car. “Um, Uh, ya,” he stumbled over his words, and put his hands inside his jacket.
“Oh, don’t worry. Here—I have a pen.” I was prepared.
I wish I could say that it was magical from there—love at first sight—but that would be a lie. Of course on my part, the thing had been decided. I was marrying this one. He was handsome, polite, and genuinely nice to women.
He was the kind of man who opens doors and pulls out chairs, which was a huge change from the bar hopping fools to whom I’d become accustomed. The problem, however, was that he was nice to women. I guess it is a rare commodity to have someone go out of their way to make you feel good, to act like they care about you and your feelings as a person.
There were many things about the two of us that clashed immediately. He was non-committal, had too many “friends”, and was the chatty social butterfly. Everyone knew Mark, everyone smiled at him, talked to him—especially the girls. If there was a woman within twenty feet of that man they gravitated to him and it drove me nuts.
Not only did he attract too much attention from women, it was insincere attention, the kind of attention that I am incapable of giving. Flattery and lies are not a way of being nice—to me lies are flat-out the opposite. Lies and flattery to stroke a man’s ego to get something you desire in return is not sincere—it’s deceitful. I simply ca
nnot tell you that you look great, wonderful, and awesome on days that you do not.
Despite all of these challenges, I was convinced he was the one for me. To tell you the truth, I don’t even know what it was that convinced me, but I can say that I knew it almost immediately. The problem was he didn’t. He wanted his freedom, his “friends”, and his roaming. That—was unacceptable. All his “friends” were female, either current or past dating partners—utterly unacceptable.
For a time we stopped seeing each other, but I didn’t see anyone else. In my mind and heart I was wholly committed even if we were apart. After all, how could I say that I loved someone, and be with another? To me, that concept is completely foreign. So I patiently waited for him to come to his senses.
It took two years and two months for him to put a wedding band on my finger. There are some ideas that I get into my head, which in turn get stuck in stone, that turn out to be good things.
In the two years I’d known my husband prior to our wedding, I worked as a dance instructor for Arthur Murray Dance Studies in Manhattan, tried to get into the police academy, worked at a law firm, started a multi-level marketing business, took a part-time night job in a Brooklyn dance studio, and worked as an administrative assistant for a limousine company. Each time either leaving my job for something I perceived as better, or being let go because I failed to maintain a schedule for any length of time.
When I began a job, I was always a superstar. I could focus more intently than any other employee, learn faster, and get more accomplished—until I became overwhelmed. I remained unable to sustain these activities with any degree of competency for an extended period of time. Depending on the work involved, extended could have meant months, weeks, or mere days.
Life was beginning, once again, to become complicated. My one friend moved half-way across the country a few months before my wedding. I was left to plan and look forward to my new life seemingly alone. I felt sad, lonely, lost and confused. I had my husband of course, who was rapidly taking that “one friend” place in my life, but the transition was difficult. He didn’t really understand me. In fact, I really didn’t understand myself.
For someone on the autism spectrum finding a good fit in a job is tremendously important, as we take much of our self-worth and identity from what we do. More importantly though, I believe, is recognizing when you indeed do have a good fit, and sticking with it. I was not very good at either. Sticking with things was never my strong suit, not unless it was something I was intensely passionate about—a special interest. When I was very young baseball held my attention for many years.
My obsession with baseball was rapidly taken over by dancing. Dancing up until this point was probably my longest running special interest. I began dancing in elementary school, and continued on throughout my early twenties. Although, there were times that other interests even pushed that to the back burner for a while.
Only in hindsight can I now see which of these jobs fit me, and which did not. For the most part, most were not good fits, but there was one job that was a better fit than most.
I landed a job as an executive administrative assistant in a small limousine company. The title, however, is misleading. The company was small, and I indeed was the administrative assistant to the CEO, which would have been a terrible job for me in a regular company. But in this company, the job entailed mostly working with the comptroller, and tinkering with accounting software.
I learn to work computer programs quickly, so I was able to navigate any of the company’s programs with little to no training. All I needed to do was open a program and tinker with it for a little while in order to be able to use it. I did not have to answer telephones, or work with other staff. I was in a unique position in the company; I mostly worked alone or with the accountant. It was a good fit.
Being a small company in Brooklyn, the job didn’t pay very much, but at least there was no dress code. I was able to come to work any way I chose—jeans were common attire. Additionally, the office was close to my home, about a 3-minute drive, and I could pretty much make my own hours—within reason. I was not penalized for being late; I loved the work, and was left to do it. Best of all—my job didn’t require me to talk to anyone.
Looking back I should have stayed there, at least for a little longer than I did. I was newly married, and finances were tight so I began to look for other opportunities—ones that paid more money. I landed a job in Manhattan as a receptionist; the pay was better but not exceedingly so. Still I was moving up in the world, and going to work in the city reasoning that this position was just a stepping stone within the company.
What a mistake! Money does not compensate for misery.
For starters, the job required me to be on a train at 7 a.m. in order to make it to my office before 9 a.m. My new husband and I lived almost at very end of the B line in Brooklyn, near Bay 50th Street Station. The end of the line was only one stop further, where you would reach Coney Island. From that stop to my office took in excess of one and a half hours. What was I thinking?
The first couple of weeks went off without a hitch. It was new; I was on top of getting dressed in business attire, doing my hair, putting on make-up and heels and leaving the house. Might I add at this point that I HATE business attire, primping my hair, and cannot stand the feel of make-up on my face. I suppose it was only a matter of time until I could not stand wearing it any longer and my appearance at work became hairier by the day.
I was exhausted—all the time. There were not enough hours in the day to work, commute, and sleep, there just weren’t. I could barely open my eyeballs in the mornings and drag myself out of the house. Despite my exhaustion, my brain has always worked best when I first open my eyes in the morning. That is the time of the day when I have all my thoughts, dreams, plans, and inspirations. I suspect it is the time of the day I can function best because no one has yet pissed me off.
I was intensely interested in business and finance, real estate and mortgage rates. I loved to talk about ideas, investment property and passive income—a passion of mine, which my husband did not understand or care about. I used to chat his ear off in the mornings while I got ready for work, but he was able to get away from me quickly because he needed to catch his train. Now, however, I rode the train alongside of him, and there was no escape.
Being married only a short time, less than two months, I was overjoyed to spend time talking his ear off on our extremely long commute. He, on the other hand, kept trying to find ways to get me to shut up. He repeatedly told me that it was too early in the morning to talk about finances while his eyes glazed over; I continued to ramble.
As it became more difficult to get out of bed in time, and get out of the house, he began threatening to leave without me. After all, if he waited for me, he too would be late for work. I took it personally. He tried to get me to stop rambling on and on about things he couldn’t care less about ALL the way to the city; I tried; I couldn’t. He opened his book; I kept talking. He put headphones on; I got angry.
The new job was making me sick. Truly, physically sick.
That’s right; I didn’t mention what my exact job duties entailed. I was one of three front desk receptionists working behind a circular reception desk—the first people you see when you walk into the company. This particular company was a head-hunting agency, and I actually got the job when I submitted a resume for them to place me somewhere. Since there was a receptionist opening, I was placed right within the company.
Greeting people—first problem.
In addition to the meet and greet responsibilities, I was required to wear a headset and answer a non-stop switchboard the entire day. In the midst of talking to visitors, I needed to simultaneously talk on the phone, answer questions, and transfer phone calls. I rarely got it right, often forgetting who the caller wanted to speak to, or what they just told me their names were. The two other receptionists were chatty pattys. I hated the office politics, the ridiculous drama, and the gossip,
so I spent most of the day not speaking to them at all—if I was able avoid it.
Music blared in the background, phones rang, and hundreds of calls routed themselves into my headset interrupting every possible thought I tried to grab hold of. This job was NOT a good fit, in fact, it was awful.
The office manager took pity on me and allowed me to work on a special project in the accounting department for a few days. I did too good of a job and finished my project early, damn it, which only led to me going back to my own desk faster.
Nights became sleepless and tearful, followed by mornings when I was sick to my stomach. I developed gastrointestinal problems, and after an endoscopy was diagnosed with Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
I was beginning to have difficulty functioning at all. I dreaded mornings, and dreaded heading out to the train station to head to that job even more. I continued to feel exhausted all the time, and was not enjoying my new found stomach issues.
It was at my second doctor’s appointment that my physician proclaimed, “You are depressed.”
I described my sensitivity to the sounds and lights in my office, my inability to keep two thoughts in my head at the same time, and difficulty staying on a schedule. I discussed my sheer panic at the prospect of meeting and greeting people all day long, or having to keep a headset on over my ears. There was never any explanation given for my “symptoms”.
Here—take this little blue pill every morning, and this one, and this one, and this one….
Medication for my stomach, for depression, for inflammation, for pain…I left the pharmacy with a bag full.
The first time I took Zoloft I saw little blue monkeys.
The doctor handed me a stack of prescriptions and sent me on my way, never giving any indication what I would feel like the next day when I obediently took my medications as directed.
I arrived at work the following morning—late—with an extra bag that was full of prescriptions. I hadn’t taken any before I left the house because I was running late, and some said, “Take with food”. I figured that I would take my medications when I arrived at the office, after picking up a cup of tea and a buttered roll from the street vendor.
Twirling Naked in the Streets and No One Noticed; Growing Up With Undiagnosed Autism Page 11