a-picnic-to-heaven

[a-picnic-to-heaven]

A Wooden Chest

Today I pulled open my chest of drawers and, while staring at its contents, wondered why I suddenly felt an emptiness aching inside of me. I don’t like these clothes. At what point did I stop buying clothes that I like? It’s nauseating to realise there’s been a shift in your subconscious without any knowledge of it, to feel as though a stranger has taken occupancy in your mind and assumed control against your will. My clothes have gradually drowned and are suffocating at the bottom of this drawer as these shrunken, bland forms sit on top of them. ‘Christ’ I think, ‘this is miserable’. And I’m filled with this shame of knowing I’ve gradually deserted myself in pursuit of a goal that’s never been realised, that’s given me absolutely nothing in return. I’ve become consumed only by the drive for others to admire me, and I've shrunken myself down in the process. I stare at these flimsy pieces of cotton and think about how awful they look lying limp on their own. They’re simply props, not items themselves. Their sole purpose is to stretch for the exhibition of a body, and without it, they’re half the size. If that body returns nothing of value, then these clothes have no purpose at all. They certainly don’t keep me warm, and it’s those moments of biting cold that I feel the sharpest humiliation of all. It sparks a resentment towards myself that I have never felt towards anyone else. How much of my life have I spent making myself uncomfortable for some vague goal of pleasing others that rarely ever happens? Even when they’re pleased, it’s purely their gain and none of mine.

I feel I must be beautiful so that the deficits of my mind won’t seem so abrasive, to paint over the splinters out of politeness. To give it up feels like an act of grave danger. It’s what has seemed to protect me until now so I must uphold it forever to be safe, and yet I never feel truly safe because the person these people are polite to is not me. I know I would be treated differently if I stopped trying so hard, and that’s what’s terrifying—the constant fear of revealing myself and watching the disappointment in their faces. My version of ‘I won’t wear makeup today’ is still wearing makeup, just hiding the most obvious imperfections. My acne hasn’t even been particularly bad as I’ve grown older, and I think my natural face is still passably pretty. But no matter what, I carry this belief that if an acquaintance saw me with my acne unconcealed, then they would immediately find me disgusting. They would come nowhere near me; I’d be too repulsive to even risk a glance. It feels like too much of a reveal of my human self—that I have real flesh prone to eruption and scarring. When I’m nervous, I have to make my appearance as different from my natural self as possible, almost as an illusion tactic to distract the onlooker. I wear long, brightly coloured nails so that I might believe I’m someone else when I look down. I paint myself as a doll and wear clothes that create a fictional character. That way, I can convince myself that any negative judgement is simply criticism of that fake persona and not an attack on the trembling soul inside of me.

I don’t know. I don’t know if I will ever give up on chasing beauty, always believing it will offer me something. Truthfully, all it ever gives you is politeness; it doesn’t give you anything deeper than that. I don’t know how long it will take for my life to be stable enough that I can comfortably lower these defences and not feel the loss will have some devastating impact. All I know right now is that it’s so upsetting to be an adult looking at photos of yourself as a child (though it certainly didn’t feel that way at the time) wearing full makeup as an adult would, as if it’s normal. It’s so humiliating being that insecure, looking foolish because of the fact you’re so insecure, no matter how much effort you take to combat it. To this day, people sometimes say things like, ‘Why are you so dressed up for such a small thing? No one’s bothered what you look like’ and the remark feels so cutting because deep down, I know I don’t do it for my appearance; I do it to make up for everything else about me. It’s a kind of apology, a way to prove I really am trying. I’m trying desperately to make myself palatable to you.

[a-picnic-to-heaven]

The paradox of self-belief (in autism) 

It's so confusing to have a disability that is one of the most invisible and possible to conceal, and yet the more you try to push through it, ‘believe in yourself’ and refuse to be held back by it, the more you suffer and the more you lose any ability you once had. Especially when this works in direct contrast to every message pushed in a competitive society. You grow up learning that confidence and bravery are the most impressive traits that everyone should aspire for, and you see Paralympians explain how their disability doesn’t hold them back and that they can run 100 metres as fast as anyone else.

For autistic people, we’ve been depicted to audiences as super-intelligent spectacles with high-speed computer brains who take high-paying jobs as the smartest people in their workplace. I suppose it’s a nice fantasy to watch on TV while you deal with your share of autistic unemployment. Of course, most of this is done in good faith to show that autistic people shouldn’t be completely dismissed, as our traits sometimes do have ‘value’.

But what if they don’t? What if the effort poured into those achievements that can prove us to be ‘valuable’ and ‘not completely hopeless’, eventually runs us into the ground and leaves us unable to function in any valuable way at all? Are we still likeable then? Whilst unable to function, these mantras repeat in our brains, ‘Believe in yourself!’ ‘Be confident!’ ‘Don’t let a label define you!’ and this internalised pressure that maybe you just need to try a bit harder and be a bit braver, and then you’ll seem normal, just depletes all remaining energy further and further.

As I sit in my bedroom in silence, a stranger simply walking into my room and looking at me would not know I was autistic. And the knowledge of this fills me with guilt because that person would look at me and see someone who is just lazy and overly despairing. I fear many people do see me that way. In some ways it’s my own fault, as I’m the one who spent my whole life doing everything I could to make them believe I was fully capable. The people around me, who grew up with me and share much in common with me, become adults, progress with their lives, chase their ambitions, and wonder why I am not doing the same. But it feels impossible to look them in the eye and explain that I am not able to live like them when I have put them under that very illusion for as long as we’ve known each other.

In the end, we are forced to push against societal messages that uphold a busy, career-driven, social-climbing lifestyle as the right way to live. The effort to push against the status quo piles on top of the effort it already takes us to live as autistic in a society made for allistic people.

Perhaps at some point, you need to give up pursuing any form of status in the eyes of others and accept that you must live a life that suits you, regardless of how it appears to others. And once you do that, you can focus on making yourself happy in your own way and seeking your own ambitions in life, whether they make sense to others or not.

You are not lazy; you do not lack determination or self-belief. What autistic people truly need is self-compassion, because regardless of how it may feel, you have not done anything wrong by existing as you are.

You deserve to rest after trying so hard for so long. So please, go easy on yourself, even if you feel guilty about it at first. You cannot keep punishing yourself like this when you endure so much already.

[a-picnic-to-heaven]

Can’t you just listen to me?

Facial expressions, body language, subtle cues. I understand their importance but I wish people would stop searching for them so incessantly. I hate the assumption that because I can’t bring myself to look you in the eye or jump with joy, that I'm insincere and unpleasant. Just because I complimented you with a straight face does not mean I didn’t wholeheartedly mean it. Just because my eyes shifted around the room does not mean I was hiding something from you. When I speak, I have already decided what to say, and I rarely decide not to tell the truth. So when I speak, please just believe the words from my mouth. I’m sorry, that my cheeks ache so much when I try to force a smile, and my eyes sting when I look at yours. Frankly, it hurts, to be someone that cares deeply but is assumed to be so cold and sinister because of my demeanour. When I say kind words to my loved ones, I wish they wouldn’t scan my face for dishonesty before deciding whether to accept them. When I speak, I wish people would just listen, free from preconception.

[a-picnic-to-heaven]

beautiful from afar

We’re either half full or half empty, loving or hating. People like me have other descriptions too. Feeling like an alien, or to others, like a robot. What do you call a person that loves everyone and everything, but only as a spectator? I don’t want to be isolated, I just don’t want to be involved.

I feel I should empathise with all introverts, but I cannot understand those who hate people. I think people are lovely. Maybe that is naive of me, but I don’t care. I have spent my life loving people in ways that they would never know. I think that it can be so beautiful to watch someone, anyone, from afar and enjoy the fact that they are an entire person currently existing. I would sit gently smiling at classmates I had never spoken to, curious about their inner world and finding it endlessly endearing to watch them go about their day trying their best and making innocent mistakes they hoped no one saw.

One day, my friend and I were discussing a classmate we thought to be fascinatingly witty. She said to me, “have you ever actually talked to him?”. It was a simple question, but something about it made my heart clench. She didn’t know that it was calling into question my entire way of living. I just replied, “No, I don’t think I really want to” but inside I was thinking ‘Why? Why do I have to? Is talking the cost for living? Am I harming anyone by simply watching?’.

There are many people I have chosen only to enjoy from afar, however, the truth is that it’s not entirely my choice. Though the world and its inhabitants are beautiful, not everyone is equally equipped to enjoy it first-hand. My body is not always in my control, a wave of heat can overcome me, and I may stutter and stumble and twitch. I’ve been asked with fearful eyes why my face is trembling so much, and sat there wondering if it was possible to be so sensitive that an embarrassing conversation had brought on a stroke.

But it’s not just the physical discomfort, it’s also the mental exhaustion, feeling your intuitive skills waning and expressions solidifying to a blank stare, while your mouth fixes shut.

People mistake it for disinterest, when it’s the opposite. It’s a fascination and confusion that is too much to bear alongside participation. Watching feels like enough. I really earnestly wish that it could be.

[a-picnic-to-heaven]

warmth and plastic

Isn’t it cruel Humans find joy in sharing beautiful sights, To offer a portion of their awe. In sharing their vulnerable thoughts, To feel companionship with strangers. Every day I am reminded How humans are overflowing with love, And not only in the aged letters Inked by lovers in wartime But in the present day too.

The way we find it has changed. We share more than ever, Yet we are gradually sickened by the process A monologue about grief, Slides to an advertisement. A tear-filled reunion, Slides to an advertisement. We rush from the flash of reality, But the exit is on the top floor of the glass tower And has grown far beyond our reach.

They love your emotion. They love the engagement your emotion brings. They love that they can get you addicted, That your addiction isolates you, And forces you to search for vital feelings of human connection On their most monetisable platforms.

We become stuck, we stick to each other For respite It is briefly comforting but it begins to feel like neon, saliva-ridden gum Every hour spent half-consciously gazing They spit another piece It builds in the divides of my fingers And gathers like sleep in my eyes Now I am angry at the warmth beside me, And she’s angry at me, too. Now there is a plastic film coming down. Now it is obstructing my view. Now they are obstructing my view, completely.