Notes from the Wrong End of Life
Wake up and taste the…What?
Someone asked me the other day “What’s it like being autistic?”
I must admit the question had me stumped. I mean basically, they were asking what’s it like being me. It’s a question without an answer. You might as well ask me to describe the taste of coffee to someone who’s never drunk it, or the colour red to somebody that’s never seen it. How, in heaven in a pickle jar, do you elucidate the internal youness of your being to another person?
So, I replied, would you like some noise-cancelling headphones, and what’s it like being neurotypical? My new acquaintance looked as puzzled as a librarian at Burning Man. “What’s neurotypical?” he replied, unfamiliar, as most are, with the anthropological taxonomy of brains.
“Well, you are,” I offered unhelpfully, hoping to mine some insight from this alleged exemplar of normal neural wiring. He paused searching for the words to summarize an experience as innate as breathing. “I guess neurotypical means my brain functions like most other people’s brains.” An astute observation though lacking in specifics.
“Go on.” I prompted.
“I know how to make small talk about the weather or traffic.” A bland but accurate example. “And I never have to remind myself to make eye contact during conversations.” The hallmark struggle of we soulful-eyed divergent folk. “Environmental stuff doesn’t really bother me either,” he continued, underscoring the gap between my tactile defensiveness and his plebeian skin. Still, better bland than blaring.
I pressed him for more exciting details about his commonplace cognitive choreography, gathering ethnographic titbits to better grasp the elusive neurotypical in its natural habitat. For understanding begins with opening one’s mind to alien mental landscapes, even ones as prosaic as the tundra.
My acquaintance furrowed his brow, confused by my anthropological prod. “Well, I guess my brain works as gracefully as a dog paddling across a lake. No offence.” None taken, I’ve seen Labradors swim. “For example, picking up social cues comes as easily as crossing the road. We divergents prefer our roads to be crossed via bridges and tunnels, and definitely without traffic in any direction.
“And focusing is like sitting in a movie theatre engrossed in some forgettable blockbuster.” Not exactly laser-like — with surround sound and 3D effects creating the illusion of attention.
“Oh, and having a conversation goes as smoothly as sliding down a waterslide. No bumps or detours from point A to B when you think in linear lines.” By now I was bored and did not press for more insights into the predictably mundane inner workings of the neurotypical psyche. How placidly conventional the scenery must look from inside that velvet-roped cognitive echo chamber.
My turn…
“So, you ask, my new neurotypical buddy, for me to share the inside scoop on how this autistic brain perceives the world. Where do I even begin unravelling this neurological can of identically coloured and evenly sized worms? With how those fluorescent lights buzzing up there sound like alien spaceships landing? How I can memorise every damn train timetable but forget to make eye contact? How a label inside a t-shirt feels like a rusty razor blade on my skin? But, even my creative metaphors may not fully paint the picture percolating in my mind. I can list my quirky routines, special interests and social quirks until we’re both blue in our differently-wired faces. Yet some ineffable essence remains tucked deep in my neurons.
Of course, that’s barely the tip of the neurological iceberg. There’s also the joy of limited social gauges making birthday parties minefields, the comfort of solitude versus chaotic company, and how focusing on spaceflight minutiae is infinitely more fascinating than your mundane chit-chat.
But even saying sensory overload feels like a swarm of bees or that solitude sounds like a vacation to Mars doesn’t convey the technicolour splendour within. I could go on about my baffling routines or obsessions with pivot tables until we’re both daft as a brush. Yet you’d still be outside peering in through the window of my kaleidoscopic mind.
How about I just make you a suit woven from fibreglass insulation and gravel, blindfold you with a spotlight attachment, then dunk you in a bottomless ball pit of obscure train facts until you’re begging for logic and alone time? Now that may approximate sensory chaos, but it still wouldn’t unlock the essence of how this offbeat brain capers to its own distinct syncopated rhythm.
Maybe I should try explaining special interests. How I’ve read every book on deep sea creatures but can’t stand touching velvet. Or my baffling routines like watching the same episode of that detective show every night while organizing my sock drawer. Do you think that sounds like ritualized madness? From in here, it’s fucking glorious.
But that still wouldn’t capture the joy of floating away in my inner world or the frustration of being asked “What’s it like?” when I barely understand it myself. In the end, we autistics remain nested Russian dolls of mystery. You might as well ask a cat — what’s it like being a cat (language difficulties aside)? There is an irreducible gap between one’s inner world and another’s. No matter how much detail is provided, some essence remains beyond translation.
The truth is, we inhabitants of the autistic hemisphere will always be an indigestible puzzle to y’all normie neural networks. Our world is wired differently from your A-to-B-to-C trails. But just know that we still see the absurdity of this crazy carnival ride called life but through our own prismatic-looking glass.
At the end of the day, we’re all just fleshy-thinking apes trying to make sense of this higgledy-piggledy playground. The takeaway is that no metaphor or simulation can clone someone’s subjective experience. But we can still connect by sharing our hopes, quirks and passions — the things that make life tick for all complex primates. So, tell me, my new friend — what’s YOUR inner world like?
