Rough draft - autobiography of an average aspie. Revised

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Wasn't sure if this was too long to post in the writer's showcase otherwise I would of put it there. Note: this is the rough draft, if I worried too much about the struture rather then the substance I probably would of procrastinated writing this for even longer.


-Diary Of A Social Moth-

Introduction: This would have been a lot easier if I kept all those old notebooks.

The first ten years of my life are almost a blank, a certain amount oft ime passes and my memory is shaken clean like a cheap etch-a-sketch. How does one accidentally forget their own history? How does one simply let the past - the moments that define them - just slip on by? If the past is gone and the future never comes… what exactly does that make the present?

Briefly, I thought about skipping that whole mysterious childhood. Ten years fast forwarded through to recollections that have more of a foundation, similar to the bible skipping a majority of the life of Jesus so everyone can focus on the important parts. Or having a novel miss the first third of it’s contents, sure, one could puzzle out the
meaning based off the remaining section but it would be frustrating with the details depraved from it’s absence. As tempting as it may be to simply say: “ I barely remember it therefore it can’t be all that important,” I’m curious to see whether or not writing about my life will trigger those old memories.

The main goal of this biography is to rediscover myself. After almost twenty seven years of trying to ignore, delude, and convince myself that I had something other then Asperger’s Syndrome - I’ve finally acknowledged and accepted it. It’s possible to live with, it’s not easy but it’s possible. The spectrum is diverse, the causes are unknown, and I can’t begin to speculate on the scientific aspects - the best I can do is attempt to describe my experiences with it. While there are plenty of doctors, psychologists, and a multitude of professionals publishing their views about this topic, the number of authors that have this condition seem few and far between.

If by chance I manage to offer up insight and/or hope to others with Asperger’s ( or parents of, or spouses, or… ) then my journey to piece together my past will be well worth it. Or if regular people get some enjoyment out of this - that works too.
- November, 2009.

Chapter One: Bliss is Ignorance and Stick Figures.

“ There is nothing you can do that I haven’t already done to myself.”
- Mindless Self Indulgence, Never Wanted To Dance.


There was a time before the depression kicked in, prior to the self doubt and anxiety of feeling isolated from the world due to various reasons. A time when I was blissful unaware of such things as religion, politics, sexuality, and normalcy. Oblivious, perhaps, but simpler times brought simpler thoughts. When not thinking was as natural as breathing, there was a daily routine and it was neither comforting or difficult in it’s predictability. It just was something I did, curiosity and analyzing didn’t come into play until much later down the road. Whether or not this meant being a naïve child or not acknowledging my innocence until it was gone - what child contemplates this sort of thing? Certainly not I. Looking back, hindsight accounting for the good as well as the bad, while not exactly “the good old days” nor was it the opposite doom and gloom when nostalgia seems nauseating. Introspection, self awareness, and my position in the world compared to those around me - these didn’t occur until much later.

The pets that I could relate to most in my house were Toes the Pigeon, Cuddles the Cat, and Stupid. The other cat’s name might have been Buster, but we all called him Stupid and he usually responded to it. “Come here Stupid!” I didn’t notice the rather sarcastic and/or ironic pet names growing up, only now does it dawn on me that my parents were rather cruel when it came to most of the pet titles. Toes the Pigeon was missing a couple digits, which would be akin to calling an amputee Stumpy. While Cuddles wasn’t a cat that enjoyed being held. Numerous other pets were named after Godzilla monsters, and if we ever got a dog named Spot - it wouldn’t have terribly surprised me. Cuddles and Stupid always seemed to hide in the corners or run off to mysterious cat places whenever they wanted nothing to do with people. Other then meowing for brief petting attention or food, they were mostly out of sight and out of mind.

Toes was one of those frustratingly obtuse pets. Each day was a shocker for him. Look it’s that kid thing refilling my water dish! Get away from my birdseed! Peck, peck, peck! Unable to train to do any sort of tricks, mostly he would look at you like you were crazy for attempting to do something as simple as trying to get him to perch on your arm without pecking the hell out of it. Frequently I tried, and more often then not he was content to peck and tug at my long sleeve. He was comforting in his changelessness, inspiring in his determination to attack any trespasser even if they were a lot larger then him, sad because the small cage was the only life he could live. Flightless, toeless, and stuck in a box - never begging for pity because while fate can be cruel he was taken care of even if it was by a stupid kid: me.

Eight years old and my only friends were the four legged or feathered kind. My third grade teacher was the first person I remembered outside of my family. Miss Nickles, her actual last name was longer, either Nickleson or something along those lines but since I stuttered back then Nickles was easier to say. She stuck out because her hair was an auburn red, and more importantly she encouraged me to draw, doodle, and cover the margins and gaps of my assignments with crowds of stick figures. Crude little characters with limbs sticking out in rough proportions approximating the human form, round circle heads devoid of expressions or features. (Symbolic? No, their heads were too small to include this type of thing.) She never asked about the motivation behind these stick hordes, and obsessively I would draw these without pondering why myself. Drawing was comforting, focusing on the page allowed me to drown out my surroundings - the muttering of other students, the subtle ticking of the clock always too slow, yet her voice stuck out. The voice of The Adult Present, neither too soft or too loud - the volume was just right, demanding me to pay heed to the lessons. (At the time I did, for the life of me I can’t remember anything else I learned from that class other then how to doodle. Whoops.)

Third grade had a few interruptions. Certain days had electives scheduled, the whole assortment of Gym, Art, and Music throughout the week on their corresponding days. Considering my fascination with doodling, Art was a bit of a let down because rather then allow me to do what I liked it always revolved around cutting and pasting of colored paper and fooling around with geometric designs. What this was suppose to do, I have no idea. The feel of glue on my skin, watching it harden into a glossy film was a unique sensation. Given the chance, I would of probably kept applying and removing glue junk from my skin then attempt to learn something from art. Apparently my classmates were little better because bored kids equipped with blunted scissors doesn’t encourage much genius.

Music was another one of those classes that I zoned out of. For a few days I was amazed over learning how to hum. Closing my mouth and making noise was a new concept, although it took me a little while to figure out that no one else could comprehend the tunes I was making in my mouth. I also tried talking with my lips close amused over the vibrations I felt. This got to the point that other students told me to stop it, which embarrassed, I did. It took me years to learn how to whistle, and to this day I still can’t snap my fingers. Since I barely talked, singing along seemed like a slow painful torture until I figured out that lip synching while everyone else sang whatever made it look like I was putting in some effort. Other then a couple of lullabies, elementary school music went into one ear and straight out the other. Singing was one of those things to be done without an audience.

As much as Art and Music bored the crap out of me, I preferred them over Gym. My idea of exercise was walking and climbing the park monstrosities that resembled death traps in Mad Max and the Thunderdome. The two parks near my house both had these rugged metal constructions without railings and padding where one hoped they landed on the mounds of dirt rather then some steel bar covered in colorful rust patterns. (The paint was probably made of lead too come to think of it.) Back when scrapes and falls were suppose to build character, the equipment wasn’t child friendly and probably built by masochists or demented gremlins that despised humanity. Despite the possibility of grievous bodily harm (or maybe because of) park metal monuments were FUN!

Gym was not only lacking the ladder and slide labyrinths, suddenly it wasn’t cool to play by myself. Team doesn’t have an “I” in it (but it does have a “me”. No, I never comprehended that stupid phrase.) and it didn’t take long to figure out that me and anything involving more then one other person was destined for failure. The terms: graceful, dexterous, and follows instruction - well, if I pretended hard enough they kind of sound like clumsy, butterfingered, and follows instructions like “do us a favor and don’t help.” Not only could I not throw anything in the direction I intended, I also was good at catching balls with my forehead, and scoring goals for the wrong team. Explaining to other third graders that I wasn’t trying to lose on purpose and the fundamentally simple rules eluded me, well, admitting that “yes, I suck at sports” was a more feasible option. Dodge Ball was the one sport I could get the gist of - run away, avoid rubbery projectiles, or at least get knocked out of the game early.

Teamwork. Cooperative play. Winners and Losers, based off external merits rather then the academic scaling of grades depicted with a numerical score. What exactly was the point of this rather demeaning period of the day? Exhibitionism of the strongest, fastest, the most skilled at mundane objectives these were the people that excelled in Gym. Coincidentally, the most athletic were the most popular and as much as I would like to begrudge them this fact, it dawned on me early on that I was never going to be in the same league as them. So, Gym wasn’t a period of rage and envy when the class was divided and I was the last one picked. A slight sense of annoyance that girls, minorities, and obese kids were favored, sure. A momentary feeling of rejection, but followed by the hunch that this was perfectly justified based off my previous displays of utter incompetence.

Social status in the third grade classroom, the only thing that divided the students was their attentiveness and willingness to contribute. Those that raised their hands too much were brown-nosers, teacher’s pets, or suck ups; while those that never showed their hands were slackers and that was about it. Outside of the regular classroom - recess and the other subjects that would eventually turn into electives - there were a few more divisions, groupings over the years would evolve into various “clicks“. Girls had cooties, boys hung out with other boys, and friendships were centered around prepubescent themes like cartoons, hobbies, and similar interests.

Learning accidentally, recess was spent watching how others interacted with each other. Picking up pieces of conversation, never lingering long enough to hear the full details since I was weary of others noticing my eavesdropping. Why are they able to get along with each other so easily? What separated me from such casual contact, why did proximity fill me such dread and anxiousness that someone would accidentally brush against me, or even worse touch me on purpose? This constant claustrophobia even outdoors, only noticeable while around crowds - more of a people phobia in an enclosed space rather then just empty confined areas.

When did it occur to me that I was one of the few students that preferred solitude? This realization bringing forth a newfound guilt that I hadn’t caught on to some obvious reason that others sought out companionship - suddenly being aware that not only was I alone, which wasn’t as bad as feeling like this was a bad thing. Other people had friends, I didn’t. Thus, not only was I inept at sports, conversation, and getting along with other people - but also the sense that this made me lesser then everyone else because these things did not come naturally to me. Basically, it was the beginning of thinking: “ what am I doing wrong here?”

Imaginary friends were all I knew, my hordes of silent stick figures, the two felines showing off an apathy to put mine to shame, and Toes the perpetually surprised and stubborn. A teacher three times my age condoning my rudimentary doodles, and this was it. No one to really talk to, and my parents were always working or doing something to barely acknowledge my existence. You never know how peculiar you are until you have some basis of comparison. Public schooling, watching how others reacted around each other - what am I doing wrong here?

good of you to get this down in writing.

here's my two cents:

Introduction was moving. It definitely drew me into the story. Nice descriptions and word usage. It definately did was intros are supposed to do: make me want to start reading chapter one.

Chapter One: This is a good start. I does read like a list of items for a draft for chapter one rather than the draft itself. Each item would do well to be fleshed out a bit more -- using the same poetic style you used for the intro... And for a beginning you could even start with Toes or something like that. Then go back and show how it ties in.

As a whole, the best parts are when you describe the the peculiar aspieness of the "loser" type of kid. There is always the last kid picked in gym class, for instance. Being this kid and understanding it doesn't sound very peculiar. The first paragraph in the Intro did it. 3 out of 4 sentences being a question: that i can relate to.

Thanks for the advice, the Intro I left alone and fleshed out the chapter in a bit more detail focusing on a couple things from the original.