A Slow Start
That accelerated, and it needs a slower restart.
Am I the tortoise or the hare?
In my life, I regularly find myself embodying both: a dual antithesis oscillating between emergence and stagnation, and navigating this balance as someone on the autism spectrum proves challenging — the story of my life. I delicately, like many, navigate the challenge of finding the median regulation point to honour and accommodate my autistic sense of self and well-being. I had anticipated a slow and steady start and pace for 2024, but my inner critic and ableist perfectionist tendencies got in the way. That voice inside my head can enable or disable me without much forewarning.
I have an atypical hero’s journey that encompasses fluctuating between hero and zero protagonist and transformative experiences of the self, sometimes within hours, days, weeks, months, or years, depending on how well-regulated I am. My life’s narrative recently paid me an unwelcome but necessary visit, like the Grim Reaper bringing me on a little emotional excursion back down memory lane. It all started when I unconsciously became engrossed in the fast-paced life narrative, trying to keep up with the seemingly accelerated pace of those around me.
Which looked a bit like this.
I began to rush to keep pace with what I felt was happening around me. You know, a bit like the kind of people who cram Sunday with Monday’s workload, hoping to save time on the advice of gurus to get ahead. Keep planning, they say, to get ahead of yourself, and I must admit, I appreciate a good deal of planning to aid my need for certainty and structure. But sometimes, when I accept something into my literal human-conditioned self and embody it, I have overdoing tendencies that surface from my ingrained perfectionism. I will overdo it to death or not do it at all and then feel near death as the energy deficit from overdoing it takes hold of me. And then I will procrastinate about ever doing it again.
Human nature.
Tim Pychyl, PhD, a procrastination researcher and psychologist at Carleton University in Canada, says, ‘Procrastination is the voluntary delay of an intended act despite expecting to be worse off.’
I don’t think I need a PhD to intuitively sense that many people are not bothering with their intended actions because they actually expect to be worse off in reality. This is now increasing the delay in taking action so much that it never happens. In other words, I will write this, but I will still be wrecked; hence, I have put it off for weeks. Pychyl has written a book called Solving the Procrastination Puzzle. He states that procrastination does not stem from time-management issues but from emotion-management issues. The thought of doing a thing is unpleasant, and so we avoid the thing to avoid the unpleasantness.
Oh, damn you, Tim, with your harsh truths there.
But also, realistically, to write this much, everything else in my life this past week had to come to a standstill. In fact, I pretty much only got to write this because I came to a standstill. Why that happened, I will divulge in this piece. The writer Cyril Connolly also famously said, ‘There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.’ He believed that having children meant that the parents’ creative abilities, outputs, and opportunities would suffer. I mention this for context because I don’t even have prams in halls, and I can’t even find the time to write as often as I would like. But more on that later, trying to have it all.
It’s not just about children, realistically.
How about everything else in the main entrance to your physical, emotional, and mental expression, blocking and procrastinating it?
I have now lost count of the number of times I have proofread this to the point where I have overdone it to imperfect perfectionism. I can’t tell you how challenging it was for me to hand over my master’s thesis. I thought it was never done. I was never happy enough about it or even this piece, as I am too close to them mentally and emotionally; therefore, I don’t want to let them go because it somehow feels like a finality in part of me and my life’s work. Naturally, the decision-making paralysis that consumes me when I have to draw the line under it exhausts me, but thank goodness for deadlines, which then, of course, my atypical brain has to beat by months because it feels like someone is telling me what to do by setting them.
Now that will tell them, eh?
My overdo and over-plan traits within my autistic self have left some people somewhat confused now that they know that I am neurodivergent. People don’t think you are autistic within their own biases and ableist mentalities when you get shit done. Well, some like to think like that. I feel personally because it excuses them from not getting their shit done. It massages the ego bruising. But of course, I know that this is probably one of the more dominant strengths-driven traits I have lived and worked experience witnessing within the autistic community. Still, only when not taken advantage of, accessing reasonable accommodation, and once the individual can consciously find ways to regulate their well-being. That, of course, is where the shit that gets done can then turn into a shitshow to recover from.
I have much of my life being chosen as the one left to plan and execute many things, and many commend my work ethic, but what they won’t see behind the scenes is the raising the bar expectation thing I will do for the next task or project to the point of exhaustion. I was once called onto a stage to have my face profiled by someone at a networking event (the things you must do when you start a business, also to the point of exhaustion). The profiler specialised in the ancient Chinese tradition of Mien Shiang. It is actually very interesting, although I admit my cynicism. Fair play to them. I can’t read faces too well, but I can read emotions. Intensely. They said my forehead and hairline apparently signify I was the go-to person to get shit done. Ironically, I frequently pull my hair out of my hairline when I am in the process of getting shit done.
True story: I have been known to pull hair to excess. Trichotillomania it is called, and it is a stimming behaviour I have to work consciously on to manage.
I wonder if many autistic people have distinct foreheads and hairlines.
Is that a trait of autism? I ponder and amuse myself.
Sometimes, in my self-deception, without adequate self-connection and reflection, my overdoing and planning can even trick me into believing I am actually in flow.
Boom.
I am not sure why I put this GIF randomly here. It just felt right.
I am one.
Boom.
Overflow.
I know why I put the GIF there now, do you?
So recently, I have tended to try to get so far ahead of myself that I have lost track of myself. Again. And so, it becomes more of a burden than a regulator in my need for planning and structure, adding stress to an already overloaded body and mind. I continued to accelerate without self-control or awareness of how my body and mind responded, and I failed to slow down enough to recognise this pattern. Consequently, I embodied the societal affliction of jittery impatience and unconscious haste like an epidemic, and then this happened.
Seldom have I fallen ill over the last ten years, and I must admit, I’ve indulged in some self-congratulation. To my knowledge, I have never contracted COVID-19 despite reasonable exposure to the virus. Yet, my ego may be my foe now. For context, I now rarely go out to expose myself to an increased level of exposure to viruses like I had to in the past because, let’s face it, many people these days are frantically stressed and anxiously rushing. I find that debilitating since I embody so much of it, as I’m sure many others do.
My decision to essentially socially isolate myself even before the pandemic, given that I transitioned most of my coaching work online months before its onset, can be viewed in various ways regarding its impact on my immune system — depending on scientific interpretation. Nevertheless, it has proven beneficial for me on many levels.
I’ve established a consistent routine of sameness: I go to the gym, return home, and immerse myself in my work and creative endeavours, conserving energy for those who need me and matter most to me. Beyond that, I maintain a minimal social life, which suits me perfectly. Years ago, I had a social life in excess that led me to try fitting in and avoid falling out, only to find that the bottom of my world nearly fell out from under me.
Some may label such isolated sameness as neurosis, while others see it as a natural aspect of ageing, where tolerances and sensitivities to certain stimuli fluctuate based on life experiences. Some might even attribute it solely to my being on the autistic spectrum or chalk it up to my human condition or self-advocacy. However, I, being the best expert on myself, can assert that it is consciously all of these factors combined.
I’ve encountered situations where my self-advocacy and prioritisation of my needs led to losing friendships and professional connections. Yet, from this perspective, it becomes clear that they also lost me because I couldn’t accommodate their needs, just as they couldn’t accommodate mine. It’s a conscious demonstration of autonomy, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to live aligned with my own needs and grateful they got to do so, too.
But oh, how I do cherish people; I crave their company and surround myself with a select few whom I hold dear. However, with the rest, I find myself observing through the lens of my values, almost voyeuristically. What I witness often leaves me incredulous, as the recent delivery of humanity’s stock seems more perplexing. While acknowledging that they may grapple with their challenges, some regrettably toss their loads onto others without thinking of grace, civility, or basic kindness. Consequently, recovering from encounters with this new breed of humans, many of whom harbour self-entitlement complexes, is hardly worthwhile.
In a nutshell, I practice this.
I fully acknowledge my privilege in choosing this lifestyle, a luxury I didn’t have years ago. Back then, it often felt like a choice between having it all or having nothing at all — a fantasy paradox fueled by unrealistic escapism in our capitalist-driven society. Yet I don’t apologise for that privilege either. Unfortunately, many of us must experience chronic burnout before grasping this bittersweet irony.
However, I prioritise accommodating my needs, having learned the hard way from lived experience. I embrace this autonomy, even as I recognise the fragility of life. Reminders to stay grounded in reason and grace are always appreciated as I navigate the path of having enough rather than having it all.
For 11 years, I grappled with chronic illness and burnout, enduring colds, flu, and random viruses every few weeks. My reliance on cigarettes as a void-filling stop-gap measure to try and regulate myself in between each breath I struggled to take frequently escalated these illnesses into bronchitis or infections. But I wasn’t breathing at all, for I was so congested mentally, physically, and emotionally that I couldn’t come up for air. Everything took my breath away, even me.
At 35, I recall one such hospital admission vividly: my heart rate soared to 180 bpm at rest while I remained anything but cognitively or consciously rested, grappling with supraventricular tachycardia. Initially, the medical team suspected a blood clot or even a heart attack.
‘Don’t attempt to go outside to smoke a cigarette’, the doctor sternly ordered.
‘Who does he think he is?’ is my internal cognitive response.
My atypical brain then, of course, chimed in with my self-sadist irony.
Let’s go outside (let’s go outside)
In the sunshine
I know you want to, but you can’t say yes
Let’s go outside (let’s go outside)
In the moonshine
Take me to the places that I love best
And yes, I’ve been bad
Doctor, won’t you do with me what you can
You see, I think about it all the time
Twenty-four seven
The cigarette seduction lures me back to human nature by giving in to temptation, addiction, and pathological demand avoidance in my persistent drive for autonomy.
‘Be grand’, I said.
‘Fcuk it, I am going outside.’
I go outside to smoke in willful ignorance.
Heart rate rises.
After that unconscious, unregulated, autonomous event, I wasn’t done with the sofa for a long time.
True story.
What we often perceive as autonomy can be a state of autonomous unawareness. And in certain circumstances, it can be a killer. Fortunately, it turned out to be neither a clot nor a heart attack. The medical team stabilised my heart rate with medication, a beta-blocker.
Now, at 48, with the absence of nicotine, along with self-accommodation and regular visits to the cardiologist, I no longer require medication. I say this with gratitude, yet I don’t take it for granted, especially after witnessing my husband on life support following his triple bypass in July.
Last week, however, in my sped-up self trying to catch up with everybody else but myself, I finally caught something. My immune system had been robust for a long time, and I embraced it. However, this immune system response only fits partially into the COVID-19 category. Nevertheless, for the safety of the elderly and more vulnerable individuals around me, I’ll treat it as such. My tolerance for this ambiguous illness is low. I yearn to identify it. It’s typical of my atypicality — the all-or-nothing nature of it — in that I can endure major surgeries and chronic autoimmune diseases with a high pain threshold. Yet, a runny nose, headache, and body aches throw me off completely. My atypical hero’s to zero journey again. Joseph Campbell would be turning in his grave at the thought of it.
Now, I’m not as ill as I might have been years ago, considering the stress and overload my body endured. Nonetheless, it’s been unpleasant, more irritating, and a first-world problem in light of the world’s chaos. Such unpleasant irritation served as a timely reminder to rein in my tendency to, as Alice did, impulsively follow the March hare down the rabbit holes.
I came across an interpretation that associates profound meanings with the march hare, an adorable anthropomorphic creature with distinctive pink eyes, delving into themes of time, anxiety, and societal pressures. Carroll remarks on the rapid pace of contemporary life and the accompanying anxieties through the anthropomorphic creature. In writing this piece with my sore pink eyes, I echo similar sentiments, embodying the somewhat disgruntled and inconvenienced stance akin to my antihero while gracefully acknowledging the undeniable reality of ageing.
I feel a release after getting that long and not short story of my life off my chest with my slight tightness here within my chest now. I am still not done with the sofa yet. I am nurturing my human nature. But at least now, I am breathing better and more consciously. Irony prevails as I’ve slowed down to catch up on my writing process — a profoundly cathartic experience.
I’ve been sharing my thoughts on LinkedIn, but transferring my musings here felt like another colossal task amid a momentous yet temporary upheaval. So, finally, I intend to put them all together randomly, erratically, but consciously, from the head, heart, and soul. Take what you need and leave what you don’t.
On that note, here’s what has happened in my atypical hero journey lately. I hope you can relate, enjoy, or disengage with empathy if it is not your thing!
1. On Speeding Up
This recent post from Thrive Global spiralled me into teeth grinding, irritation on seeing it and not currently being regulated enough to be it, and then I couldn’t unsee it.
If only it were that easy.
No, I always have to be doing something, even when I need to rest, and sometimes I can’t regulate or recognise this. But also, due to my all-or-nothing nature, it’s f**king exhausting.
Dysregulation
Median
Regulation
The bittersweet irony of rest is that as I age, essential things like exercise and more balance of life and work and ‘stuff’ that I’m trying to prioritise to prolong life and manage health risks start to need far more rest and recovery. I’ve finally become aware that I have needed far more rest lately. Sometimes, I can’t seem to access that rest, but I need it to recover from training, life, family, work, which I adore, and people I love.
Much other ‘stuff’ has to be dismissed and deprioritised to prioritise my rest. Trying to get that in a satisfactory serving order has been quite overwhelming lately, and I need another rest to recover from the decision-making paralysis of reordering it. And then, my executive function becomes impaired. I then have to work backwards to move forward. Being autistic is playing a part, and shadows of my burnout in my 30s regularly come back to haunt me. Another ruthless interoceptive self-inquiry is needed when I can find the time.
And then I need to recover from that.
In my life, I know the harsh reality that comes with not prioritising my health and feeling near death or prioritising it and feeling alive, which I have felt on many levels since I was 38.
At 48, it’s starting to feel like near death again.
Why is ageing so aggravating but can be alleviating and graceful if I allow it to be?
All or nothing.
I went from 3 weight training sessions a week to 4 and 2 swimming sessions to prioritise my health and cardio more as I age. My cardio is shocking. I’m more aware of it since my husband’s triple bypass. He’s doing amazing seven months post-op, by the way.
I’m fit but also not fit.
My swim coach is brilliant, but why is front crawl so technical?
Dyspraxic sighs.
Effectively, I’ve been training six times a week since the start of January.
Me: No goals
Also, me: Give me all the goals and more.
I started drinking coffee in excess to get the French press to aid my bench press and to keep up with myself, only to find myself wired the wrong way and wide awake at night, intercepting vivid dreams. Dreams my autistic brain must find meaning in before I can dispose of them.
I’ve pulled a neck and shoulder muscle, have a bicep tear, and now have what I cannot precisely define from a sickness perspective bar, recognising the excess fatigue and exhaustion that has accompanied it. First-world problems, but I said to my 27-year-old after swimming recently that much of my life now feels like exhaustion caused by trying to stay alive and prolong my life. I didn’t feel so bad when he said that he felt similar.
WTAF…
You do sometimes feel like, ‘What’s the point?’
We all end up looking the same when we are dead.
There’s nothing here but flesh and bone
There’s nothing more, nothing more
There’s nothing moreBack to nature, it’s human nature
We can be killing ourselves to stay alive. I know I will find my median when I settle, but what’s happening worldwide is troubling.
Did the pandemic shorten the days, or are we all collectively exhausted as a society?
Not some of the lifestyle or fitness influencers, no; they seem to have it all worked out and sell it in the form of shame.
F**cking Liars
2. And Having To Slow Down
People think if you get to live to my age, you should be grateful just to be alive. Well, that’s not how it works. You need a reason to get up in the morning, and sometimes, even after you find one, life can turn around and spit in your face.
The Golden Girls replays all day last Saturday. I didn’t move off the sofa. I got showered, dressed, ready to go out, and returned to my pyjamas.
I needed a reason to sit here all day. I am wiped; it just sneaks up on you, as did chronic burnout in my 30s. I try to notice it better now and be more ruthless about it. I’m getting older, and Estelle Getty was that reason to get up this morning and go back to bed, or at least my sofa, and honour my exhausted self so life hopefully doesn’t turn around and spit in my face again soon.
Health
Headspace
Grace
3. On Reframing Time
What if one could occupy time instead of constantly obsessing about saving it?
I have been in a time funk for the last week or two. My executive function has dwindled, which always causes me a knee-jerk in the running-out-of-time panic, or I do not have enough time to do the ‘stuff’ I wrote about in my last post that I feel I need to do to survive and function effectively.
I have decided to reframe how to save time lately into how to occupy my time better. I wanted to read over a previous piece I wrote on my time struggles and funks here to remind myself that time is my only enemy if I let it be.
After sharing this thought, I received a response that, to be honest, triggered me due to the cliché surrounding the present moment and everything. My initial internal reaction was dismissive, but I recognised why it struck a nerve and genuinely empathised with the well-intentioned comment.
You see, sometimes it’s easier to access the present moment; other times, it’s pretty challenging when one feels exhausted. I’m an 80% on my time and terms person. Then, when things move too quickly, impatience and haste make me dysregulated. The ripple effect of it combined with life makes it harder for me to transition back into the present moment as I speed up to catch up with what I think is expected of me. I have high expectations of myself because I did not meet what I felt was acceptable to others.
But I sense that when people get exhausted by that hastening that causes disharmony and even mention they are tired, the attitude by many is ‘Get over it, I’m tired too’. One can’t even say one is tired now, as it starts a collective ripple effect of embodying everyone else’s time famines and tiredness.
In my own internalised ableism, I do it also, which I dislike. I’d rather be someone who can hold space for others’ tiredness without embodying it or being ableist and irritated by it, but sometimes I am not.
Cups full of life dramatics. But I can still do plenty to rectify it within my control and slowly transition back to my well-regulated, calm self.
In the meantime, also me:
Do you recall the having it all or having nothing at all I referred to at the beginning of my article if you are still with me?
Are you still with me?
4. The Balance Myth
My 48-year-old executively function-challenged self finds my teeth grinding again as my sense of inadequacy rises inside me to self-berate as I see myself in my kitchen nearing midnight, scraping burnt food off frying pans with my fingernails and my brain fried.
Can you have it all?
My thoughts.
It’s seldom possible unless one can afford the luxury of not having to work, having no kids, elderly parents, pets, a home, etc. I don’t have young kids or a need to work full-time anymore. I have afforded myself the non-luxurious reality that self-employment brings: no guaranteed income or work. But as you age as a woman, a new set of life challenges show up to be addressed, and the reality of that won’t escape you.
So there I was, mopping floors and scrapping burnt food particles off cooking utensils with my fingernails at 11 pm the other night and reminding myself to be grateful and try not to moan about it because in my 30s with my child, working full time and attempting to keep a roof over our heads I had even less time to scrape burnt food off frying pans with my bare hands.
Here, I recommend Seconde’s piece. Women and Work-Life (Un)Balance You can have it all: the best lie ever told. It is paywalled, but I’m still sharing. I guess they are doing their best to try and have it all, too, but have come to this realisation.
The older I get, the better I understand that the best lie ever told to women was that they can have it all. And by all, I mean a career they’re passionate about and a family with kids to raise.
5. On The Sexualisation of Kids and Body Dysmorphia
A child, about 6, in a swimsuit, paraded in a full-length mirror like a sexualized peacock in my gym recently before a swimming lesson. I felt uncomfortably sick in my skin and in society. At 48, I don’t have young daughters, yet I could still see myself in her. At 38, I went on a physical transformation for what I thought was to increase self-esteem, only to surface body dysmorphic aesthetic-driven behaviour with bodybuilding.
But I was 38, not 6. I had a choice. I quit after a year and hired a sports scientist to train me for pure strength as I age, and I gratefully had the emotional capacity to let it go and build my kind of self-esteem more consciously and not weigh it by body fat % and kg. I don’t regret any of it. It was such a steep, value-driven, conscious learning phase.
Like a mini Taylor Swift, this child in my reflected hand-washing mirror vision has hair flicks perfected to Oscar Red Carpet standard. As much as it looked like she had self-esteem, I considered how falsely manufactured it felt and how long before society kicked it in and out of her, and she became so broken by it all. I also felt deep distress at her sexualisation.
Then I thought, Is it any wonder?
Mammy and parent influencers parade themselves and their kids like prize trophies online, serving capitalist, consumerist, aesthetic-driven economies. They are the ones who bring ring lights into births and allow strangers online to rate and review their kids. The brands that encourage them also.
Society is already so sick, and they all make it even sicker.
Cue this video from 2014.
Complimented by this recommended read here by Freya India
This subsequently leads me to the brilliant insights in this piece by Brian Klaas. As I discovered this past week with Safer Internet Day here in Ireland, almost 25% of six-year-olds have smartphones. Amárach surveyed 900 parents who have children aged 5–17. It found that 45% of children aged ten can use their smartphones in their bedrooms. A fifth of parents said they feel that the benefits of the internet and social media outweigh the risks for children.
WTAF?
I am appalled.
In my opinion, giving a smartphone to a six-year-old is a form of abuse. As a female, I make a value-driven judgement, and it is harsh, but here is why.
Modern social comparison isn’t just larger; it’s also constant. We are bombarded by unceasing reminders of where we stand, not just on economic hierarchies, but social ones. We may look our best, only to see someone who looks better online, creating standards of comparison that are unattainable, elusive, and often, depressing.
Some of us are more immune to the despair of constant social comparison than others. But for a large chunk of the population, notably teenage girls, evidence is mounting that there is a terrible cost to the endless bombardment of global comparisons. And even when the reference category isn’t global, many teenagers experience pressure to document every moment, an attempt to cram their lives into that which fits in a TikTok post. It is an existence defined, increasingly, by “content.”
We all need to read this, not just parents.
6. On My Mother’s Breakdown
The world has been a horrible place lately, and one thing that keeps me going is that my mother in the photo frame behind me has my back. She used to put a long scarf over her head and do this impression of a magical, mythical-aged Irish woman full of satirical wit and wildly wonderful wisdom, creepy but conscious, a bit like the older woman in the Banshees of Inisherin movie.
She didn’t get to grow old like that elderly mythical woman who she would regularly do her impression of and howl at the moon and have us howling. My mam was a scream; literally, she would have had rooms in hysterics laughing.
Her fun-loving attitude developed more after a complete breakdown at 38. That, I feel, was more so owing to others telling her she had a mental illness than acknowledging she had needs that were ignored and honouring her true self. There is no denying, however, from my childhood memories that she needed help, and she admitted it and got it.
While it was very different back then, she did come through it stoically, but in the long term, I feel not without physical health challenges and co-morbidities that took her far too early and suddenly from us at 66. I will never get over losing my mam. I’m only learning to live with it now.
She was my soul.
However, her attitude post-breakdown was that much of the time, no f***s were given. Still, she did have default slippage sometimes back to giving too much f***s about others and some who labelled her mentally ill and therefore not enough left for herself.
My mam placed many people’s needs in her family and friend circles before hers. I would incessantly beg her to stop it. She, sadly, learned the hard way as I did with my physical health, leading to mental health challenges to overcome. I am grateful I did and still have remained clinically depression-free, but it is a risk factor from my mam that I am gladly aware of and witnessed.
That is, of course, if any of it was depression.
I also thought my autism was depression, but they are two very different things, and many misdiagnoses can occur between both, so please always speak to a trusted, qualified professional. I advocate trying not to be self-diagnosing with things that may or may not be there.
However, I am emphatic to many who find the safe spaces and relatability within self-diagnosis and acknowledge the privilege of being able to access a clinical one myself. Trust me, as I also know that the worst place is to end up somewhere you don’t belong with a label you don’t have.
Mine was neurotypical.
But my mam there, we will never know if she was autistic or just clinically depressed or both or none of that at all, just a human being with needs not addressed. However, she still found her way to be a light that still shines in my head and heart and lights up the way forward for me on the more challenging days. I hope you have someone living in your head and heart, physically or in memory, who has your back, too.
Cue random research paper read on self-identity
This valuable post by Emily might address being able to view this if you cannot access it via an institution login.
7. On Poetry in Motion Invoking Emotion
I took a train (DART service here in Ireland) to do some consulting work recently with our national autism charity, a group of people and a community close to my head and heart, personally and professionally. On the train, I came across this initiative by Poetry Ireland. I fell in love with the sheer intimacy of this poem by Aleš Šteger.
I could lose myself in this and then find myself all at once in the brief moments of deep linguistic semantics and morphology — the hedonism in such visual art and the mental imagery it invokes. Poetry stirs up colourful, conscious, and dynamic self-regulation in my neurodivergent mind. Yes, this is the deep autist in me. Some look at it like it has two heads, which is better than one occasionally, eh?
Diversity.
I think I do have two heads, by the way: a true autistic one and a learned neurotypical one. I wonder what my median neurotype is, then.
This?
Maybe it doesn’t matter.
Back to human nature.
Some may have to take psychedelics to access this other head of mine, though. The atypical one I am far more comfortable with now honouring. I need moments like this.
Reminders
Self-acceptance and grace.
All of it, for it has been a joyous journey.
FYI…
The European Parliament, the European Commission, Poetry Ireland, and Iarnród Éireann launched this initiative titled ‘Poetry in Motion’ in April 2023 on Poetry Day Ireland. Poetry in Motion has showcased poems by ten poets from across Europe. The collection of poems is visible on DART and commuter services operating in the Greater Dublin Area; apparently, it was only until the end of August. I am grateful for the delay in removing this one from my journey.
And even more joy as you download the full brochure of poems published at this link here.
8. On Life Not Being Fair
You can’t always get what you want, but you can try, try, try. I’ve only ever had one situation in my past career where I had to ask for accommodation — a specialist ergonomic chair following major spinal surgery. A letter outlining this from my consultant was provided. The chair needed to be made specifically with my spine in mind to support my spinal fusion.
I’d need to visit the manufacturer to be measured for it. In this instance, it was a high support need and, therefore, a reasonable accommodation to ask for. The chair came at a significant cost, as with the surgery. I needed the right one. My employer was well aware of this but also perhaps thought that if I asked for something of such cost, others might start asking for things.
From school to college to workplaces, if we give to one, inevitably, the requests can start to pile in, and a chorus of ‘That’s not fair!’ can show up. I’m not so irrationally minded to not understand this predicament for employers, even more so in the increasingly emotional and considerably disabling environments that we live in.
In my situation, said employer got some second-hand ergonomic chairs for me to try out. I was an undiagnosed autistic then, and this try, try, try was challenging me to the point of more mental exhaustion. I’d never asked for anything before to assist me in doing my work more efficiently and safely. My consultant then had to email my employer, the irony being that my industry was risk management-based. My need was at the core of such principles.
I got the chair.
Not, however, without much agenda-driven workplace drama.
My point, of course, is that many in the neurodivergent space and beyond will need to ask for accommodations. Most people will only ask for what they need once it becomes vital for them to operate effectively, efficiently, and safely. Many autistic people that I have encountered are not so ‘difficult’ as to not understand the boundary between self-entitlement and self-advocacy.
A disclosure now of any sort requires a level of vulnerability, leaving one open to judgements and hints of ‘well if you have managed up until now’ and all that, which can leave one considering maybe they are imagining or exaggerating it. They carry on and say nothing in the name of resilience and hustle culture.
And burnout.
I argue that gaps closing between neurodivergent and neurotypical societies with their own mental health and well-being challenges are causing many ‘That’s not fair!’ and trivial but also more severe impacts on many in workplaces now. That’s not to say we disbelieve people or that I advocate that a piece of paper waved in front of an employer is a hall pass to more entitlement than deemed reasonable, which can come at the cost of disabling another.
I’m autistic and have lower support needs.
I’d still need that chair.
9. On Why I Only Do Limited Career Coaching Now
Because of such outdated attitudes like this.
I also regularly had to mask people into roles and then unmask them out of them at the brink of chronic burnout, and I get so exhausted because I have lived it. Honestly, it felt like a form of deception and betrayal of my true self and theirs. Being neurodivergent makes some of this challenging in the views expressed above, and reasonable accommodations must be made for highly qualified people who unfairly get passed over because they fail to make ‘appropriate’ eye contact or miss a nonverbal cue.
For many who are autistic, like myself, this feels quite intolerable and can lead to intense feelings of judgement and exclusion. Keeping continuous eye contact is highly intimate and emotionally intensive in some cases. I save it for when I’m with someone I love and trust.
I’ll look them in the eye more closely.
That’s more important.
That’s intimacy.
So much of this is out of date and incredibly biased. I would contend that it’s also an aesthetically superficial external success metric.
Everybody’s body language is different.
Firmly shaking hands?
I would undoubtedly be disoriented if someone squeezed my hand, so I don’t do that myself.
Does that imply that I lack confidence?
No.
I’ve received praise for my professionalism, attentiveness, and sincerity. I have the social proof to prove it. I’m so tired of the archaic views that society still holds about professionalism, intelligence, and other traits that are far from inclusive and effectively superficial today.
10. On Choice
How much choice is too much choice?
Also, I just realised I rub my face excessively when talking and thinking, hence the red chin. I had been speaking for an hour before recording this video in a group facilitation. I have always done this, but I know it is a stim now. It feels pretty comforting, but it was not looked on favourably as a kid.
Another story of my life.
And human nature.
11. On Empathy
Just because it comes up so much as being negatively correlated with being Autistic.
Have you noticed how morally, ethically, and over-empathically some neurodivergent people are on causes and more? Sadly, the lack of empathy stereotypes still stick to many of us like a plaster that is very hard to rip off, and it hurts. So, I am a passionate animal and rescue advocate. In the context of demystifying this dangerous myth, I spoke about it using this context below in a recent facilitation.
And yes, it has been said that I lacked empathy before. I then stupidly defended it as being cruel to be kind. I will let you guess how that went. Put it this way: It didn’t make things better for me.
But I’m direct. It’s different.
Jeez, if you only knew.
It was too much empathy that played a part in my chronic burnout in the past.
So, this is for context.
Studies on animal contact have primarily focused on children, but understanding adult animal attachment is as important, particularly for autistic adults. Research on the social responsiveness of autistic individuals toward animals adds depth beyond stereotypes of autism as lacking empathy. The animal-human connectivity in the adult autistic communities is a clear challenge to the “pathos” of autism, given the similarities between human and non-human empathic displays (Duffy & Dorner, 2011). In conclusion, it dispels the false notion that people with autism are less sensitive, compassionate, and concerned about their own and others’ feelings as a result of social differences.
Exploring how relationships between autistic adults and animals benefit well-being is crucial. For instance, a study examining over 650 adults found that autistic trait profiles were related to the ability to recognize social faux pas in standard tests but not in tests using anthropomorphized stimuli.
What is an example of anthropomorphism? Do you remember the March hare with its pink eyes? John Tenniel’s depiction of this anthropomorphic rabbit was featured in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
Other examples of anthropomorphism include attributing human traits to animals, especially domesticated pets such as dogs and cats. Examples include thinking a dog is smiling simply because it is showing his teeth or a cat mourning for a dead owner.
The study above (Atherton & Cross, 2019) examined the relationship between the theory of mind and autistic trait profiles using either the standard Faux Pas Recognition Test (FPT) or an anthropomorphized version of the FPT (FPTa).
This research suggests that autistic people may not perform worse on the theory of mind tests (ToM is often incorrectly defined as a core deficit in autism) when the stimuli are anthropomorphic, indicating that their ability to understand others’ minds may not be globally deficient but may relate more specifically to human agents.
Lately, I’ve far more empathy for animals than some humans.
In memory of my beautiful soul, Juno, who resides in me in all I do, forever.
Related reading that I truly felt to the core of my whole head, heart, and soul.
12. On Agatha Christie
In my dad’s, I found an old 1957 copy of Agatha Christies 4.50 from Paddington.
There is a wonderful biography here.
I didn’t realise her mum was born in Dublin.
I read the book over a few days and subsequently bought another of her books, The ABC Murders, for €4.00 in a little gem of a second-hand book shop I spent ages browsing in recently. The bookshop was awarded Bookseller of the Year a few years ago, and it is easy to see why. It has a delightful little secluded reading nook in it that one day I shall return to and sit for a while and feel the pages of old books.
Gorgeous
A nice piece in The Examiner interviewing the owner, Louisa, and a reminder of the true value of such small independent bookstores and not the behemoth that is the online sellers.
Every book bought online impacts not just local business, but the community.
13. On Freehand Writing
I started copying famous poems with a calligraphy pen a while back in an attempt to improve not only my handwriting, which is far from great due to excessive text typing but also my rote learning, which was excellent but fading. Being autistic for me means I can pretty much learn many things to remember with repetition, and then it’s like having a photographic memory.
I find the freehand writing really soothing. In my childhood, I loved learning things via handwriting and memory. I adore the way the pen feels and flows in my hands.
A recent small study conducted at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology (NTNU), based on collected EEG data from 36 university students, reinforces a suspicion many have had for a while: handwriting appears to be more effective for memory building and information encoding than typing on a digital device.
Even at eighty-two, my dad still writes by hand on everything from his past love letters to my mother from his time in the army to date with his crossword puzzles and daily diaries. I honestly don’t see many signs of handwriting deterioration at all, and while short-term memory loss is a normal part of ageing, he is still reasonably sharp for his age.
The poem is The Tyger by William Blake.
And also I got myself a new Parker pen.
Joy!
And I am done and exhausted again after completing this piece. Ironically, I also decided to experiment by inputting some of my original content into Chat GPT out of sheer curiosity, wondering if it could help rephrase or condense it or offer any insights beyond my own thoughts.
And you know what?
It appears that even when I attempt to hasten the process, taking a slower approach might not be such a bad idea after all.
Back to the basics.
It will be another month before I show up in your inboxes again as I am giving myself over to my creative fatigue, age, work commitments, and, most importantly, my self-care. Me here now all advised by my own advice and cathartic release in my writing.
Thank you, as always, for subscribing, reading, and being here.
I am back on the sofa.
Back to human nature.
Grá Mór
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