Aspie Daddy

Welcome to Aspie Daddy, the website of Gillan Drew, author of An Adult With An Autism Diagnosis: A Guide for the Newly Diagnosed. Here I blog about autism and parenting and whatever else takes my fancy.

I was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome at 28, and now nearing forty, I live with my autistic wife and two infant daughters on the border of Dorset and Hampshire.

If you get the chance, check out my fiction website The Struggling Writer where you can read some short stories and novel extracts and some of my rants about writing.

Thanks for dropping by.

Gillan

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New Blog: The Struggling Writer

Hey there, Aspie Daddy fans.

I have started a new blog about my struggles to become a fiction author. It will be a mix of short stories, novel extracts, book reviews, posts about writing and whatever else inspires me. There’s already a short story up, a real tearjerker, so be sure to bring a hanky.

I look forward to welcoming you to The Struggling Writer (www.the-struggling-writer.com).

When parenting gets weird (the owls are coming!)

Parenting a three-year-old and a ten-month-old is, by itself, far outside the norm – I mean, how often do non-parents have to explain over the breakfast table that a noo-noo doesn’t spontaneously turn into a willy on your fourth birthday? – but some days are weirder than others. Last Monday, for example: what started as Parenthood quickly descended into Twin Peaks territory…and not the recent disappointing reboot.

After a long day at Peppa Pig World – and if you’ve ever been to Peppa Pig World, you’ll know just how long a day that can be – I cooked some dinner and then tried to get my youngest, Rosie, down to bed. Three-and-a-half hours later, my wife, who has no religious leanings whatsoever, stormed into the nursery, informed me that our daughter is demon-possessed, and demanded I remove her from the house/exorcise her (depending on my mood) since the incessant screaming was driving her mad. This I duly did, strapping her into the car seat and heading off into the vast emptiness of the New Forest.

That’s when things got strange.

It was down a dark, narrow road in the middle of nowhere, the trees meeting overhead and obscuring the stars, that out of the corner of my eye I suddenly caught a glimpse of a round face, big black eyes, brown feathers flecked with black, and – CRACK! – an owl flew smack into my windscreen, with a report like a gunshot going off.

My heart thumping against my ribs, I drove on a quarter of a mile, found somewhere to turn around and drove back to where my headlights illuminated a large brown form lying sprawled across the road like an old burlap sack. Clearly a tawny owl, clearly not moving. The speed at which I’d hit it – 35mph or so – didn’t bode well. Crap, I thought – what are the superstitions about owls? What happens if you kill one? Have I opened a door into the underworld, or something?

I considered my options. I had neither my phone nor my wallet with me, and no torch either. At the very least, if it was dead I could move it off the road; if somehow still alive, I could take it to the local owl sanctuary, though I doubted there’d be anyone there at this time of night. In any event, I had to do something.

I climbed out onto the pitch-dark roadside, and in that moment a deer leapt out of the bushes and landed on the road beside me. I don’t know which of us was more startled, but the deer looked at me, freaked, and threw itself back into the bushes, crashing away through the undergrowth into the night. By this point, I was thoroughly unnerved, but I had to check on the fallen owl.

When I turned back to it, the dead owl was now standing in the middle of the road, staring right at me, its big black eyes shining like obsidian in my headlights. It was only a few feet away and the forest had gone unnaturally quiet. It was horribly eerie, like I’d awakened whatever demonic soul inhabited its avian body.

Nonetheless, I held out my hands and spoke to it in a soft voice. ‘It’s okay, I’m a friend, I just need to check that you’re okay.’

I took a step towards it and it took a step away. I took another step; so did it. And then it skipped, spread its wings and flew into the air. I felt a rush of relief as I watched it go, relief that turned to horror as it shot over the top of my car and then – SMACK! – it flew right into a tree.

As it crashed down through the leaves, making one hell of a ruckus, it managed to grab hold of a branch and ended up hanging upside-down, its wings held out to the sides like something you’d see crouching on a cathedral. Worse, it was now directly above a stream that ran under the road, and if it fell it would surely drown.

But still it stared at me.

It was further from the car, directly to the side so outside the arc of my headlights, but I could just about make it out in the dark. I felt incredible responsibility for this creature, this fellow traveller that I had collided with on life’s highway – literally. There was a steep bank down into the water, overgrown with nettles and thorns, and I thought if it fell I would have to leap into the stream to rescue it.

But then I thought of the baby still refusing to sleep in the back of the car. I thought of the darkness all around, and of the stream that slid silent and black through the Stygian gloom. I had no idea how deep it was, or if getting in I’d even be able to get out. If the owl, in its panic or its malice, would claw me with its talons and tear at me with its beak. If my car would be found in the morning at the roadside, empty, no trace of any of us – just the dusty outline of an owl upon the windscreen.

Such are the thoughts that come to you deep in a forest late at night.

I tried to shoo it away, clapped my hands at it, just to get it to a safer place – it simply stared at me. It let go with one foot, stretched out its leg, flexed its toes, then swapped over, but refused to move. And just. Kept. Staring.

Eventually, I decided there was nothing more I could do. I bid the owl farewell, got back in the car and drove on. But a couple of minutes down the road, I felt an irresistible urge to turn back – I had to see this through to the end.

When I got to the tree, the branch was empty and my heart dropped. I checked the stream but couldn’t see anything. The unknown swirled around me. In the less than five minutes I’d been gone, something had happened. Whether it had burst forth to new life, or fallen into death, I couldn’t know.

I was about to leave when there was a sudden rustle above my head, and looking up I found myself staring into those same black eyes. It was higher in the same tree, on top of a branch now, its wings tucked neatly away as its eyes bored into mine.

We watched each other several moments, the aggressor and the aggrieved, with something like mutual respect – for a short time, though being of different species, our fates had become entangled and we had shared a connection that transcended the limitations of our bodies. I saluted the owl, and I could swear that he nodded at me in return. Our time together was at an end.

And what was more, the baby had finally fallen asleep. I turned for home.

I spent the next ten minutes carefully making my way past ponies and cows and foxes in the forest, my nerves on edge as the darkness pressed in around me. I only had to get home. It was barely a few miles away. I was safe.

But safety is an illusion. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement, and slamming on my brakes I caught a glimpse of a round face, big black eyes, brown feathers with black trim and – WHOOSH! – a great big tawny owl flew right across my windscreen. I must have missed it by a foot.

It couldn’t have been the same owl. Couldn’t have been. But my nerves now shot to pieces, I crawled home, hoping beyond hope I didn’t hit anything else.

Maybe it cursed me. Maybe some supernatural power in the depths of its being decided that I should suffer. For worse was yet to come.

I got home, put the baby to bed, and crept into the bedroom. There was my wife lying fast asleep in bed, a thin sheet draped over the curves of her naked form. I wanted nothing more than the peace of climbing into bed beside her and cuddling away the nightmare of the forest.

Slowly, carefully, I eased myself onto the memory foam mattress and – CRACK! – my knee snapped one of the wooden slats clean in half!

‘What the hell did you just do?’ my wife cried, jerking awake. ‘You’ve broken the bed, you’ve broken it! You’re too fat, you’ve broken the bloody bed!’

What I wouldn’t have given to be back out in the forest with that owl…

Fear not, Aspie Daddy fans

Regular readers of this blog might have been a little concerned by my absence over the past couple of months, particularly when my last post suggested you stay tuned for Part 2.

The truth is, I have been going through an incredibly trying time in my personal life. Far from being able to see the light at the end of the tunnel, it was too dark to find the bloody tunnel in the first place. I have been groping around blind, and not in the appropriate headspace to write about family life and parenting at a time when both were in question.

Now, we have finally turned a corner. I’ve found the tunnel and I can see enough to locate my surroundings. The light might be way off – might always be beyond my reach – but I once more believe it is there, and that is enough to keep going. These experiences might form the basis of another post one day, but for now I am going to embrace this fragile sense of security and move on.

So rest assured, I will be updating this blog again. And to start with, I’ll share some good news: a few weeks ago, over two nights mostly after midnight, in between nappy changes, bottle feeds and lullabies, I managed to write a short story in time to meet the deadline of the Writers’ Bureau Short Story Competition 2018. Reading it back, there were typos and grammatical errors and bits that make me cringe, but it amazingly won fourth prize and has been published on their website. So here is The Embrace of the Sea, and I will see you again soon.

The Perils of Perfection

I am a high achiever. This might come as a surprise considering I’m a 38-year-old stay-at-home dad whose longest of nineteen jobs lasted a massive 365 days and whose highest take-home pay was a measly 16k, who has practically nothing in the bank, drives an old rust-bucket, and lives in a house owned by his father-in-law. But I am a high achiever nonetheless. And I’m here to tell you: it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

What makes me a high achiever despite never actually achieving anything of much note? With no false modesty, I just am. I walked early, talked early, read early, wrote early. In primary school, I jumped from the first year to the third year, skipping the second. I was in an advanced English class with older children. They told my parents that the sky was the limit. I said I was going to be a novelist, and they said I absolutely could be.

At middle school I was in an advanced English and Maths class with older children, and regularly corrected my teachers’ spelling and mathematical mistakes. They told my parents I would reach the stratosphere. I said I was going to be a novelist, and they said I absolutely would be.

At secondary school I was in the top set for every subject, and started getting Level 10s for English (the highest you can get) when everyone else was getting Level 6s. They told my parents I was the most exceptional student they’d ever had in the 54 years the school had existed. I said I was going to be a novelist, and they said to remember them when I was on This Is Your Life.

In VI Form, my English Literature work was deemed third-year university standard, and I was selected to go to a politics retreat for especially bright students. They told my parents I had a gift that needed to be shared with the world. I said I was going to be a novelist, and they had no doubt I wouldn’t just be a novelist, I’d be one of the bestselling novelists in the world.

I sleepwalked through university, spending no more than two days on any assignment, and still came out with a first class BA (Hons) with distinction and the highest mark in the year. I was voted the person most likely to succeed by my peers.

I started doing Open University courses and got a Diploma of Higher Education, another degree and a Masters, earning a distinction for every module, exam and essay, whether it was humanities, arts or social science – English, History, Classics, Archaeology, Psychology or Philosophy.

I have excelled at every job I’ve ever done, be it medical secretary, student nurse, telesalesperson, administrator, public speaker or police communications officer. I have worked with famous people and for royalty, sold art to mayors, travelled solo across the United States and around New Zealand; I have spoken with James Cameron, stood beside the Queen and once saw Michael Jackson travelling down Broadway on top of a bus.

I have sailed across the Atlantic as deckhand on a tall ship; climbed 100-foot cliffs; abseiled down a mineshaft; caught a 50lb conger eel; ascended mountains; qualified as a scuba diver and a parachute jumper; played guitar in a number of rock and metal bands; acted in amateur plays; won screenwriting and short story competitions; had a book published about being diagnosed with autism as an adult; appeared on TV, in magazines and newspapers, and on the radio. I have kayaked, surfed, water skiied, disappeared into the wilderness. Last year I won a competition medal for rifle shooting the first time I picked up a rifle. I’ve done courses in blacksmithing, map-reading, survival, forensic science, private detection, web design, tai chi, sailing, Alzheimer’s, and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. The only thing I’ve never done is walk on water.

So, I’m a high achiever. Which is weird considering I’m a 38-year-old stay-at-home dad whose longest of nineteen jobs lasted a massive 365 days and whose highest take-home pay was a measly 16k, who has practically nothing in the bank, drives an old rust-bucket, and lives in a house owned by his father-in-law.

The trouble with being a high achiever is when your achievements don’t actually amount to diddly squat in the real world. I haven’t reached the stratosphere, or This Is Your Life, or even London. I still haven’t had a novel published, despite having written ten over the past twenty years, sacrificing career and relationships in exchange for 350 rejection letters declining my entry into the hallowed halls of the literary world. I’m hardly setting the world on fire.

I mean, even Clark Griswold invented the Crunch Enhancer, a non-nutritive semi-permeable cereal varnish. I’m less successful than Clark Griswold. Puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?

I feel that if I died at eighteen, I’d have been on the front page of the newspaper – so much potential, he would’ve been great and done so much, what a tragedy. If I die now, I’ll be lucky to get a footnote in the obituaries – so much wasted potential, he could’ve been great and done so much, but didn’t, oh well.

Living as a high achiever messes with your mental health. Ten out of ten is not something to strive for; it is something to be expected every time. If I get nine out of ten, I beat myself up because it’s not good enough, damn it, I should be better. When you throw parenting into the mix – especially of two little girls aged two and zero – that’s when perfectionism is a right royal pain in the ass.

Regular readers of this blog might have noticed I’m a little obsessive over my role as father. It’s not good enough just to be a dad – I have to be the best dad who ever lived. I model myself on Supernanny Jo Frost – calm, collected, consistent, and always in control.

So now that, after two years and nine months of putting up with the crap of parenting, I have started falling short of this ideal – when the baby is screaming and the toddler joins in just for fun and I suddenly shout, ‘Oh for God’s sake, shut up the both of you before my brain starts leaking out of my ears!’ and the toddler starts sobbing ‘don’t shout at me, daddy!’ – I have been sinking into a shame spiral, thinking I’m the worst father in the world, and punishing myself for my abject failure to live up to my unrealistically high expectations.

All of which has resulted in me taking an Anxiety Management and Coping With Depression course, where I have learned four interesting things:

  1. Eight out of ten is good enough.
  2. When you’ve lived with the Black Dog nipping at your heels all your life, just getting up in the morning is an achievement, let alone looking after two kids and a heavily dependent wife.
  3. If I’m always in control around my kids, I’ll teach them that it is bad to show their emotions and they should strive to be perfect all the time, which will set them unrealistic goals and thus perpetuate the cycle.
  4. I am a human and not a robot.

To which I respond with:

  1. For whom?
  2. They don’t put up statues of people simply for getting out of bed.
  3. Fair dues.
  4. Beep boop – does not compute.

But in all seriousness, they’re right. I have to lower my sights and lower my standards, because I’m killing myself to be perfect and there’s no such thing as a perfect parent. I have to accept that sometimes I’m allowed to be ‘crap dad’. Eight out of ten is a perfectly acceptable standard to live at. And what does it matter if I never publish a bestseller?

It matters to me.

Setting aside everyone’s expectations of me, my supposed potential, all the things I ‘should’ have done, all the things I was ‘meant’ to achieve, the only pressure on me to live at ten out of ten comes from within my own head. So it’s up to me to change the thought patterns of a lifetime if I want to access that elusive thing called ‘peace of me mind’.

Can I do it? Of course I can – I can do anything!

Let’s just call it a ‘work in progress’ and see where I end up, okay?

Speaking for Others with Autism

As someone who puts himself in the public eye for a cause, especially on the internet, I’m aware that this makes me a target for criticism. Mostly it’s to do with my opinion on MMR not causing autism (because it doesn’t), my belief that modern, science-based medicine is better than snake oil and superstition (because it is better), and my insistence that people with autism can and do make good parents (because we can and do – although not all of us). These criticisms I can easily brush aside.

Not all criticisms can or should be dismissed out of hand, however. There’s a pernicious idea among the younger generations (and Taylor Swift) that any criticism is trolling, and those who do it are simply ‘haters’ and bullies, which is a great way of avoiding personal responsibility and adopting the mantle of victimhood, but isn’t an enlightened way of viewing people whose opinions differ from your own. So I tend to give my critics the benefit of the doubt – that the criticism was sincerely meant, even though I might disagree with it – and I consider whether there is any merit to it, since this is how we grow as people.

My latest criticism has got me thinking, for despite being worded rather rudely and making some outlandish assumptions, it asks a pertinent question: by what right do I presume to speak for others on the autism spectrum?

I have to first point out that, while I have been told I am an ‘ambassador’ for the autism community, speaking for those who can’t speak for themselves, I have never actually claimed this myself. I recognise, however, that by putting myself out there as a speaker, author and blogger, my words and behaviours reflect upon people’s perceptions of autism, and this is not something that I take lightly. Indeed, I put a great deal of effort into getting it right, especially since I’m currently in a position to influence opinion.

On Wednesday, for example, at an autism conference in Belgium, I spoke to two-hundred delegates about what it’s like to live with autism and how I manage to cope. Also on the bill at Inservice Autisme 2017, in the small village of Oostmalle outside Antwerp, were two other Brits with autism: internationally-renowned opera singer Sophia Grech, and bestselling author of Freaks, Geeks and Asperger’s Syndrome Luke Jackson. So, what right do I have to speak at such an event?

My answer is: I have every right. I talk about what affects me and other people I have met with autism, what has helped me to cope and what has helped others. I point out some of the issues you might face living on the autism spectrum and how these might be overcome. As you don’t cease to be an individual when you’re diagnosed, I am up front about the fact that the things I say will apply to some people more than others, and while some coping strategies might work, they are certainly not for everyone. The important thing is to make sense of your own experience and find out what works for you.

I don’t think there’s anything particularly offensive about that.

I have also been told I shouldn’t speak for others with autism because I have a wife and children, a book and a blog, and I have worked in the past – that my achievement of various life goals makes me ‘atypical’ (i.e. too successful) and thus invalidates my experiences of autism. Inherent in this accusation is a very negative view of people on the autism spectrum, as though to qualify as autistic you must necessarily be unfulfilled, downtrodden and miserable, and this is an opinion that simply does not ring true for me.

I have met hundreds of people on the autism spectrum, and I continue to be amazed by their diversity. In just four months of public speaking I’ve spoken to many Aspies with wives and children, jobs and homes. After every speech I have given, people on the spectrum have come up to me and told me I could have been describing their lives and that what I said really resonated with them. To say that I am ‘atypical’ and cannot relate to others on the spectrum is therefore simply wrong.

It has also been assumed that, because I take a positive, hopeful view of the prospects for those of us on the spectrum, I shouldn’t speak for those who don’t have it as ‘easy’ as me, or the same ‘advantages’, as though I lead a blessed like free of strife and woe. I don’t think anything could be further from the truth. I could offer to show all my self-harming scars from years of struggle, but instead I’ll say what it took to attend the autism conference to show how ‘easy’ it was.

As a stay-at-home dad/unemployed guy with a two-year-old, a seven-week-old and an autistic wife who can’t be left alone with the kids for more than a couple of hours, attending the conference was tough. First, my wife was very abusive when she first found out about it in April because she was scared of me going away and her not being able to cope; despite organising for people to sit with her while I was away, and for her to stay at her mum’s, she remained hostile about it right up until the time I left, telling me I would likely be killed by terrorists in Belgium and that I didn’t love my family, etc., etc. This is what she does when she is feeling vulnerable – she goes on the attack.

As I tried and failed to book a flight to Belgium (I found it too difficult, for while I am capable of some things, I’m incapable of many others), I sought help from my dad, who agreed to drive me. He wanted to take the Channel Tunnel, but as I’ve been on it before and found it claustrophobic, I asked for us to take the ferry because I was worried I might have a panic attack.

On the day of the journey I was up at 3am with the baby and didn’t return to sleep. I left home at seven and it took more than twelve hours of travel to reach Oostmalle. Upon arrival, I was terrified, had an upset stomach, and struggled to keep my anxieties in check.

Entering the conference centre, I was confronted by 200 Dutch people eating dinner, drinking in the bar, and milling about in a noisy, dark environment. The organisers sought me out and directed me to the ‘English Corner’ where Sophia Grech sat with Luke Jackson, two titans of the autism community. So I dug deep, swallowed down my fears, and introduced myself.

After an hour of trying to hear people over the noise and hiding behind a bottle of Coke, my father drove me to the hotel. I rang home to check on things, to find my wife sobbing, the baby screaming, and my toddler crying down the phone, ‘Mummy very sad! Mummy very sad!’ Not easy.

After my dad went to sleep, I worked on my speech, as this was the first opportunity I’d had to be in a clear headspace – or as clear as it could be.

In the morning, I was really panicking. I had to take pills for my upset stomach, struggled to breathe, and wasn’t sure if I’d be able to keep my heart inside my ribcage. As we arrived I puffed out my cheeks, blew out my breath, and flapped my hands like a baby bird trying to take flight. And then I forced it all inwards and painted on my mask, my happy, confident face, and entered the fray.

The speech went well, very well, in fact. I really felt as though I made a difference, and the feedback afterwards showed that it went down a treat. For the next few hours I hung around with Luke and Sophia, and despite my fears, they were two of the coolest, nicest, most down-to-earth people you could hope to meet, with stories and experiences and ideas very similar to my own. In fact, to find myself in such agreement with others was both a rarity and a validation of my own views on autism.

The next day, exhausted and headachy and socially hungover, dwelling on every word I’d said in my speech and worrying if I’d done justice to the wider world of autism, I got up at six to leave at seven for the twelve hour journey home, whereupon I immediately resumed my parenting and caring roles.

I mention this to show that while things might be hard, those of us with autism can achieve amazing things if we have the courage and drive to confront our problems and refuse to let them hold us back. And if people still think I don’t understand what it is to struggle, that I don’t find things difficult enough to be a ‘proper’ Aspie, and that my life is too easy to be relatable, then it says more about them, I think, than it does me.

So why do I do it, if I find it so hard? I do it because I can do it, and I genuinely want to help. My life has been so hard I want to make things easier for others, and if sharing my experiences, opinions and coping strategies can make an autistic person’s life just a little bit easier, that’s what I’m going to do, regardless of whether critics think I’m entitled to or not.

I’ll leave you with the comments of a girl in my village who also has autism. She has struggled all her life but is now doing voluntary work and trying to make something of herself. She’s quite open about the fact that she isn’t articulate enough to describe what it’s like living on the spectrum and doesn’t have the confidence to speak in front of people anyway. Here is what she wrote on my Facebook page a few weeks ago:

‘You’re amazing and you’re doing a great job for everyone else who has autism like you and me and everyone else. I’m really proud of you.’

And the other day she wrote:

‘I and everyone else with autism is going to look up to you. You change people’s lives. Congratulations.’

Am I entitled to speak for others on the autism spectrum? I’ll leave you to decide.