Family values (Part One - Caroline)

My sister is here. At my parents' place. And it's driving me completely and totally mental. I'm trying to have some patience with her, considering the current situation, but there's only so many attacks a person can take. I've reached my limit and so I’ve withdrawn to the privacy of my room.

Yesterday, if I spoke at all, she'd respond with some witty put-down, then laugh long and hard just to demonstrate how successfully she'd put me down and how witty she had been in the process. At one point there somebody said something about my height. It was a sort of passing comment which was very accurate because I am definitely tall. Caroline’s devastating contribution to this conversation was "aye, ye long skinny shite!"

Now, I don't like any unnecessary use of exclamation marks, but in her case - due to the sheer volume of her comment - that one is necessary. Then that laugh that can only be described as a cackle. Fucking hell.

Now, the really frustrating element is that this doesn't qualify as banter, because if I have a response handy then her counter-response is even more shrill and filled with rage. The veneer of cameraderie quickly drops and I become "a cheeky bastard". It's not banter - it's an argument. I'm trying not to fall into this trap so much, but it's difficult because the only way of getting out of it is by being silent and the best outcome of that is a demonstration that I'm not up to the battle of wits. The worst outcome is opening myself up to becoming "a huffy bastard" instead.

I've never known how to respond to her. She's a fucking psycho. Seriously. There are times when I'm tempted to consider that to be a bit of an exaggeration, but then I look at the facts - this person bit a cop once. And I had to grow up with her. She has never cared how much trouble she brings down on her own head, so long as she can spread it around. Biting a cop is, I believe, more than enough evidence to back up that particular belief. Now, I'm confident that she wasn't overly discriminatory about where the trouble landed, but I'm sure always got a particular thrill whenever any of it specifically landed on me. Which makes her a fucking psycho with a grudge.
(I'm wondering about the wisdom of including this chapter in the book. It might get edited out later, but right now I’m going to treat it as a sort of therapy. This is getting the frustration out of my system.)

Now that I think about it, the final straw – the reason I retreated to my bedroom – is disappointingly trivial. When Caroline got in, she went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Now, one of our regular power struggles (and I consider myself to be just as petty as her on this one) revolves around the issue of making tea. On almost every visit she makes, there will be a request phrased along the lines of “Graham, go and make a cup of tea?” and I’ll have to decide my response. If I do as she requests, she’s effectively given me an order and I’ve complied. If I refuse, I’m being petty. Perhaps this power struggle is entirely in my head and the very fact that I have this internal dialogue going on at all could say more about me than it does about her. But it’s there. Every time.

She didn’t request that I make the tea, though. She wandered into the living room and sat down. The kettle finished boiling, but she had settled down by then. There was a brief exchange about it at one point, but nobody got up to finish the job. It was just generally understood that when someone wanted tea or coffee enough, that person would get up and make it – and then everyone else would get a cup if they wanted any. Nothing particularly controversial there.

Then I had to get up and do something. And when I had finished, I lingered for a while before I re-entered the living room, because I wanted to figure out what response I would have if I was asked to make tea. I decided I would be diplomatic and just do as I was requested, because it was the easiest option. And then I returned to the living room. There was, however, no such request, so I sat down without having to deal with that moral quandary. Issue ducked without any compromises – result.

I had returned near the end of an item on the news about Edinburgh’s canal, though. I had missed most of it, and I was intrigued. I’ve always wanted to own a canal boat, so I wanted to know more. I asked for a quick recap, and was told that the canal between Edinburgh and Falkirk had recently reopened. I wanted to know more, so I picked up my laptop, checked to see if there was anything on the internet about it and quickly found an article. I was most interested in the celebration that had been mentioned, so I wanted to find out when it was being held and where. I found a reference pretty quickly and, as a prelude to suggesting that it might be a good day out if anyone else wanted to come along, I mentioned that it was happening this weekend. And that was when Caroline waded in.

“They just told you about that on the news!”


Now, over the years, I think I’ve developed a bit of a Pavlovian response to that shrill voice and it irritated me right away. I reminded her that I had missed most of the news item, then remembered my earlier resolve to be diplomatic and tried to tone back the bitchy responses. This resolve lasted just long enough for Caroline to subside into a brief silence – lasting perhaps half a minute – before coming up with an answer. Then she put her hands up to her ears and said “That’s what you’ve got these for!” Seriously, it’s practically Wildean.

And that’s when I left the room. As I closed up my laptop and unplugged it, my mum told me I should stop being so touchy (a valid point), but I was on my way at that point. The decision had been made and I wasn’t turning back. As I climbed the stairs, I heard Caroline saying “He can dish it out but he can’t take it back!”

That got me thinking. I had to stop and consider whether she had a valid point with that statement. I felt that there was a big difference between my occasional offhand comment or bit of banter and her constant attacks. And… yeah… there definitely is a massive difference. I enjoy a bit of humour and a bit of witty debate. But Caroline is incapable of this. Instead, she has a potent mixture of volume, rage and energy. She’s really good at it. There aren’t many people (certainly not me) who can stand against it. In fact, I can’t think of anyone who can do it better, with the possible exception of my dad. I’m not sure who would win if there was ever a major conflict between the two of them and they both turned it on full force, because I haven’t witnessed that sort of thing in a long, long time. And even if I witnessed it again, I wouldn’t see the ultimate conclusion. Because I’d be taking cover. A long, long way away.

Not a democracy

I want to cover this, but I don’t want to go into any great detail. I might return to it at some point, but right now I just think I should set the scene so that I can point out some of the consequences, because they’re relevant. It’ll help you understand – if you need to – why certain circumstances have developed.

In February of 2009, I was in a car accident. Nicola and I were driving from Greenock to Glasgow, when her car stalled while we were on the motorway. We couldn’t get out of the lane we were in and so we coasted to a halt in the lane adjacent to the fast lane. We sat there for about seven minutes before we were hit from behind at around 70 mph. It’s not a long time but it’s long enough to realise that a collision is inevitable. And it’s long enough to come to terms with the fact that the chances of surviving it are slim.

We did survive, which was a fairly pleasant surprise. But there were consequences. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and some physical injuries. “Moderate to severe” whiplash, some fibrosis, calcification of the supraspinatus tendon and a rotator cuff tear. I had some counselling for the PTSD and some physiotherapy for the physical injuries, but neither treatment has completely been successful – the repercussions of this accident are likely to last for a good while yet.

In a very short period of time, I lost my flat in Greenock and became homeless, lost my job at the clinic in Glasgow when it closed down and had to deal with the repercussions of that accident. I moved back in with my parents to get some support and I’m still living there now. I’m finally ready to move back out again, so as soon as I get a new flat in Edinburgh, I’ll have my independence and privacy once again. That, however, will have to wait until either I can afford to put down a deposit or the council offer me a place. And since I want to get into the town centre, I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to have to wait.

I’ve lived in the schemes before. I had a flat in Peffermill when I was in my early twenties and I have fond memories of that place. I’ve also lived in Craigmillar, Niddrie and Gracemount. And those are all areas I could return to quite easily, if I was to compromise on the areas I was interested in. But I’m holding out for something better than that. In general, it’s the city centre. In particular, it’s the Grassmarket, the South Side, or the Cowgate.

Every week, the council publish a list of flats available and I take a look. I get to select three places from the list that I would like and if I hold more points than anyone else who has requested that particular place then I’ll get it. It’s a long process, because the places I’m holding out for are popular ones, so I’m relying on having more points and I’m only getting those through longevity – being on the list longer than my competitors. I’m not sure that it’s the most effective strategy.

I’ve considered sharing, but I’m not sure that’s the best move for me. I don’t like not having control of my environment. I like space to spread out and to stamp my own personality onto. Once I’m settled somewhere, I’d probably be happy to let other people come in and share with me, but only on my terms – and that’s not exactly the most compromising of attitudes. Not exactly conducive to a shared living space.

I described my ultimate fantasy to some friends, once and they liked the concept. I told them that if I had enough money, I’d buy a derelict farm or a similar property in the middle of nowhere. Some large, ramshackle, rambling place with a lot of space and a lot of character. It wouldn’t even matter if large chunks of the building weren’t completely suitable for habitation. So long as there was a room I could live comfortably in and a room I could cook in, then I could set about restoring the rest of it.

I said that people could come and stay. Hippies, artists, creative types who are attracted to this kind of environment. People who want to escape from the city and recharge themselves and contribute to the general atmosphere.

We got very creative with the concept and we all ran with it a bit, adding bits and pieces to the overall picture. There would be bean bags and couches and coal fires. There would be massive windows overlooking trees and a huge garden and wilderness. In the winter, the snow would make the fire cosy and the house would be a shelter from the storm. In the summer, there would be barbecues and laughter and friends and parties and drinking.

I decided there would be a yurt, because I’d seen one at the Wicker Man music festival a few years ago and thought it was amazing. I used to visit a place called Wiston Lodge, where I had seen longhouses and where I had once helped build a tepee, so I incorporated those into my fantasy home, too. There’d be vegetable gardens and treehouses and a bath outside that was fully plumbed in with hot water. Not a Jacuzzi – an actual bath. And there would be a constant “clothing optional” policy in place, so if anyone wanted to be naked, then that was also completely cool. Because – let’s face it – the person most likely to want to be naked was me.

And finally, one of my friends said “That sounds great. Like a big hippy commune where everybody gets a say in how things are run.” And at that point I realised that my vision was a little different from hers.

“Fuck, no!” I answered diplomatically. “It’s not a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. The place is mine.”

Can Igor do it?

I was in the middle of an argument with Nicola. I had fucked something up pretty badly and tempers were running high. I was feeling exceptionally guilty, because I knew my mistake had been costly. I was also feeling victimised and picked on. And very defensive.

Finally, I rounded on her and told her that in future, she needed to ask herself a question before trusting me with any responsibility. I told her she should say “can Igor do it?” If she decided that it was beyond Igor’s capabilities, then it was probably beyond mine, too.

Yeah. I know. But it wasn’t the first fight we’d had and I was starting to have some real problems coping with the conflicts. So… that was my response. It didn’t exactly reduce the tension.

Whale song, guided meditation and fucking pan pipes

The last time I dropped out of college, I was studying massage therapy. Initially, I had been doing OK but not brilliant. I had some issues with some of the classes, but I was coping. I didn’t like the fact that I was having to study for some subjects that were going to have no relevance to my own personal future career prospects, though. There was a reflexology class, for example. I knew that as soon as I finished the course, I was never going to voluntarily work on another person’s foot ever again – but I was still going to have to pass this particular module if I wanted to pass the course. That frustrated me. I could be perfect in every class that was relevant to me, but if I failed one that wasn’t I would fail the course.

I tolerated this, though. I had initially started the course, because I just wanted something to do, but I had become fascinated by it and really wanted to progress. I had two posters on my living room wall – one for muscular anatomy and one for skeletal anatomy – and I had post-it notes all round them. I was really getting into it. But while I was doing OK with some classes, I was falling behind on others. In short, I wasn’t doing OK at all.

More classes were introduced that I had no interest in. Suddenly, I needed to learn about skin types and how to make up face-masks out of fruit and muesli. Again, this was something I was never going to need to know and would never put into practice when I completed the course. In fact, I couldn’t (and still can’t) comprehend a time when knowing the best way to mash up a banana and slap it onto someone’s face would come in even remotely useful. I approached the head tutor and managed to drop that class in favour of remedial work in another one, but by then the rot was already setting in.

Then there were all the guided meditation sessions that some tutors set a lot of store by. Now, I know I’m not the only massage therapist out there who can’t be bothered with all that “happy place” stuff, but it’s fair to say that we’re in the minority. These guided meditation sessions simply seemed pointless, irritating and intrusive – and I found myself wondering why I was submitting to someone else’s voodoo nonsense when I could be learning something valuable instead. It felt patronising and offensive. Throw in a CD full of whale song, Buddhist chanting, harps, pan-pipes and somebody whoring up a grotesque parody of native -American culture and it becomes intolerable.

The final straw came about when one tutor described how to colour-code the names on some case-study forms with highlighter pens. Now, I’m not going to go into the specifics here, because I barely comprehended it the first time round and there’s no way I can replicate the details right now. But we were told how to do this by one tutor. I thought I got the basics and I figured I could work the rest out as it became relevant. Then, in a different class, it was explained to us again – in a different way – by a different tutor. And I started to have doubts about whether I understood it after all. In a different class again, one of the other students told the new tutor that she wasn’t sure she understood how this worked, so it was explained again. And again. And again. And I knew I was starting to have some real problems. Then we got back to the first tutor and someone asked what happened if we ran out of colours with our highlighter pens. We were told to take two different highlighter pens and start highlighting names in stripes of different colours. At that point, I quietly gave up.

I quit the course and then hit a bout of depression because I started wondering whether I was stupid, lazy or both. Perhaps neither of those. Perhaps I was just running from responsibility. Perhaps I just wanted the comfort of the dole queue.

The thing is… too many things changed at once and I couldn’t cope with that. I suddenly felt out of my depth and I’ve never handled that sort of thing well. This is one of the things I’ve since discovered is common to people on the autistic spectrum. I can handle changes better than a lot of people with the condition, but I still struggle – and when there are a lot of changes in a very short space of time, then they tend to overwhelm me.

Anyway, I had made a friend on the course. Nicola – the person I later worked with at the clinic in Glasgow – recommended I study privately instead. She gave me the contact details of a class in Glasgow. It was expensive, though… more than I could afford on a giro. So I tried to secure some funding. And failed.

I went to three separate sources for the money for this class, and was turned down by all of them. Eventually I got so frustrated, that I decided that whether I had funding or not, I would find a way to get through this course. So, for nine months, I forked out two thirds of my monthly giro, ate beans on toast and studied privately.

The course covered Swedish massage and nothing else. No reflexology, no face packs and no fucking highlighter pens. It was also made clear exactly what was being taught at every stage, so I always knew what I needed to know. There were constant tests and updates on muscular and skeletal anatomy and there were weekends devoted to the cardio-vascular system, the integumentary system, the digestive system. There was still – frustratingly – the occasional guided meditation session, but they were much rarer. I still didn’t like them, but I tolerated them.

I passed. And then I spent a further three months learning Seated Acupressure Therapy, and then I got a job at Glasgow airport. Then I started working with Nicola at the clinic in Glasgow. And I would probably still be there if it wasn’t for the car accident.

Feedback

I showed a preview copy of Part One of this book to a few people, looking for some general feedback. It wasn’t long before I started to receive it. And the point I would like to address comes from Lucy. She said:

Thanks for the writing you sent me. I've just finished reading it. So it is the Intro of a book you are writing? It is a book about yourself? A memoir? Or the book of understanding yourself? As I am reading it, I remember when you told me about all these. I told you that I had the impression that you are not suffering from it although you attach great importance to it. In fact, I am a bit curious to know: why couldn't you let the issue rest and you were so bothered by the facts/theory (not reading, short of empathy etc.)? what has changed since you got a diagnosis? I would rather see Autism as a unique trait instead of an illness.
Lucy is a Cantonese music and literature journalist, currently living in Beijing. I first met her via a website called Couchsurfing when she was staying in Edinburgh. Anyway, she raised a couple of points here that I felt would be worth exploring.

The main one is that I definitely agree with her that my condition is not an illness. It is also not a mental health issue – a fact that might surprise some people. It’s a neuro-developmental issue. Which means that my neurological system didn’t develop in the same way as a neurotypical person’s would. This affected things like memory, emotion and some of the higher cognitive functions. Personally, I don’t consider it to be a disability; it’s created problems over the years, but it’s also had some very positive effects. It’s really just made me a bit different from other people.

I had real difficulties as I was growing up. And a lot of those difficulties stemmed from the fact that nobody knew I had Asperger’s, so they didn’t know that certain allowances had to be made for me. I process information differently, I perceive the world in a different way and I respond to outside stimuli differently from other people. If this had been known, I suspect that my youth would have been radically different. I don’t know whether that means it would have been better, but it might have been easier. At least, there would have been more understanding.

All of this will be explored in more detail in later chapters.

So… I’m not treating the condition as a disability. In fact, I’m fascinated by it. And also – to be honest – there’s a part of me that feels seriously vindicated by the discovery of it. Because, despite the fact that I have an exceptionally high IQ, I’ve been to college three times and dropped out each time because there was just too much going on at once for me to cope with. I began to think of myself as an under-achiever and I didn’t like that thought. I felt that I should have progressed much further with my life, my career and my future prospects and couldn’t figure out why I hadn’t done so. Finding out I have Asperger’s Syndrome, however, has changed all that. Now I realise that I’ve been fighting to learn and progress within an educational establishment that wasn’t aware I had any stumbling blocks. I don’t consider my condition to be an illness or a disability. It’s just a different way of thinking. But it’s still fair to say that the difference has come at a cost. And part of the cost was three aborted attempts at going to college.

The unreliable narrator

I’m a great fan of the “unreliable narrator”. That’s the sort of story that’s told by someone who might have an impaired judgement, or who isn’t the most reliable of witnesses, or who might simply be a complete liar. Baron Munchausen would be the very definition of an unreliable narrator.

There’s also a kind of fiction where someone will ask five different people to describe what they’ve seen and all five people will give wildly differing stories, despite having been witnesses to the same event – not because they’re liars, but because they’ve had different impressions. Each one will tell the truth, but it’s the truth as they see it. The truth isn’t a fact. The truth can change.

It’s very possible that most people will consider me to be an unreliable narrator. This narrative is going to include a lot of anecdotal evidence and segues and footnotes, but they’re all going to be filtered through my perception of them. The accuracy may well turn out to be questionable. The other players in those events might dispute certain details. Some of the experiences I’m planning to describe are going to be high on emotional intensity and that’s also going to colour them. Some details are going to be excluded for the sake of brevity or simplicity, or just because I’ve forgotten them.

So… probably best to treat this book as a work of fiction that might occasionally include a few facts and become reliable.