I was thinking about my school years the other day. In particular the problems my parents faced having an autistic child and not knowing they had one. Can you imagine that? Just think of the behaviour a child in full meltdown can give you constantly, every day.
Even at 23, my mum received a phone call. It was from my aunt, with whom I was lodging at the time. My aunt said – there is something wrong. Mum panicked a little but quickly realised that Aunt B was talking about my behaviour. I was not like her daughter. I was not like any daughter she knew. I was ‘other’.
My mum agreed.
Neither told me. I would probably have been too exhausted to listen anyway. I was masking to appear as normal as possible in work. I was also masking for Aunt B. I was masking for potential friends and family… In a way I was even masking for myself. It wasn’t sustainable and I finally fell asleep at the wheel driving on the M25. (I ran off the road but did not harm myself or the car).
I went home. I was a disappointment. I knew it. But I always had been.
At school I was bullied. First for the brown-ness but also for my awkward way. I wanted to be liked but I didn’t understand the social cues. The school sent me on a few extra activities for advanced kids. The odd thing was I wasn’t told it was for those who excel. Once course in particular was an art/textile/creative course over the summer for the special kids. I thought I was there because I was sub-normal. I wasn’t. I was there because I was smart. No one told me. I found out at 45 when it was shared through an old school colleague.
I didn’t know.
I was told constantly by those in charge that my inability to read was what made me special. That my inability to make friends made me stand out. That my weight made me less desirable. That at least I could draw.
Of course this has created a trauma response as an adult. I have to please. I have to look after others, because me, on my own, I’m not enough. I’m not writing this for pity. Hell, if you read this and feel sorry for me. Don’t. I am in a pretty okay place despite everything. But I have started a new chapter. For the first time there is just me, a dog and a cat.
I wish that Roland had survived but the fact is, he didn’t. So, I am living alone, for the first time. Can you guess how many meltdowns I have had? None. But I am finding it difficult to make friends and ‘get out there’. It is almost like that muscle I use to mask, to try to fit in, is fading. In a way it is positive. My creativity is slowly waking up. I don’t get so tired and I don’t feel like I have to please. I am learning that I am allowed to exist in the world as me and not an extension of someone.
I’m realising that I’m not a bad writer. Not earth-shattering but okay. Being earth shattering would be way too exhausting anyway. I can settle for decent. And I am a very good creative. I want to say artist, but my skills go further that. I can sew, knit, crochet, embroider… I’m a creative who is an artist. And a good one.
I was talking to my therapist the other day. We decided that I ought to create an artwork or series to reflect the loss and pain I have had. And to reflect the journey and almost-happiness I am heading towards. I can’t write happiness for myself yet. It seems too soon for me to be allowed to be happy because Roland is dead. Now there are a couple of sentences my therapist would probably want to unpack (hollow laugh).
If I were in school now I would be one of the SEND kids with support. How would that have changed me? I probably wouldn’t mask as well. I probably wouldn’t have as many meltdowns as I have had. So I can’t say that it would have been better. Although it would have been a lot less hurtful. I could have done with less hurtful. Having to deal with finding out I am autistic and becoming physically disabled has been hard. Looking back I do wish it had been caught earlier but not in the 1980’s school. I would want to flash into a school now. At the time I lived, I wish I had simply known. In the setting I was, I was not special for my failings. I was special for my achievements. I can live with a late autism diagnosis. That I don’t mind.
Kate Murray - Cleaver 