Autism ADHD and so much more.

I call this my Sherlock Holmes thing.

A common myth or misconception or misunderstanding seems to be around the way that autistic people feel within the world. Without an understanding of the varied and intense sensory experiences of autistic people it is understandable that this is misunderstood and misjudged. To further complicate this, most people don’t really know how another actually feels.

We all presume that we are sort of the same, and only start to question when a reaction seems extreme, or out of proportion. Autistic people sense that they are experiencing something different, but without knowledge of the extent to which sensory experiences can vary, they start to presume that something is wrong with themselves, and they try to hide, or escape from these experiences. Onlookers used to the neurotypical senses, presume that the person is being awkward, or fussy, or is simply too demanding, or never satisfied. As is always the way living in a minority, less is known because we have the wrong reference points. My point is that everyone’s sensory life is different. Different but equal; equal but different. 

I think that it helps for us all to have reference points, and hence The Sherlock Holmes Thing. If anyone has read or watched Sherlock then you’ll know that it opens with him arriving at a scene of interest, and with camera shutter speed, he immediately sees and hears and feels everything in the room. I am like Sherlock Holmes, only without the crime solving ability. 

Seriously, bear with me. Recently Chris Packham described his way of seeing the bigger picture and the BBC created a digital image showing his thoughts shooting and wandering across the branches and the leaves. Wow, I thought, this is how I think. Unfortunately the programme didn’t go on to explain. The term ‘tree thinking’, was actually created by Dr Camilla Pang in her book Explaining Humans to explain how she experiences thoughts. Feeling and seeing and hearing and processing differently are things I thought everyone did. Until I was faced with my diagnosis and had to recognise that, in fact, they don’t. 

I walk into an unfamiliar environment, bars, restaurants, hotels, a strange home, and I am overwhelmed with everything that there is to see and hear. If the room is too big, or too loud, or too bright, or too cluttered, or too dirty, my reaction is intensified. And then, because I get anxious when I am trying to understand where I am, I have to narrate everything. I realise now that sometimes I am mute with fear and confusion, but often, I don’t stop talking out loud. I have to narrate everything so that I can hear it and try and make sense of it. It is actually my way of trying to remain calm and present. Of course, for fifty years I thought that I was fussy, awkward, critical, and ungrateful, because that’s what everyone told me I was.

I could be a marvellous hotel inspector if anyone needed me. As I approach a room the patterned carpet disorientates me, and I feel like I am on a narrow mountain ledge needed something to hold on to. I know, weird right? I thought everyone experienced this. Even more weird. Upon entry into the room, I can immediately see the colours, the dusty skirting boards, the ill-fitting sheets, the curtains that are not hanging equidistantly and the lights that don’t match. If there are marks and stains on the carpet or walls or doors, I feel like I am travel sick and if there are dusty rings and stains on surfaces, I feel like there are spiders crawling along my skin – not in a good way. I notice if the paint is not in a clean line with the coving and if the curtains have hooks missing. If there are wires anywhere that are not hidden, then the spiders climb across my head, and I am fighting to push them off. I know this sounds dramatic, and even ridiculous. For fifty years I simply couldn’t understand what was happening to me, and so indulged in the same sort of criticism of myself that was expressed by others. But that wasn’t true, and if it’s like that for me, it might be like that for others. Not spiders, but their own reactions explained in their own way.

If the windows don’t open, then I am overwhelmed with fight and flight. I feel angry that I am there and refuse to stay. I know, imagine how this was received before I knew my differences? I need fresh air like a fish needs the water. It is literally the way that I breathe, at least breathe more calmly, and am able to remain capable. If I can see litter or debris or heaven forbid, a rubbish bin, then the feeling of nausea increases and now even if I look away, I still know it is there and my brain keeps a handy image for me. And if the toilet door opens in the pub or on a train or anywhere, and I get a glimpse of anything, I really want to run away. 

Recently I met friends who were sitting at the bar and the toilet door to the urinals was behind them. They don’t know me enough for me to ambush them with the real me. I tried to look away and not feel it. I sensed myself rambling and talking too much. I managed half an hour, declined joining them for dinner and ran away in tears into the street. I don’t tell these stories for sympathy or pity. I don’t think that is the autistic way, and it isn’t my way. If I required sympathy or pity, you can be sure that I would tell you exactly that. That is the beauty of an autistic friend. No guessing or games. How fab is that.

The other thing that I have read about other autistic people, and think might be useful here, is that we don’t understand the people but focus on things. It’s another stereotype. The one about preferring the train to the people. Now don’t get me wrong, I love trains and even timetables, but I also love people. I wonder if it appears that I am only interested in the things because in that Sherlock Holmes moment it is difficult to hear the people. When all of the sights and smells and fixtures and fittings are being hurled and swirled and, in my case, narrated, the person is probably making less sensory noise. 

If the room is on fire, I imagine that anyone’s focus would be the flames, and the heat, and finding a safe way out. They wouldn’t stop to chat about last night’s TV or inquire about the health of someone’s mother. And, I guess that they wouldn’t be judged adversely for that. When we can talk freely and honestly, about the myriad of ways that we feel and hear and see the world differently, hopefully this will be easier to understand. 

How do you feel and hear and see the world differently? When all of our voices are heard then maybe our experiences will be believed. As Dr Luke Beardon says – just because it sounds unbelievable doesn’t mean that it is. Autistic ways of feeling the world are the proof of that.