Towards the last few months of 2022, I had had enough. I stopped loving what I had loved – being a nurse. And that was not ok with me. A Master’s degree and two Graduate Certificates later, why was I still searching? The truth was, I was no longer at the bedside. With certain seniorities in nursing come the removal of direct patient care. Granted, I had advanced well in my relatively short six years of nursing, but I longed to return to the ward.
Just as fate can hold our hearts in our throats, opportunities present themselves hither. A role became available that once more stirred the inner embers of my soul. Once again, I dreamt of those long corridors, the never-ending buzzers, and the smell of hospital food. I prepared myself even before my interview, that in daring to seek something else, a new fruit will yield. I must do well, and make the unreachable even slightly possible to grasp.
It was a slow, and at times torturous, fortnight of waiting. After many part time, casual and contracted jobs, the sheer joy of permanency is akin to standing on tall mountains. That phone call from my now manager is etched in my mind. The interview panel had chosen me out of all applicants, and it was unlike any other previous job offers. A permanent full time job as a senior nurse to call my own! What a relief. I did not manage to cry, only smile.
As an autistic individual, I rarely relish in change. New beginnings are always overwhelming. Facial blindness is a particular challenge. I remember names, but can take my time with recognising faces. Coupled with that, and feeling like that small brand new entrant, it’s little wonder that I would question the self and her abilities. Here lies the dichotomy of the situation. Yet, to plunge into change is to bring to life a certain stoicism.
Now 2 months in, I have begun to find my comforts. Those early mornings, the long drives, witnessing sunrises, and walking into the hospital in the uniform that I have earned. My special tea cup, my storage of jellybeans, my stethoscope, my fob watch, my ID card, and my pager. The beauty of a permanent job is that I’ve stopped feeling like I need to prove myself. I have both time and space to explore the job role and all that it encompasses, and all that it could develop into. I’m making plans and I’m working to achieve those plans.
Autism has never held me back. It has propelled me forward. It makes me passionate. It makes me seek. It makes me reflect. It challenges me to face my weaknesses. It encourages me to become better each day. Regardless of what others may say and think, autism weaves every broken part of me into an almost whole. Now, I am again a ward-based nurse, albeit a clinical nurse consultant, and I love it.
Do you see what I see?
Dear reader, it has indeed been a while since I’ve delved into the world of words. As I’ve mentioned once before, it is a direct correlation with the state of my mental health. When I am not severely depressed, I don’t tend to write. In fact, I don’t feel the need to. Writing is therapy for me. It has now come to a stage though, upon which I fear there has been too much silence from this astute autistic. I am still surveying the world however, mark my words.
The other day, after weeks of relentless rain, the grey clouds finally decided to blow away. Finishing up my long shift at work, I was met with a most wondrous sight. A gradient of gold, orange, pink and red displayed itself at the horizon. They layered themselves and intertwined seamlessly. Ah, the sun must be setting, only peeking out behind those last grey clouds. Was that a hint of a purple hue too? See, the sky is not just blue. I see an unfolding world of ecclesiastical portals. The light could take me away, to another dimension where there is no darkness or night. Sunsets are indeed magnificent, and I would gladly watch it a little longer.
Ever since I was young, I had a fascination with the natural world. My favourite TV shows were nature documentaries, in any language, for there was so much feasting with the eyes that I needed not to understand the aural input. I dreamed endlessly of the ocean and the beach, of finding rare shells and of how the sea would eventually meet the sky. I imagined becoming friends with forest animals, of exploring their surroundings and examining their diet. I longed for the sight of blue and green, as I had initially grown up in a grey industrialising city. I was a very ill child from all the pollution and the vitamin D deficiency.
When the Australian bush first greeted me, I was astounded. It was divine. The landscape was forever changing. You had your creeks and rainforest walks, but you also had your arid headlands and sand. The smell of eucalyptus was as inviting as the smell of the ocean. It was truly food for the soul. My health improved in the ensuing years and I even learnt to swim. My senses discovered something anew and they could never go back to that of concrete and dust. Now as an adult, if there is nothing to do on a weekend? I would always pick a bush walk before anything else. You feel separated from the every day, and connected to country.
Do you see what I see? A beautiful earth, and human destruction. Neither can live while the other survives. We will not gain back what we have already lost. May we be forgiven.
Step into the Deep Slumber
Sleep doesn’t always come easily. Often times I am afraid. The memories of dreams frighten me. I wish to stay awake, but that is torturous in itself. There are nights where I listen to music well into the very early morning. I write, that is my preferred medium of self-therapy, but sometimes listening to music will do just fine.
With the help of a psychologist many years ago, we formulated a sleep routine. I would close my eyes, “look” into the pinks of my eyelids, and begin my deep breathing. 3 seconds in, 5 seconds out, repeat. When my body responds and eventually begins to relax, that is when I begin the walk into my imagery. Step by little cautious step.
In front of me lies an autumn forest. Deciduous trees surround me. The well-trodden path is filled with multi-coloured leaves. Many more are descending down, a shower of flavours. The setting sun streaks through the ordered pattern of trees. As I step, I hear the crunch of leaves beneath my feet, I feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, I smell the forest, and I am filled with peace.
In stepping forward, I begin entering the ethereal space of dream. Am I supposed to see the forest? Shouldn’t there be a mysterious mist? Why is the silence so…very quiet? My footsteps echo, my nose smells the fungi, my head spins into the unknown. I am willing, I am ready, and I move forward with purpose. Without sheer will, entering the land of slumber is difficult; a peaceful slumber even more so.
Oh heavy eyelids, fear not. What you hold within, the windows to one’s soul, can see beyond. For me, it is that deciduous forest, ever-present and always perfect. It is only there in which I can drift without care, filled with joy and at peace with my sleep.
‘Tis the raindrop falling down
One particular childhood memory stands out vividly. I sat by the window of the preschool room, that non-verbal 3-year-old, looking out at the rain. Pit, pat, pippity pat, plop. Each raindrop I imagined as a jewel falling from the big grey sky. What a wonderful world that was, the heavens giving us gifts of treasure. I did not engage with any of the other children, but did not feel lonely for it. I was quite content watching the rain. I was in fact, waiting for mum to pick me up after work. Surely each raindrop brought her closer to me.
I now sit on a dreary Sydney afternoon again watching the rain. The car is so warm, even with the engine off. It seems a world away from my younger self imagining raindrops as jewels. I relish in the solitude that is my car, the old bomb that it is. It is my space and my world for just a moment. I feel protected, cushioned, and safe. Neither wild weather nor human harm can touch me here. I lock myself in physically in order to let myself out mentally. Quite the turning of circumstances.
When my eldest was a pre-schooler, he wanted to know how it rained. Surely, things can’t just appear out of nowhere? So we researched the water cycle, and he learnt words such as “evaporation”, “condensation”, and “precipitation”. He scared the daylights out of his teacher with those words the next day. Yet he, like I, appreciated that rain was a gift, and each drop counted. Without a fresh water source in the wild, the rain was it.
Pit, pat, pippity pat, plop. ‘Tis the raindrop falling down.
What’s in the Background?
As an autistic person, one of the things I struggle with the most is differentiating sounds. Trying to carry a conversation in a busy restaurant or in the pub? Forget it! Most of the time, I am literally smiling and nodding to pass the awkwardness, as though my converser has the most exhilarating monologue going on. Trust me, I ain’t hearing ya, at all.
Likewise in music, I used to only hear the melody, or the bass, or the countermelody. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with Bach so quickly. You could literally pull apart his music and each part was just as beautiful in its own right. It took many years of aural training to begin appreciating music for the sum of its parts. High school band helped, definitely.
On modes of transport, all I can focus on is the gentle hum of the engine; be it train, bus, plane, or car. When the radio is on, or any other background noise is present, my mind would simply blank it out. To me, the hum of the engine was the music of the vehicle. It carried forth with me for the duration of the ride.
Now being a dog owner, I sleep with my little one in bed. She snores all night, loudly and rhythmically. I hear her, and I wouldn’t hear the thunder outside, or the TV being left on, or a car pulling up the driveway. It’s as though my senses only allow me to focus on the one sound to the exclusion of all others, but that sound needs to be its own chorus.
Here’s another interesting one. I rarely watch a movie without the subtitles. There are too many visual and aural stimuli, and I barely process any of the dialogue. Instead, with the subtitles on, I’m able to process all the visuals: scenery, people, dialogue. The exception to that rule is of course when I’ve watched the movie again and again, having memorised the entire script of dialogue already.
So, hard to understand autistics? We have different sensory needs. For me, excess aural stimuli confuse me. I can’t process it all. I struggle to, and it takes on a whole new realm of mental energy and subsequent exhaustion. Allow me to focus on the single conversation, or on the visuals alone, or on a sound in its own right, and I do process it quickly.
Sanctuary
A short 15min walk, among gum trees and fleeting bird calls, I envision the day ahead. The people whom I’ll meet, the words that I might speak, the many tasks my hands would complete, and the endless thoughts that my heart would feel. I look forward to stepping inside the sanctuary, metamorphosing into who I came to be: a wounded soul breathing the cleanliness to heal. At the end of that day, I will again embark on the same 15min walk, but in reverse, and allow the day’s events to transcend my reality.
How strange it is that a hospital would be my sanctuary. It was a place I had once feared. My mum recounts how it took 4 men and a doctor to hold me down and sedate me for a surgery when I was 5 years old. So extreme was my fear of slipping into the unknown, of not feeling consciousness, that a raucous strength within me exploded. The fight and flight response is what lies at our innermost.
What word springs to mind when I now enter a hospital? Safety. I feel safe when I put on my nurse hat, figuratively, and act out my part. I feel safe knowing that I can be that healer to other wounded souls. Their eyes reveal so very much of their own fear. It is not often that you witness a genuine smile, but oh, how they are treasured by those like myself providing care. It is not always a display of smile on the road to recovery. Just sometimes, it is a smile of pure contentment, that despite facing death, there is peace and a certain acceptance within these walls.
And so, I walk, whether sunshine or rain, to and from my sanctuary. It is my daily bread. It fuels me for the countless days ahead, whereby I will relish in life and being the comforter of life. Trying to put into words how I feel about my vocation never brings it justice. I almost retreat into it, if you will, hide myself among the masses of the hospital, being that one little cog in the ever-spinning wheel of healthcare. Whether my patients know me as “nurse” or by my real name doesn’t really matter. All I wish for is their mutual feeling of safety and trust in the frightening world of illness and despair.
New Year, New Me?
Once upon a time, I loved lists. I loved control. I loved ticking things off and knowing in physical form that I have tasks completed. Most of December would have been spent preparing my diary for next year. I colour coded and wrote neatly. I filled out boxes and lines. I planned for the perfect achievement of every passing month. The diary itself would consume me, and I felt a great deal of anxiety if I had not filled certain parts out, or fell behind on my intimately laid out weekly schedule. In retrospect, part of the problem, I feel, is following through with goals. I would set many a grandiose goal to achieve for the new year, then lack the actual energy or focus to carry it out.
With age, I have improved on being realistic. The yearly diary stays, but the obsession over it has waned. What has changed? Am I a “little less” autistic? Not at all. It is attributable to the 2 decades’ worth of life experience that has been accumulated since I was that shy teenage girl. Failure to achieve a task is one thing, but the disappointment of the self is much worse. I wanted to grow up being proud of myself, rather than to constantly beat myself down. In a previous blog entry, I mentioned that I lived most of my teenage years trying to gain my father’s approval and love. It was because of his absence in my younger childhood years that I wanted that perfection, of the image of a father who cared for me.
A lot of my obsessive tendencies as a child precisely displays the fragile emotional journey of an autistic child. I lined up my plastic toys, all neatly, in height order, to enter the plastic house which awaited them. I could only cope with my stationery if they sat neatly in my double-decker tin pencil case, colour coordinated, and not a millimetre out of where they should be. I felt insecure if the stairs I climbed up or down had a total of odd number steps, so much so, I had to skip one or step on one twice to feel the security that even numbers offered to my mind. I organised my underwear for certain days of the week and could not fathom wearing one out of sync with the day it was meant to fall on.
Now, as a woman in her 30s, I can say that I mostly cope with the unexpected, with change, and with a sense of losing control. This is not to say that the feeling of failure does not consume me on a daily basis. It just takes slightly less effort to crawl out of it. Many a loved one has disappointed me over the past year, yet I have learnt to live with it. I rarely cried in 2020, even though the world was the worst that it had been in recent times, and I was living the trauma of fear over and over again as a working nurse. No matter how tragic or unexpected 2021 will become, I promise myself to face it with stoicism and with a new conviction to doing what is right instead of what is easy.
Nostalgia
You may have noticed my blog absence. My last entry was May 2020. Have I really not written for 3 months straight? No, I have been writing, but these writings have been left unfinished. How frequently I write has a direct correlation with my mental health. Some of my best pieces have been penned in my darkest moments of depression. I revisit them at times, wondering who was that dark depressed soul?
Despite being “stable” mentally, my dreams have returned. I am due to see my psychiatrist again soon, and she will have something to say about that. In the strangest of ways, these dreams returning, while meaning that my mental health is once more declining, makes me feel like myself again. Being medicated all the time has taken away some of my humanity. Where have my tears gone? Where are my memories now? Where can I find the will to be a better person?
My latest dream, my reader, will confuse you. It has already confused me. I know that I have readers in the Americas, in Asia and across Europe. It really amazes me that my words are reaching around the world. So, this particular dream, it was set in New Zealand, I think, for that’s what I was told in the dream. It seemed to be the future. I was living in some kind of facility, very high tech, but our movements were all monitored. I didn’t seem to know the others but they all knew me. Then the dream changed. I was in the same facility, but it was much older, without the sterile walls and the monitoring. There was a cameraman though and we were enacting a play. Then I appeared a third time, in the same place, but time was inconsequential. The facility had moss on its walls, in ruins, and I felt I knew it all, its entire history and stories.
As traumatic as my childhood was, there are moments of nostalgia even to this day. Like some sick type of Stockholm syndrome, I would feel sorry for the adults who abused me. How can one ever feel nostalgic about abuse? Well, I miss the part where I was that little girl, and I simply accepted my world as my norm. I did not know any better. I had no word for abuse. I did not envision a better world out there, away from the daily nightmares which I lived. I dared not believe that I would one day grow up and understand it all. I was only 8 years old when I had stood on the school roof and looked down for a final landing. My darling eldest is now 8, and he is still so little and innocent. My heart breaks for the girl that I was.
Antiquity
Floating dust on ivory and wood,
Where music sheets once stood.
Smothered candle in thy glass jar,
Painted floors are smeared with tar.
Curtained shadows and open light,
Each new dawn from nature’s might.
Bread and butter on tinted plate,
A future self accepts thine fate.
And so I walk, across shallow stream,
Through forest trail as though in dream.
‘Neath the embrace of a blanket thin,
Appetite yearning on old soup tin.
Fleeting prayers for wars to be o’er,
Smoke filled rooms that laughter tore.
Where, oh where are pastures green,
Of rainbows and golden fields unseen?
Pandemic Quietness
‘Tis a strange world we live in now. 664,103 reported cases of Covid-19 worldwide and 30,883 reported deaths, and counting. Australian states and territories have gone into lockdown, as have many other major cities and countries around the world. The virility of this virus is unprecedented. It does not discriminate between nations, ethnicities, geography, or even age. “Social distancing” is the new catchphrase of the year, as we are told to stand 1.5 metres away from another human being at all times. ICU beds are running out, and Italy has stopped treating those over the age of 80 years in a bid to save younger patients. Parents are keeping their children at home, despite schools being still open. Panic buying brought out the worst of humanity, and education on rationing took a fresh breath.
Sobering reality hit home two days ago. In a major hospital in the state of Victoria, 2 cancer patients died of Covid-19, with 3 staff members also infected, and another 2 cancer patients admitted with symptoms. We cancer nurses in other states are no longer just scared. We’re downright frightened. Some of our patients are now asking us if they will die of their cancers first or of Covid-19. We’re frightened of contracting it ourselves and worse still, taking it home to our loved ones. The streets are now empty. Shops are closing, or ordered to close by the government. The likes of such dramatic national policy have not been witnessed since World War II.
In the midst of this pandemic, the Hong Kong protests were quietened, climate change was injected with renewed vigour, the Venetian canals cleared and marine creatures returned, pollution lifted from the skylines of major cities, and families were once again reunited. My children will not remember the panicked buying, the not being able to go to school, or the living on a rationed diet. Instead, they will remember long days of bike riding and scootering, of learning how to cook from raw ingredients, and of playing board games after dinners. We’re all learning to re-appreciate life. Covid-19 can kill in 48 hours. Is any anger or frustration still worth taking to bed?
It took a viral pandemic to teach us quietness; to once more slow down in life, to be content with the little things, to understand the importance of communal dedication for virus eradication, to prepare for the worst but to hope for the best, and to take it day by day.
“Only in the darkness can you see the stars.” ~ Martin Luther King Jr
The Astute Autistic 