I’m writing an autobiography… out loud. Building a book.
Fragment by fragment.
Just like I lived it.
This one brings home the stakes.
The moments of joy along the way… that draw a line under what could have been. Not if they fixed me. But maybe what all of our children could be.
If we just listen and support their needs.
“What are you doing…?”
My former mother’s voice was sharp.
I’m lying spreadeagled on the backyard grass, face down.
“I’ve called you three times.” Annoyed. “WHAT are you doing…?
I don’t know it in Second Grade… But I have difficulties shifting attention when I’m focused…
I try to focus my ears…
Then think back,
review my short-term memory,
and replay the last few moments.
Trying to hear and translate anything she might have said while I’m in my focus bubble…
Already at 7, this process of “rehearsing” or “rewinding the tape” to interpret what’s going on? It’s an automatic, constant process when I’m around… well, people.
Checking for verbal mistakes, missed cues… Just trying to understand, what’s going on…?
So I’m still trying to sort it out,
choose words carefully to explain,
clearing my throat,
moving my sleeping tongue,
loosening my jaw,
getting ready to speak…
“HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
“Umm… Nothing…?” Close as I come to a lie at that age.
I’ve been lying in the grass for an hour or so, exploring with my new magnifying glass.
See, there was this great hobby shop in Johnson City. It had all kinds of cool science “toys.” And I had saved up my 50-cent allowance for weeks to buy a “Real, hand-held, magnifying glass — with ALL-METAL handle!!”
I was entranced.
Examining grass leaves, dew drops, and…
Ants.
Dozens of ants. One after another.
Legs.
Antennae.
Mandibles.
Eyes.
Guiltily burning off the occasional leg with focused sunlight…
Endless fascination…
I was in the flow…
“Okay. Whatever you’re doing…” I wait for the command that I know will end my timeless bliss… “Stop doing it. It’s time for lunch.”
I sigh. Roll over.
And. Trudge. In.
Hardly sounds like abuse, right…..??
Imagine that last, delicious dream you’re enjoying as you drowse in a warm snuggly bed… when you don’t have to get up…
My autistic joys are hard to explain to another person.
Pretty much ANY non-autistic person.
And trying to… drags me into Deep Philosophical Waters…
Imagine that last, delicious dream you’re enjoying as you drowse in a warm snuggly bed on a lazy Saturday morning when you don’t have to get up…
And someone screams, “GET UP!”
Eyes pop open. Instantly. You’re so startled, for a minute… you have no idea where you are, what you’re doing, the time of day, the season…
Now… imagine that… if you can…
Every. Damn. Day. Many, many, MANY times a day… Every single day of your childhood.
Torture.
Being startled out of flow? It’s like that.
Capisce? Ya dig? Feel me?
That’s as close as I can think of to explain my moments of autistic flow.
Or, better yet, my autistic joys.
That same joy you see
on an autistic kid’s face
as he dances endlessly
in a sprinkler in the sun…
If I had to guess, this is precisely what Being in the Moment, in the Now, maybe even Zen Satori…
Mean.
Gradually as I aged, these blissful moments became fewer and fewer…
Now, that is all preamble to what I really wanna talk about…
Here’s the deal on Flow…
I think that’s where I spent most of my time as a young child.
When I wasn’t interacting with family, a few schoolmates, parents, one teacher a year… the few humans I let into my life back then.
And that time alone… Endlessly exploring, learning, feeling, being was…
Wordless delight.
Gradually as I aged, these blissful moments became fewer and fewer… further and further and further apart… nearly gone…
First, I was forced into a school system… That I clearly was not wired for.
Rigid.
Lockstep.
Regimented.
Regulated.
BORING.
No Free Time.
To simply… explore.
Later, of course, it got MUCH worse. Jobs, relationships, finances… Life in Modern Adult America.
Like when I founded Unix World magazine. I was so high on the concept and the joy of process… My drive won us awards our first year. Western Publishing Association Best New Publication and Best Issue. Beating out Mac World and PC World.
Yeah. We won a couple months after I was fired from my own mag. Fired because… in my autistic mind… the game was Create the Most Amazing Publication ever.
But the whole time, the world was shouting it was Make the Most Money You Can… Now.
Snake eyes. I lost.
My natural state, left alone to my own devices? Wandering from moment to moment of… fascination.
Now, I have some personal speculation to get off my chest.
First… I don’t think I had a native personality when I was a kid…
At least not as bell-curve average humans understand a personality.
My natural state, left alone to my own devices? Wandering from moment to moment of fascination. No motivations. No intentions. No (verbal) thought…
So… I was either happy exploring in the fields… or with my chemistry set in the basement… or catching polliwogs in Spring pools…
Or I was forced to don my “personality.”
In other words,
the language,
facial expressions,
body language,
polite responses,
social lies,
and predictable action
that humans think of as “personality”…
and that social contact demands.
Which is so natural for most humans, they aren’t even aware of it.
Even though they must have it from me… to feel safe.
But, for me, “personality” was like
being dragged out of my comfy pajamas,
forced into
the worst, most cumbersome, restrictive, awkward,
embarrassing winter coat,
ear muffs,
muffler,
heavy snow boots,
and mittens
your mother ever stuffed you into
to shove you onto that bus to kindergarten…
And “personality” still is suffocating. Today. In my 70s. Ten years after diagnosis as autistic and ADHD.
Especially, “fun times”… They’re the real killers.
Parties.
Intimate conversation…
Shudder.
Family holidays? So nightmarish, I wrote the 7-page narrative poem sneaking my mother’s creepy g-d on high.
All times I must adopt my “personality.” You know, to survive. Really nothing more than habits of behavior & speech. That I must shroud myself in. Like an embalmed mummy. Just so it’s easy for other humans… to feel “comfortable” around me.
Not an essential Self. Just, ya know, “personality.”
Certainly not me. Nothing comfortable about it.
I’m going to hazard a guess.
Which may be narcissistic delusion… Flow seems awfully close to what the Buddha described as experiencing “no-self” vs. the “conditioned mind.”
From at least age 2 on, I clearly remember lucid dreaming and long periods of time spent without verbal thought of any kind. Just perceiving, in awe and wonder…
EVERYTHING.
Until I had to interact with humans. Any humans. Even those I was required… to “love.”
And donning the “personality”? Exhausting. Emotionally draining. Sure, everybody has to perform for the boss. But autistic “masking”?
Off the charts.
Dialed to 11.
It’s a different animal.
Just like everybody gets sad sometimes. But clinical depression? That’s another beast… altogether.
So at an early age, my joy collapsed… around any human. Fast as a quantum waveform when you try to measure it. Not into pain…
Collapsing into an all-absorbing effort.
Intellectualizing every word,
gesture,
tone of voice of my own…
Then interpreting all those of each and every human I was with…
and THEN determining precisely the right word,
tone of voice,
facial expression,
and body attitude to project back…
all at the same time,
To avoid being in trouble.
Because I was… Bad.
And I had to protect everyone around me from that.
Every. Single. Second…
And even at a young age, a growing sense of the need to protect others…
From me.
Because I was different. Because I hurt people without understanding. Because I acted as if I were “arrogant”… etc.
Like two divorces. Cuz I could be amazing for 3 or 6 months. Loving. Caring. Fun as hell. Then fall into deep depressions and work burnouts. Cuz I couldn’t handle that much intimacy. Hell, that much time with another human…
Because I was… Bad.
And I had to protect everyone around me from that.
Every. Single. Second… That I am with another human.
Except very young children. And of course, animals… Since I was, say… 4 years old.
Now since diagnosis, I found a few tricks.
In 2019 when I first started writing about my autism, I was all about lists. Trying to “help” others. Took me a year or two to realize we are… every one of us autists… different. Different lives. Different needs and goals. Different survival skills.
So I’m only an “expert” on my own life. Even if I am the only expert on that life there is.
Your mileage certainly will vary.
But for me? My autistic life is not about “getting better.” Or fixing me. It’s about knowing who I truly am. And what I truly need. Doing what I can to meet those needs.
Then being… me.
So I moved to the Country…
Living in the trailer across the courtyard
From my third, loving wife
Where I can reduce sensory overload.
Reduce the number of humans I talk with
To only folks I feel comfortable around.
And stopped failing at jobs I was never built to do.
But I… now… can pursue those things that have brought me joy since childhood.
Spending unstructured, unmeasured time on any of my passions…
walking in the wildest Nature I have access to,
baking bread,
fermenting pickles,
gardening,
deep-focus while replaying a favorite movie… that seventh time,
illustrating,
writing,
playing music,
searching news….
so, so many others.
Some of which give value to others…
My biggest joy.
When I pursue a “special interest”… alone? Sometimes it’s nearly orgasmic… In fact, I’ve redefined my understanding of my passions.
They’re not a forbidden pleasure. A shameful quirk. Something I “waste time on” when there’s nothing more important to do.
They are my gateways to Bliss, Satori, Oneness… Maybe even whatever God is… or Isn’t…
I’m not talking toxic positivity. My autistic joys aren’t some advanced spiritual state I’ve achieved in my 70s. And now, suddenly… I’m here to tell you how to make everything okay. And talk you into buying a book on the way out.
But my joys are moments of love and happiness sprinkled through most of my days. Between meltdowns and burnouts. And some average life.
They are my reason for Being.
There just are NOT 7 Easy Things that Successful Autistics Do…
That Will Change My Life Forever. Nope.
There’s just living complex… and in the end… wild autistic life.
being old & autistic ain’t so bad.
losing inhibitions.some of which protected me from…
Life.freedom turns out to be pain …
and joy…
in superposition.until maybe they annihilate you.
Notes from the bardo
before the bardo
I learned a lot that Spring afternoon on the lawn in Johnson City.
I saw Infinity in a burnt-off ant leg.
And, eventually… I went for it.
- If this excerpt grabbed you… binge them in order here: The Book: Frag by Frag.
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This is Fragment 5 of my upcoming autobiography, My Autistic Life is My Art, arriving Fall 2026.
I’m building a book out loud. Fragment by fragment. Just like I lived it.
The Next Act
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Why I Write My Autobiography
I’m only an expert on my own life. Born 1953, diagnosed at 63. Your mileage will vary.
Individual minority voices speaking truth out loud? They build bridges to mainstream readers. Think Malcolm X. Think Maya Angelou, Think Janet Mock’s Redefining Realness.
This Fall, I hope to deliver that kind of impact, that power with My Autistic Life is My Art. For our neurodivergent community.
Since 2019 I’ve published a quarter of a million words. Over half the size of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Gotta be a pony somewhere in that shit.
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