Welcome to the Treatment Funhouse, s07, e01
Cold open
Welcome to the Treatment Funhouse…
First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at a chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice.
So you sit. You really want… something… different in your miserable life.
[Brief music]
Suddenly he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you he grabs a blowtorch…
[music]
Intro
This is AutisticAF Out Loud, Season 7, episode 1. Today, I find moments of joy… after some brutal ones.
Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.”
I’m Johnny Profane. Startled awake. Taking a new direction. And writing a neurodivergent autobiography… out loud.
Content note: Mentions abuse, trauma, suicidality… and dark humor.
Just one autistic elder’s voice. Raw.
3 fragments from my free archive, autisticaf.me… I’ll tell you more at the break.
[music]
Welcome to the Treatment Funhouse
Being trapped in the medical model of autism for decades?
Imagine an elaborate carnival funhouse… the kind that’s a maze. You gotta find your way out. But…
This one’s got a horror theme.
The sign outside… “23 Mirrored Rooms That Will Change Your Life… Forever!”
Never saw that before.
So you stand in the long wait line. That, naturally, doubles back on itself. Many times.
Finally, you belly up to the barker’s ticket window. Start to scan the price board.
“125 bucks?” You cry out.
“You wanna change yer life, kid? Whatchya think it would cost?”
So you sigh. You think…
You need… different. You fork over.
First room. Guy in a jumpsuit, “We gotta strap ya in.” He waves at the chair. “Safety,” he says in a bored voice.
So you sit. You really want… well, something… different in your miserable life.
Suddenly, he snaps manacles on your wrists. Then behind you, he grabs a blowtorch.
You see this scene reflected in all the mirrors. In detail. Enhanced by all your grisly memories.
You protest. “What the actual fuck.”
“Trust me. This is the latest research. Sure as hell gonna change your life.” That smile. Thin. Cold. Professional. “We got paying customers outside. Lined up. Waiting to get inside. You in… or out.”
You reflect on your miserable life. You nod.
Then he slowly, methodically works you over. A light burn here. Another there. Starting at your feet. Working upwards.
You scream. You cry. You plead. You evade. You bargain. Not a word out of Jumpsuit Guy.
And… the only way
you can block out
the terror reflected
in those mirrors?
Close your eyes…
He finishes. He unshackles you. Helps you up as you tremble. Guides you efficiently to the door.
“Next room. Room of Knives. Yer gonna love it,” he laughs.
“Just 22 to go.” Leans in… conspiratorially. Whispers in my ear…
“Wait til the Meds room. Everybody talks about the Meds Room.”
Beat.
“If you make it there.”
music
Interlude
Okay, then. A fun little… metaphor. Now… some dark reality.
Family… and professionals… tossed off what I was going through in my late teens as “immaturity.” Something I’d age out of. Totally ignoring all the red danger flags of the coming disaster.
Quick side note. Some folks wrote you couldn’t read articles. Multiple platform problems… demands you subscribe… pestering friends, even if they used a“free” link.
I heard ya . So, I built my free personal archive at autisticaf.me. No paywall. No ads to piss ya off. All free & shareable… on me.
You’ll find more pieces like this next one… there.
—
The Autistic Treatment Funhouse, Room of Exams
They Called It Immaturity. They Missed Everything.
Content note: This is the tough one I mentioned. With the brutal flowers.
Look, first of all… This is not the beginning of a poor-me story.
This is a story of how I found moments of joy… and darkness… in my autistic life. Like Leonard Cohen sang in Suzanne, “among the garbage and the flowers.”
But I found dark humor… every where.
1972 was a hell of a summer… Room 1
I first sought a diagnosis at 19. Following suicide attempt #1.
I was driving after dark. Which I wasn’t supposed to do… new family rule.
See, I’d damaged our car the week before, making a hasty turn into our driveway near Jumping Deer Road in Katonah. Hit the damn stone wall on the way in.
This was Westchester County, NY. Local code only allowed a nano break between the 18th-Century stones guarding our yard. Colonial heritage or something… masking slave labor.
I’m in the doghouse. With parents already skeptical about letting me go to college. Not “mature” enough.
Yet, when the hood and fender are finally fixed? They drop me off on a muggy, hazy June night. Out in the boonies at the old Amawak Service Center on Route 202.
“Pick it up and bring it home. No side stops.” Then they instruct me, “Be… careful.” Rolling their collective 4 eyes.
I pull out, then wait. The light’s gotta change at the 4-lane intersection with Route 35 before I can head home.
The light turns green. I go into a weird space in my head.
There’s… there’s some reason I shouldn’t turn left… yet… But I watch myself shrug, flick my signal switch, and turn.
Right into two lanes of accelerating traffic coming right at me.
Don’t remember much more. Just the red, don’t-turn-yet-idiot arrow. Staring at me brightly… through the windshield that used to be there.
I survived. That classic, white 1965 Mustang… didn’t. Barely street legal, 271-horse V8 under the hood. Maybe the most collectible American car of all time.
A hand-me-down gift to our family from my father’s father. Who bragged, “I had to jew the dealer down from 5 grand,” back when he bought it new in ’65. A lot of money then.
Um, things got tense at home.
“You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.”
Parental meeting time.
“Uh, I don’t know what happened.” I couldn’t stand these “meetings.” So many in my childhood. This was maybe the worst of all.
“I don’t know. It… it… just happened.”
Making my parents even more furious. These were avid Ayn Rand readers. And my grandfather? He slept beside an orderly nightstand. Mein Kampf tucked tightly in its tidy drawer.
My dead father’s voice echoes coldly in my mind still. “You are responsible for your own actions. You are the cause here.”
But, I stumble on. Making things worse… in my way.
“Something’s wrong. I don’t know what. I’m having horrible visions. Hitting people with the car as I drive by. Hitting their bodies… bones…” I trail off.
Into stony silence, I say, “And now something weird happened. I think… I think… maybe I should see a doctor…”
Next thing I know, I’m sitting in front of a Westchester County caseworker. Cuz my parents felt a psychologist or private therapist cost too much.
I had no idea what I was feeling… much less why.
The intake experience was horrific.
I felt… badgered.
She called it… delicately. “Maybe the accident looked like an attempt to… maybe… harm yourself?” But she continued with a sledgehammer.
“I know you have a secret you want to tell me.” Rinse, repeat… Rinse, repeat…
I wanted so badly to please her. But had no idea what I was feeling… much less why.
Worse yet? There were things I didn’t want to tell her. Darker than the physical or sexual abuse she was probably check-listing. Things a traumatized kid might do… himself.
I never went back. I told my parents I was uncomfortable talking to her.
My dad rocked back in his dark, maple, Early American dining room chair. “Fine. That’s your choice.”
He paused. Looking directly at my mother as he said to me, “I can see you won’t speak to this counselor. I see no reason to look for another for you to talk to. Your decision.”
And that was that.
We were all dying for freedom.
Finally at 63, a psychologist specializing in autism gave me another name, Alexithymia.
He said a lot of autistics can know something is wrong. But not know what. And baptized me, Autism Spectrum Disorder… with a side of ADHD.
2016 was a good year. A damn fine year.
But 1972 was a summer from hell.
The last US troops shipped home, fleeing Viet Nam.
Palestinians massacred Israelis at the Olympics.
My father died that August.
The week after he molested me for the last time.
We were all dying for freedom.
[music]
Cuz… if you don’t know us… how ya gonna love us.
Interlude
Okay. Here’s the last frag I toss… today. Let’s end with joyful moments. Among the dark. Let’s end with survival.
See, I’m giving you these fragments of my life…
Cuz… if you don’t know us… how ya gonna love us.
And this is part of me, too…
[music]
I Don’t Think I Had a “Personality” as a Kid
I was busy finding Infinity in a burnt-off ant leg…
This one brings home the stakes.
The moments of joy along the way… that drew 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 to them. And support what they say they need.
“What are you doing…?”
My 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 lost in thought…
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 private thought bubble…
Already at 7, this process of “rehearsing” or “rewinding the tape” to interpret what’s going on? It’s an automatic, constant routine 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 my 50-cent allowance for weeks to buy a “Real, hand-held, magnifying glass — made 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 are doing…” I wait for the command 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 the 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’s 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 kid.
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 was clearly 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 inner vision won us awards our first year. Western Publishing Association Best New Publication and Best Issue. Beating out Macworld and PC World.
Yeah. We won awards. 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 that it was Make the Most Money You Can… Right 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 actions
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 diagnosed as autistic and ADHD.
Especially, “fun times”… They’re the real killers.
Parties.
Intimate conversations…
Shudder… Family holidays?
So nightmarish, I wrote the 7-page narrative poem sneaking my mother’s creepy g-d on high.
These are all times I must adopt my “personality.” You know, to survive. No matter how much “fun” they’re supposed to be.
What pros call “masking”? Really nothing more than exhausting 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”? The joy collapsed. 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
at the time…
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., etc.
Like two divorces. Cuz I could be amazing for 3 to 6 months. Caring. Fun as hell. Then fall into deep depressions and work burnouts. Cuz I couldn’t handle that much intimacy. Hell, that much time alone 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… 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 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,
researching world events….
so, so many others.
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 gateway 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 your 5th NEW self-help system on the way out the door.
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 are just NOT 7 Easy Things that Successful Autistics Do…
That Will Change My Life Forever.
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.
[music]
Outro
Now you know. So… there ya go.
This project is consuming me. In that good, auDHD passionate way. Cuz your response keeps me going.
If it meant something to you… I bet you know someone else it will mean something to. Share it.
Everything’s free at autisticaf.me. For everyone. On me.
Stay weird.
Stay fierce.
Stay alive.
- If this 3 fragments grabbed you… binge them all in order here… free: The Book: Frag by Frag.
These fragments are from my upcoming autobiography, Autistic Noir: My 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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