I Even Played Baseball
An autism checklist
Autism is not something I plan to write much about. I'm not ashamed. It's a part of who I am. So is male-pattern baldness, astigmatism, and a genetic predisposition to enjoy cilantro, and I promise I won't write about those things either.
I’m writing this because I cut a check for thousands (with an s) of dollars to the IRS earlier this month.
(Paid taxes: check).
When I was in high school, I scribbled little poems in all of my notebooks.
In one poem, I wrote about the peace of walking through fresh winter snow. It was a meditation on leaving behind all your worries and troubles for a time. At the end, the guy drives a knife into his chest rather than re-enter the world. I remember the last lines clearly.
And the knife plunged into his chest Leaving the snow a bloody red mess
I thought it was hilarious.
My mother cried.
My solitary nature led her to the wrong conclusion.
(Write a poem: check).
Ok maybe that’s not a great example of writing a poem. Let’s try again.
In the last few weeks of high school, I moved out of my parents’ house.
I lived on a back porch that I cleverly disguised to look like a bedroom. There were blackout curtains, a lava lamp, a full-sized mattress on the floor, and a stereo: what more could I need?
The answer is air conditioning, if you’re wondering.
That summer was hot. Fans ran around the clock. Windows and doors were open wide. The first date my fiance and I had at our new place was taping the holes in the screens with duct tape to keep bugs out.
(Go on a date with my first wife: check)
It was June when my sister came to visit me on that porch with a small box in her hands. “I have something for you.”
I tried to take it from her, but she pulled it close. “First, let me explain. I didn’t know about the contest?”
And she had me hooked. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. I’m a sucker for suspense.
“A few months ago, I found your backpack from school with all your notebooks in it. When my teacher asked for a poem, I just turned in one of yours.”
“God damnit. Why?”
She didn’t answer, just plowed through her explanation. “My teacher entered the poem into a statewide high school poetry competition, and I sort of won second place.”
I wish I could identify the emotion I felt. It’s hard for me to tell the difference between rage, joy, and murderous rage. It’s all just a pounding heart and active nervous system.
“I wanted you to have these.” She opened the box with a small plastic trophy and a certificate with her name and the title of my poem on it. It said runner-up. “The winning poem was stupid. Your poem should have won.”
(Write an award-winning poem: check).
My first marriage was a roller coaster. She wanted life to be like a country song. I wanted life to be like a Jules Verne novel. There was no “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” scene in Journey to the Center of the Earth, so I should have known the marriage was doomed. After one too many weekends of beer before liquor, I realized I didn’t want to live this way.
(Used a toilet unassisted: check)
Right after we split, leukemia happened. Not to me or her, but our four-year-old daughter. Suddenly, having a job wasn’t enough. I needed a career. The kind that came with sick pay and insurance and a salary that could reliably cover the expense of driving the one-hundred-twenty mile round trip to visit her in the hospital.
Powerless to fight the cowardly devil hiding in my baby’s bone marrow, I had no choice but to gather resources to survive the siege—a degree in IT, a paycheck from a casino, and benefits—sweet, sweet benefits.
The devil is long since dead, and the casino still pays me sixteen-years later.
(Hold a job: check)
Like the title says, I even played baseball. I was a mediocre second baseman, terrible outfielder, and decent cleanup hitter for the first two years of little league.
My dad cracked a line drive straight into my face before my third season started. For the next two years, I played like shit. After my last season, we found out I needed glasses—maybe because a baseball rattled my skull.
(Play baseball: check)
I’m close to my parents—unless my dad is within arm’s reach of baseball gear.
I have three daughters from two marriages.
My wife and I are close with my ex-wife and her new husband. We do birthday parties and even holidays together sometimes.
(In-tact family: check).
Autism has been hard to live with.
Socializing is like a piano recital: hard work and hours of preparation after years of practice to get it right. And that’s just to get by for an hour or two.
The smell of cooking bell peppers sends me running out of buildings in a retching panic.
When I meltdown it scares the bejesus out of whoever I’m around.
My stimming drives people around me crazy.
Then there’s anxiety, depression, isolation, sleeping problems, and limited interests.
And I don’t realize when the way I speak hurts the people I love.
So, does autism suck sometimes? Of course.
Am I blessed to have low support needs? Of course.
But to label autism as a destroyer of families or robber of meaningful lives is an ignorant oversimplification at best.
And pretending that there’s an easy answer that generations of researchers missed isn’t helping anyone.