In the efforts to educate the workforce and schools in our culture, I have personally heard anecdotes and read articles on places having experts come in to do inclusion training. While a worthy intention is there: to establish an environment of understanding and compassion, it misses the mark when sweeping statements are used without care. Man, I take issue with the way some experts going about these trainings.
I have been processing this thought in my mind for years now. It grates on me particularly at this time of year as we approach April and "Autism Awareness Month." So, I'm taking to writing about it to head off some of these well-meaning trainings before they occur. I'm sure many are already in the planning stages as April is only two months away.
One expert explained "everyone has a little autism" in them during one of these trainings. "Do you notice the buzzing of the light sometimes and it annoys you?" she asked. "Have an itchy sweater on that distracts you? That's your own little bit of autism."
Whoa. This is where Neurodiversity training goes off the rails for me. It is as simple as this: autism is a complex medical diagnosis that not everyone qualifies for; similarly, everyone does not find themselves under the treatment for chronic illness or autoimmune disorders because they experienced a single moment of discomfort that is similar to the larger, more exhaustive diagnosis.
Simply said, everyone does not "have a little bit of autism in them." That would be like me saying, "everyone has a little bit of psoriasis" when you have dry skin or "that's your little bit of rheumatoid arthritis" referring to your achy joints after a workout. It is...just...Not. True.
Autism is a spectrum disorder. Yes, the neurotypical (aka: person without autism) falls on that spectrum, but at the stark end of having none of the insistent symptoms that most of the time occurs within an autism diagnosis. Sure, people may find certain sensory or social situations uncomfortable, but that does not make them autistic. Not even a little bit. They may have special interests or hobbies that rock their world. Nor does this qualify them for such a statement.
Going back to those medical diagnosis's- chronic or autoimmune disease are the extreme, rare cases of a collection of specific symptoms that may include itchy or dry skin. May include moments of sore joints and discomfort. But, there are spectrums that exist within the specialties of dermatology and rheumatology, or any medical area for that matter.
That awareness of those slight agitations (the noisy lights or the itchy sweater) that most are able to pull their attention away from and place it back to the more important and pressing matters of oh, working or learning, allows them to EMPATHIZE with the person who is on the spectrum because they are experiencing a small piece of the daily deluge of symptoms that impose themselves on an autistic individual daily. It allows them to see into my world a little bit. But by no means does it qualify them to be "a little autistic."
The trainer should tweak the presentation. Present an audience of autistic individuals their material first and ask for feedback. And listen. Explain that we can all experience things within our environment that make us uncomfortable and we can use those moments to remember that a person with autism is experiencing those things on exponential levels all of the moments that they are awake.
Research can only do so much when it is presented without the voice of those that it is representing. And, trainers need to focus on the point of what to do in response to the recognition of workplace or school environments that are not neurodiverse. What you do with the information after the fact is just as, if not more, important of the awareness.
Showing posts with label sensory overload. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sensory overload. Show all posts
Friday, February 9, 2018
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
On a New Restaurant
Last night, Brent and I took advantage of an opportunity to have dinner out to get our calendars linked. We decided to try a new restaurant that we haven't been to before. It was large and industrial inside, exposed brick and pipes. Cold. It was bitterly cold inside. Gigantic televisions broadcasting sports in every direction. And people. Everywhere. Barely a square-foot throughout the entire place, at least where we were sitting, that didn't have people.
We ordered our drinks and meals. I got out my laptop and input dates into our calendars. We focused on that and I was able to tune out the rest of the stimuli. But when our food came, I had my laptop away. I was able to eat, somewhat. The salad I ordered was OVERLY spicy, like on fire, spicy. And, like a domino effect, the sensory input started flooding its way into my brain. I ate the best I could.
But, the sound got louder, like someone was simply turning the volume dial every few minutes. The giant TVs invaded my visual system. I covertly covered my ears at first. Trying to block it out. My foot started tapping. I wanted to evaporate into thin air.
Faintly, I could hear Brent talking to me. He was asking me to go out to the car. He said something about my eyes...I shook my head no. I was not ready to wave the white flag of surrender, that I was unable to do that particular moment. That particular place. On that very night. I wanted to conquer it and be in control at that moment.
Eventually, I think it was something like the third time that I heard Brent tell me to "go outside and wait in the truck" while he paid the bill, I submitted. He had already taken the truck keys out of his pocket and put them on the table. I picked them up, grabbed my bags and left.
I know that the oodles of staff that were at the host area did not say anything to me. I was appreciative so that I didn't have to respond. I could just get outside, where my sensory system could calm down. Where I could catch my breath and yet feel on high alert as a man walked oddly close to my "bubble" and followed me into the large parking lot that was behind the restaurant. I spread Brent's keys as a makeshift weapon between my fingers and got to the truck. Unlocked. Got in and relocked the doors. And, I grabbed Jackson's blanket from the back seat to warm myself up.
A few minutes later, Brent was with me. He was in the truck and asking if I was okay. If I wanted to do something else. I asked if we could just go home. We sat together in a moment of quiet before he started the truck. Once in our house, he gave me a big hug. I apologized. He told me I didn't have to.
But, my neurology, my differences. THEY had affected our evening together. It's as though I have become a hermit in certain instances because it's way safer to live inside the confines of my own home than to put myself in harms way.
And, isn't it interesting that whenever we go out to meals with Jackson that we try to sit in the least crowded area of the restaurant, where it is the least assaulting on the auditory system and the brain. Often going before the dinner crowd hits, we joke that we are akin to the Early Birder's these days. We make these simple changes each and every time and I never once feel saddened at the changes that we have made to help Jackson to be authentically himself and to not have situations where the insurgence of stimuli cause moments of him eloping and/or needing to stim in dangerous ways so that he could just "be" there.
So why am I so hard on myself?
Why am I so resistant to feel the need to apologize for the way I have been made?
I guess I'm just not there...
yet.
We ordered our drinks and meals. I got out my laptop and input dates into our calendars. We focused on that and I was able to tune out the rest of the stimuli. But when our food came, I had my laptop away. I was able to eat, somewhat. The salad I ordered was OVERLY spicy, like on fire, spicy. And, like a domino effect, the sensory input started flooding its way into my brain. I ate the best I could.
But, the sound got louder, like someone was simply turning the volume dial every few minutes. The giant TVs invaded my visual system. I covertly covered my ears at first. Trying to block it out. My foot started tapping. I wanted to evaporate into thin air.
Faintly, I could hear Brent talking to me. He was asking me to go out to the car. He said something about my eyes...I shook my head no. I was not ready to wave the white flag of surrender, that I was unable to do that particular moment. That particular place. On that very night. I wanted to conquer it and be in control at that moment.
Eventually, I think it was something like the third time that I heard Brent tell me to "go outside and wait in the truck" while he paid the bill, I submitted. He had already taken the truck keys out of his pocket and put them on the table. I picked them up, grabbed my bags and left.
I know that the oodles of staff that were at the host area did not say anything to me. I was appreciative so that I didn't have to respond. I could just get outside, where my sensory system could calm down. Where I could catch my breath and yet feel on high alert as a man walked oddly close to my "bubble" and followed me into the large parking lot that was behind the restaurant. I spread Brent's keys as a makeshift weapon between my fingers and got to the truck. Unlocked. Got in and relocked the doors. And, I grabbed Jackson's blanket from the back seat to warm myself up.
A few minutes later, Brent was with me. He was in the truck and asking if I was okay. If I wanted to do something else. I asked if we could just go home. We sat together in a moment of quiet before he started the truck. Once in our house, he gave me a big hug. I apologized. He told me I didn't have to.
But, my neurology, my differences. THEY had affected our evening together. It's as though I have become a hermit in certain instances because it's way safer to live inside the confines of my own home than to put myself in harms way.
And, isn't it interesting that whenever we go out to meals with Jackson that we try to sit in the least crowded area of the restaurant, where it is the least assaulting on the auditory system and the brain. Often going before the dinner crowd hits, we joke that we are akin to the Early Birder's these days. We make these simple changes each and every time and I never once feel saddened at the changes that we have made to help Jackson to be authentically himself and to not have situations where the insurgence of stimuli cause moments of him eloping and/or needing to stim in dangerous ways so that he could just "be" there.
So why am I so hard on myself?
Why am I so resistant to feel the need to apologize for the way I have been made?
I guess I'm just not there...
yet.
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