I cannot overstate how happy I am right at this moment.
I’m happy because I’m comfortable, and I cannot overstate the importance of this to my happiness, either. As distressing and debilitating as discomfort is for someone on the spectrum, comfort is just *chef’s kiss*.
One of my worst-case scenarios is being inappropriately attired for the weather or temperature; I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve bought clothes while I was out because I desperately needed to change out of the garments of my misjudgment. Last year, I was on my way to a date and started melting down (physically and emotionally) on the subway; there was no way I’d make the date in that condition, and I suddenly remembered that a friend lived close to where I was going. Thankfully, she, too, is on the spectrum. “I’m overheating,” was all I said. “Say less,” she replied. “Come over.” She and her tank top saved the day (and the date).
Give me the right conditions, though? Bliss. Right now, I’m sitting at my favourite table in one of my favourite cafes. This particular table is in the window which, in good weather, opens out onto the sunny terrace while being shaded. The breeze is gorgeous on a hot day, and my feet are resting, slightly elevated, on the windowsill. I’m perfectly attired for the weather in a stretchy cotton dress and Tevas (my first ever pair, man was I sleeping on these in the 90s). I’m drinking my favourite filter coffee, which the cafe owner put on a batch of in case I came in. My cup is almost empty but I’m too comfortable to go order another.
The only thing I’d change about this moment is that I wish I was not writing this on my phone. I can’t write on my laptop because I’m waiting for my charger to reach me in the mail after I left it in France last week. It was one of many things I left behind on my travels—the South of France is strewn with a trail of my effects, some far more personal than others.
It began with a bag, which I left on my flight out.
The bag was almost empty and not expensive; but it was brand new and I liked it (annoying), and, worse, the contents were of great sentimental significance (devastating). That bag held two things very precious to me: my favourite sunglasses I got on this trip to Italy several years ago with my friend Brittany, who lives in LA—the sunglasses remind me of her (we bought matching pairs—“friendship sunglasses”, we called them) and the onset of a particularly beautiful period in my life; the other item was my journal—my most intimate possession, an object that contains the deepest insights of my inner life, externalised.
To say that I spiralled when I realised this loss is an understatement. I got very dark, very fast, and went immediately into action mode—doing everything I could to contact the airline and register the item with lost property (twice). When I spoke to Brittany, she immediately offered to give me her sunglasses (the matching pair). She commiserated with me as someone else who understands the effort it takes to hold things together on a daily basis.
I also spoke to my friend Emma, who understands better than anyone I know how mortified I am about losing my journal. I visited her last year and found her in fits about the very same predicament; she had left her journal in a restaurant right next to her house and was too horrified to retrieve it herself. She believed it to be lost to her forever and was in the throes of mourning her innermost thoughts exposed to the world at large, so I immediately went there myself and got her journal back for her. She was in tears with relief.
This might sounds hyperbolic to anyone who doesn’t rely on external mediums to process their inner life, whose most personal notes are sacrosanct. It took me decades to keep a journal after my mother read mine when I was eleven or twelve. In my thirties, living alone and finally in control of my privacy, I took up journaling again.
It’s become my most precious daily practice, a commitment to my sanity. It’s the most important tool I have for self-examination, how I reveal what I’m trying to hide even from myself, and how I hold myself accountable. Journaling daily is how I have learned to see myself; and what I see ranges from pure and enlightening to downright ugly. My journal is how I have become my own best friend; there is absolutely nothing that goes unsaid between me and myself.
As personal as the writing I share publicly is today, it is filtered (percolated, even); someone having access to my journal is even more private than sitting in on a session with my therapist. Brittany tried to comfort me: “Don’t worry, babe, no one will trace it back to you.” “But I want them to trace it back to me!,” I wailed. More than anything, I want the bag, and its contents—the contents of my personal life—back.
My brother, who had sweetly and respectfully given me space while I unravelled upon the discovery of my lost bag, was surprisingly understanding when I tried to explain to him why slip-ups like this affect me so profoundly. “You feel like you suck,” he said simply. He was exactly right. He shares my wiring (to an undiagnosed extent), so he knows that living with ASD is an exercise in constantly putting one foot in front of the other with meticulous attention to detail. One oversight and it all unravels into a whole mess. Again, this might sound hyperbolic—but it is so true I can say this relatively impassively, as simply an observation.
I try hard, through the lens of ASD, not to judge my experience. I believe I used to be much harder on myself, wondering why I “suck”; at least now I know, and that’s some comfort. Going through the motions of life just requires a level of effort and attentiveness that I can’t afford to let up, ever. If I drove, I’d compare it to constantly trying to merge into rush-hour traffic on the freeway. (Related: The reason I don’t drive is not because I can’t operate a car; it’s because I short-circuit as soon as there are other cars on the road.) It becomes harder to function the more activity there is to navigate—good or bad.
While my life has been quite stress-free of late, it has been particularly full; I’m emotionally the healthiest I’ve ever been, I have little stress and very few complaints. Honestly, I’m having a very nice time. Perhaps too nice a time; preoccupation, whatever the reason, means that the bandwidth I need to pay attention is less available.
“Where is my supervisor??” I say all the time. To anyone but those who know me really well, it sounds like I’m joking. I say it in good humor, but I really, really mean it. It would be a profound relief to have a second set of eyes about me to simply scan the environment from time to time, notice something I might have missed, or just hold my hand while I’m navigating life. I’m afraid to make myself sound like an adult toddler; but the fact is, I’m a grown-ass woman who lives alone and holds down a great life who also frequently walks into things, exhibits shockingly poor judgment on a semi-regular basis, and wreaks a bit of havoc along the way.
I’ve always been childlike, and lately I’ve started to wonder if this is becoming more, not less, pronounced as I get older. I’m often told I appear younger than I am, and I have heard that people on the spectrum age slower than neurotypical folks. My life and career have kept relative pace with my age—although I don’t have a house, spouse, or family of my own, I’m proud of how much I’ve achieved alone and feel I have plenty to show for my years. But knowing I can do it alone is not the same as being happy about doing it alone.
I came across an article just now titled, “Emily Ratajkowski Can Take Care of Herself, But A Little Help Would Be Nice.” This makes me think my own unwillingness is not only a function of my ASD, but rather a fatigue that eventually sets in after years of being a self-sufficient, single woman in a world not designed to support us.
I think my attachment to my journal—and even other, less intimate items—is symptomatic of a basic need to form attachments and to feel supported. As someone who relies solely on myself, when I lose something, I feel that a part of me is lost somewhere in the world. That I, too, am lost. Perhaps the bereavement I feel is not such an overreaction after all.
To keeping our wits—and our personal effects—about us,
Hi, I forget how I found your newsletter but just want to say this resonates beautifully. I will take many things you said - about journaling helping you be your best friend, the right clothes as necessary for personal comfort, and the shame of losing something precious - with me today 🌸