Here, I want to briefly describe my life and experiences of living and writing with Asperger’s Syndrome. These are my own experiences and thoughts. This condition is known as a spectrum and can be termed differently. I use the term Asperger’s Syndrome as it is what I was diagnosed with. Having said that, I am fully aware that we all are unique and have our own fears and struggles…well, here goes…
I was diagnosed later in life. By that time, I had already put many masks in place. I always felt like an outsider, looking in, watching the world unfold before me. Sometimes I watched enshrouded in isolation as if I was the only person in a theatre looking on as a live-action play took place.
Growing up, I studied other people. I attempted to learn what was deemed acceptable behaviour. Who was popular? Why were they accepted and liked? I mimicked and remembered. I became an amalgamation of many people. I never became myself. I began to question what being myself actually meant. I tried to enjoy the sun, as people said I should. But it just hurt my eyes, and I found the heat suffocating. It was the same for many things I was supposed to enjoy.But I wanted to fit in. I wanted to enjoy  those things. I wanted to be the same. I didn’t know I was not the same. I couldn’t speak until I was four years old.
Here, I want to say that I have no time for people who state I am on the spectrum. I’m so weird. So if any of this comes across like that, it is honestly not meant.
I detested school. The smell of the new varnish still stays with me. I disliked the regimented environment. I rarely went. I stayed at home and taught myself the things that interested me. My parents didn’t know what to do, so they pandered to my wishes.
One day my brother bought me a guitar and my world changed. The notes, the scales, the sounds and the melodies all made perfect sense to me. I quickly taught myself to read music. Its language fascinated me. I was accepted by a famous guitar teacher named Louis Gallo, and my life began to make sense. One day, he phoned my parents and told them he believed I had a gift; from that moment, I was a guitarist. It became my sole focus and my shield against the vibrancy and demands of life.
I spent every hour alone practising. Not really alone; my beloved cat was always with me. He would sit and listen. I remember that his favourite key was F Major. My world – as stated – began to make sense. Then, one day, my cat died. I went into a form of shock. Complete meltdown. My best friend, my companion, was gone…forever. I crawled into bed and prayed that I could join him. God, how I miss him still. My parents took me to a doctor who suggested counselling. It was never acted upon. I refused to go out or play the guitar that had been my crutch.
At thirteen years old, I was forced to see another counsellor specialising in agoraphobia. I hated it and her. She spoke in an awful patronising voice and told me I had agoraphobia, which I was convinced I did not. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was.
Nothing changed for me until, one day, I began writing down my thoughts and fears as short stories. I also created fantasy worlds where I roamed freely. So alive and entirely at one with my existence. My guitar slowly crept back into my life and, with my writing, became the foundation upon which I could build a future.
Being on the spectrum and not knowing has had a less than positive impact on my life. But I have now created – with the selfless help of my wife – a place I can survive in. A place I feel safe in.
I now no longer want to be like everyone else.
We now, finally, get to how Asperger’s impacts my writing. In conversation, I sometimes struggle with words. This carries over into my writing. Not ideal, you might think. But it’s okay. I have found that a lot of the times, the words I struggle to recall are not, in fact, the right words at all.
With my mind constantly working and insisting on showing me bad times from the past, I question the present and fret over the future. Therefore – for my well-being – I need to work in a peaceful environment with subdued lighting and relaxing music.
Contrary to many things in my life, my writing does not follow a pattern. Instead, I write when the mood takes me and rest if I am overwhelmed.
I now see my Asperger’s as a blessing, and my inner voice is now my friend. It tells me to write what I want to write. It tells me to embrace who I am. In whispers, it tells me that everything will be okay.
Be yourself. In the end, you can never truly be anyone else…