When I was in High School, I made some good friends. All of us were a bit odd. I had my ASD, another member had MS (multiple sclerosis). We had a goth boy who dressed in all black and wanted to be a vampire. This was the Buffy the Vampire Slayer era, not the Twilight Era, so big mean, demonic vampires, not sparkly lonely vampires.
We had a girl who was very vocal about her rights as a woman (shaved her head like Sinead O’Connor). And two “ordinary” guys. We all liked anime, and that was what tied us together. We were an unofficial Anime club at High School. But at that time, Anime was mostly unheard of. People didn’t connect Astro-boy, or Speed Racer to Anime, and so the only example people thought of was Sailor Moon. You can imagine this made us very unpopular. Tie that with our other unusual characteristics, we started calling ourselves the “Psychosix” (there were six of us to start with).
By college time, our numbers had fluctuated, a few people left, and other joined. By the time we finished college there was around 20 of us. We had a website (Psychosix.com) where we posted our art, our songs, our writings, and our comics. We had all created Original Characters to base our stories around, and it was just a way for us to express ourselves.
Over the years, the Psychosix has drifted apart mostly. I am able to contact about half of them, but don’t do so often. The other half have moved on with their lives, and are spread around the world.
I, being the pack-rat that I am, have most of the files on my back-up. And have decided to start re-releasing updated versions. (My Gateways novel I am working on is one of these). When I use other people work, or art, I contact them if I can to ask permission.
Our member from Los Angeles, Fritters had made comics using sprites from an online avatar making system. I am taking those and using AI, fixing them up. (I know AI Art is not popular with a lot. I am not a great artist anymore, and time is not my friend, so please understand).
I will post these comics up as I finish them.
Each time I do, I will post a profile of one of the characters.
This week is “Robyn Goodfellow”
And the Comic is “Something Psycho This Way Comes #2.
I have near permanent wounds on my body. Places that I won’t let completely heal. Not because I want to have these, but because I scratch.
Stimming is a way for autistic people to manage themselves. It is a repeated action that we do to either move our focus from a sensation we cannot handle, or to help ground us back in reality when we need to focus our minds. Stimming comes in all sorts of activities, one of the most common ones is the hand flapping. Each stim we design helps us with one aspect of our life.
My son would flap his hands in class when he was in elementary school. The teacher didn’t know what was happening, and I didn’t register it was a problem, so I just told her to be patient.
When things are getting too serious and boring, like standing at a school meeting, I may start to stim. in these situations I may just make a silyl face (often tongue out with crossed eyes). When I’m a bit nervous or uncomfortable, I may do a short dance. When I am thinking or processing new information, I scratch.
I sometimes scratch my head. This sounds normal, but It’s not. I put both of my hands on my scalp and dig my fingers in and move them back and forth vigorously. If I happen to feel something our of the ordinary, up there, I will dig. There have been days in my past, where I found a bug bite, or bump from an old scar, and completely dug it up, leaving a section of my hair matted in blood.
Similarly when I scratch my arms or legs, I tend to pick at bug bites, pimples, scars, and wounds. I don’t do this consciously. I will be lost in thought and then I realise my arm is bleeding, and I have to get a band aid or tissue.
There was a time when I was a teenager, that I found a wart on my finger. (I think it was a wart), and I used a pen knife to slowly remove it. It took me a week to remove it completely. I would cut a section off, then bandage it up, then the next day start picking at it, (and nibbling at it), then cut a bit more off, and bandage it up. It never occured to me to talk to a doctor about this. It was just part of my adjusting myself.
I would never have seriously hurt myself, and I still would never. This however, is hard to explain to people when you have dried blood in your hair, or you are explaining something to your coworker, and you accidentally pop a scab off you rarm, and need a tissue or bandage.
If I have to try to rein it in, so it’s less obvious, I pick at my fingernails. I will run my finger along my fingernails, and if I find any edgers, or irregularities, I will just start picking at it. This leads to part of my nail peeling off, and sometimes, my finger bleeding. Often, however, it just leads to more unven finger nails
There was a time In Korea when I became obsessed with carving my nail. I put my thumb in my mouth, and rubbed it left and right on my front teeth. Over a week of this, I had carved a dent into my thumb nail. and then I would watch it as it grew down my thumb, finally when the dent reached the clippable area, I clipped it and started the process over.
I am often told to “Just stop picking” and I wish It was that simple. If it was a conscious action, it might be possible. But stimming is often an unconscious thing. Sometimes you just do things, scratching, cross eyes, or dancing. and the more you try to ignore the urge, the harder it can become. It is usually best to just do the action and get it out of the way so you can be regulated and move back on task.
To an observer, many of these stimms may seem unacceptable, or even harmful. Imagine standing in a line with all your coworkers for a “Sport Day” parade, and you start stimming by dancing or making faces. It is seen as rude and inappropriate. However, to an understanding individual, they know that I, or other Autistics may not be able to focus, or handle the situations overwhelming sensations without this.
When my students start doing something that could be a stim, I watch and observe before I react. If it is not harmful, then I may not react quickly. Sometimes, it takes me a few weeks to begin dealing with a situation to help the child. I don’t want students to self-harm, even if it is small like mine. I need to be careful that I keep dangerous behaviour at bay while still allowing the child to stim as a way to regulate themselves. If it is an overwhelm, I may be able to remove the cause, but otherwise we want the child to learn how to help themselves with this.
I have found myself talking a lot lately about what my childhood was like in some aspects. Parents of my students, My teaching team, students in my Newspaper club, all seem to want to know about my past. I have been upfront with my teaching team about my autism. To my students I just admit to being different. My own daughter told them about my balance issues, and me falling down the stairs often.
Coloring in Black
When I was a child, I would be given a coloring page by a teacher and given the instructions to “Color it.” While my classmates would share and trade the colored crayons with each other, all trying to make the most beautiful piece of art they could, I would take 1.
Usually Black.
Then I would get lost in the action of filling in all the spaces of the page. It did not occur to me that each of the spaces might require a different color. I would just zone out, forget about the world, and be focused, hyperfocused if you will, on the act of filling in these spaces.
My teachers used to report that there was something wrong with me. My picture that had started with a building, or a pretty pony, was now pitch black, with no traces of the original picture. It was all clearly colored, not scribbled on, but they didn’t seem to understand. There must be something wrong.
I was just happy I had colored it. I followed the instructions. I did not understand why this caused such commotion. The other children couldn’t even color in the lines, and were haphazardly colored with a lot of white space shown. But their pictures were considered beautiful. Mine was clearly colored in the lines, and no white spaces left. It just cost the whole black crayon, or most of it.
Nobody explained this to me. Not even as I grew up. I was an adult when I figured this out on my own.
When I was quite young, I moved in with my father and stepmother. It was a new town and a new school. It was a small town, with a small town school. Differences are not understood, or appreciated in small towns. I used to get off the school bus so overwhelmed by the other kids, that I would have shut downs.
Once I apparently got off the bus and smacked another kid in the head with my metal lunch box. I don’t remember doing this, but I remember getting off the bus, and then I was suddenly in the principal’s office, not knowing what had happened. I was of course lectured about this. To this day, I don’t know who I hit, or if they were the cause of the shut down, or if they just happen to be too close, when I lashed out.
I had been told, of course that when I was really young I would lash out at my brothers, like an animal. I don’t have memories of this either. But I do remember promising to never let the monster out again. I hated myself for many years, and would come home from school and lock myself away just so that I could calm down and make sure nobody else got hurt.
My dad, and stepmom were unprepared for this, and they began looking for solutions. My condition was not well known back then. They believed something was wrong with me, and looked for ways to ‘cure’ me. I remember hearing something about electric shock therapy being considered. My mother took me back to her house before they decided.
Recess
Elementary was not an easy time. While other children would run and play with their friends, I would purposely walk laps around the school, or the school yard, depending on which school I was at. I would mostly look at the ground and focus on the walk. This was another method I had devised to keep the monster from escaping. But even when I was not overwhelmed, I kept it up. Routine is very important, and it would seem strange not to walk around in loops.
I made friends with the parent volunteers that would walk around the school for student safety. Teachers in those days did not monitor the playground. Parents did. Teachers stayed indoors, and I believe, enjoyed the little time they had without the children.
The Skateboard Incident
I had a skateboard. I liked it, and would ride on it around my house. One time I had to go to the corner store to get something for my stepdad. I rode my skateboard. I ran into some of my classmates, who had never seen me on my board. They asked me, in a very rude way, if I was a skater.
I have a skateboard, I ride my skateboard, thus by my logic, I am a skater. I was completely oblivious to the fact that there was, and still is, a whole subculture of people called “skaters.” So I said yes. They then began demanding that I do some tricks for them to prove it. I had never heard of these terms. One was called an “Ollie.” When I didn’t know what they were talking about they called me a “poser.” I did not know this term either, but the way they said it hurt. That was the last time I rode my skateboard. It sat in the corner of my room for years.
I didn’t know what I had done to make them angry or upset with me. All I knew was something about that board made people dislike me. So I stopped.
There were other things I stopped for the same reason. I stopped admitting I liked wrestling, but didn’t want to wrestle, that made people angry. I stopped bringing toys to school for show and tell, because I had the wrong toys. I stopped talking about books because I took twice as long as everyone else to read, and apparently that is bad. I even tried my hand at poetry once, but that almost got me beat up.
I was told by my mother that I would be a smart child, but that also seemed to make people upset with me, so I settled for the average grades. Not too high, people didn’t like that. Not too low, Mom wouldn’t like that. So I would just do enough, then doodle in my book. Which I could then fill in the doodles to calm myself.led an “Ollie.” When I didn’t know what they were talking about they called me a “poser.” I did not know this term either, but the way they said it hurt. That was the last time I rode my skateboard. It sat in the corner of my room for years.
I didn’t know what I had done to make them angry or upset with me. All I knew was something about that board made people dislike me. So I stopped.
There were other things I stopped for the same reason. I stopped admitting I liked wrestling, but didn’t want to wrestle, that made people angry. I stopped bringing toys to school for show and tell, because I had the wrong toys. I stopped talking about books because I took twice as long as everyone else to read, and apparently that is bad. I even tried my hand at poetry once, but that almost got me beat up.
I was told by my mother that I would be a smart child, but that also seemed to make people upset with me, so I settled for the average grades. Not too high, people didn’t like that. Not too low, Mom wouldn’t like that. So I would just do enough, then doodle in my book. Which I could then fill in the doodles to calm myself.
Now
If someone had told me back then that filling a page in black crayon wasn’t wrong, just different, I think I would have believed in myself a little more. That’s what I hope to give my students. I have been at schools that ignore the odd kids. I have been at schools that outright ostracize them. I have been at school where they want to help the “spectrum kids,” but the leadership doesn’t understand them, and doesn’t accept advice from teachers that do.
When parents or colleagues ask me what my childhood was like, I often hesitate. Do I tell them the truth; that difference was treated as wrong? Or do I tell them what I wish had been true?
It’s even more heartbreaking when the parents, also ignore, refuse to acknowledge, or help their kids. I have met parents who want others to “fix their kid” and won’t hear that they, as adults, need to learn how to work with their child. How dare someone tell them that their kid needs them to step up and learn something new. Shame on us for wanting to help the child survive their family.
I still try to have difficult conversations with families and school leadership about these things. And I know we all can make a difference. I know we can make the world a place where a little boy or girl is not afraid to be themselves, and enjoy the things they do. Where they will never feel like what they are is wrong.
Baldwins Abroad 
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