Memoires

Why I Write.

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I write a lot. I have for most of my life. Its therapeutic.

For most of my life, I have had difficulty expressing myself.
Shocker, I know.
I can explain a lot of things, but if I have to explain myself to people, no dice. My mind freezes up when people are there. I fill up with questions, and self doubt. Am I right to feel this way? Will others understand? Did I do the right thing?

Autistics are often second guessing ourselves because most of us have been gaslit by those around us for so long, that we really don’t know what to think or feel about ourselves. If you are often told to Just don’t do the thing. The thing you have been trying not to do, and nobody else seems to need to do. You start to ask yourself, Why is it so easy for them? What is wrong with me?

My solution, when I was about 8 was to write stuff down. It might have been earlier, but I doubt it.

I used to get teased by everyone for what I said or did. My own brother and father made sure I wouldn’t forget certain phonetic slip ups (Angel & Angle for example) for years. So I didn’t speak up much, and when I did people often would not understand. And if I got upset, I would end up hurting people, so I turned to writing things.

Since I felt like an Alien most of the time. I made up my own alphabet. I didn’t have the ability at the time to make my own language, but this was close. I used the alphabet to write notes just for me. I wrote stories in it, really simple stories, but still stories. I would write my random facts, or interesting notes in it. Then nobody could read it except for me. Unless they found my conversion key in my notebook. I did not, yet know how to write my feelings down. I didn’t even know what my feelings where most of the time, which made it hard to write them down.

I started to write fiction when I was about 10. I was an avid reader of the Xanth Series of books from Piers Anthony. So I created my own magical Land called “Crest” which was shaped like my Province of British Columbia. I wrote stories of a princess, and her misadventures. In my stories people would often lie to her or trick her, and she would have to find a way to do something despite the trick.

At that time in life, I thought people were naturally nicer to girls, and I envied this a lot. In a way I wanted to be that princess.
For those who will go there, I was 10, I did not want to wear dresses, or make-up, I wanted people to like me, and thought people were naturally nicer to girls.

When I was in Middle school, I wrote super hero stories, often of the style of Power Rangers or Sailor Moon. I loved the idea of regular people becoming superheroes and upholding what is right. I still believe Heroes should be heroic, and do what is right for morality sake. I do not enjoy the grim dark, or “realistic” heroes, not do I enjoy Anti-Heroes.

I wanted someone to show up and help me with the struggles I was having. The ones that I didn’t know how to voice. To step between me and the people who would tease me or ostracise me. I used to dream that superman would fly me to my real home world, or that I would have his powers, so I could fly away when things got too hard. I used to draw comics for some of them too, but that stopped when someone found them and then I got teased real bad for it.

So I moved back to Fantasy. The genre that nobody could have a problem with, right? Well just in case I would hide my notebooks. I got heavy into Mythology, and researched Egyptian, Greek, Roman, and Norse Myths. Then I would integrate these into my stories. At this time, I was reading a lot of Anne McCaffrey Books.

In High school I started a journal. My English teacher recommended it. I didn’t write in it often, but instead it turned into a half-scrap book half-diary. I found it easier to convey my thoughts and feelings with random leaves, photos, ticket stubs, and random things.

I had a bazooka Joe wrapper in my diary for a long time, because someone gave me the gum, and I thought it would lead to a friendship. I filled those up quickly, and had stacks of them in my room.

If you looked through one of my journals, you would have seen pictures from places I had been, blades of grass, used phone cards, a complete list of power coins from Power Rangers, sketches of a game I was programming, random bits of code. a short essay on why people would want to Hide-a bed. (An on going curiosity for me from Grades 10~12) random ideoms I had picked up and were questioning, like Isn’t “Head over Heels” the way you should be standing? how can you fall that way? It was chaotic, and beautiful.

I didn’t start writing my experiences as non-fiction until I was well into adult hood. I didn’t know how. I think I was in my 30s when I started. I believe I started with my Live Journal, which was like an online diary.

Then I created my WordPress (chadwickbaldwin.blog), and my WeChat Official Account. (Accessable only in Wechat).

I manage the Website, The WeChat Account, am Writing 2 novels, and manage the school newspaper right now.

All of this is still doing the same job I started at: organizing my thoughts.

You see Written word can be edited, reorganized, and clarified in a way that spoken cannot. I can take as much time as I need to put an idea down, and try to make it clear. (Or ramble on). But I cannot do this same self-organization when speaking. Once it is out of my mouth, it is up to the reciever to interpret my intentions. Sometimes what has been heard is very different from what was in my head, and once you screw up, thats it for a lot of people. No explanation, or correction can happen.

I still write a lot, and when I cannot write for long periods of time, I get more disorganized and overstimulated. And when I feel the emotions around me, it gets worse. I write, and rewrite things over and over, almost every day for 2 or 3 hours now. The stresses might not be the same as I grow, but somethings never truely disappear. As I sit and ponder Did I handle this right? What should I have done? Am I doing more harm than good? Why? How can I do better?

Communication is not always straight forward, and sometimes to get to the underlying feeling, you have to take a lot of detours. The message might not be clear the first time you read it, but it is there.

I hope, truely hope and pray, that those around me that don’t know how to express themselves, or don’t know who to explain themselves without hurting themselves or people near them embrace writing. You don’t need to be the best at spelling or grammar, just start typing or writing with a pen whatevre comes out.

And I truly hope and pray that nobody tells you what you can or cannot write about in your own diary.

Something Psycho This Way Comes – 25 years later.

Art, Comics, Memoires, Psychosix, Stories, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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.

Wrong

Autism, Memoires, , , , Leave a comment
Buy it now on Amazon.

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.

Coloring still soothes me to this day.

Living with Dad

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.