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.
Baldwins Abroad 
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