Stim: An Autistic Anthology by Lizzie Huxley-Jones

Author:Lizzie Huxley-Jones [Huxley-Jones, Lizzie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Personal Memoirs, Family & Relationships, Autism Spectrum Disorders, Psychology, Psychopathology, Literary Collections, General
ISBN: 9781783529056
Google: UUbcDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Unbound Publishing
Published: 2020-04-02T23:29:47.959800+00:00

At the bar of the strip club, I sipped my vodka soda and chewed on the end of the straw, careful to keep my freshly manicured hands out of my mouth. My new colleague, Claire, saw my crestfallen gaze and sat down next to me, carrying the mixture of her Victoria’s Secret perfume and sweat. Behind us, a heavily tattooed dancer circled a pole around a throng of customers. ‘I saw you got an hour. Good job!’ she said, taking my drink out of my hand and finishing it in one sip.

‘When a customer asks you to talk normal, what does that mean?’

She laughed, spun her chair around and scanned the floor of the club for customers like a pigeon eyeing a beach.

‘Ask them lots of personal questions. Nod and make eye contact and acknowledge what they said. And then relate it back to your life.’

I looked at her strangely, my heart stammering in my chest. Is that how people have conversations?

‘Cheer up, Piper. Here, let me get you a shot.’

She motioned to the bartender.

‘Are you honest about your life?’ I asked.

‘Never. Your persona is your armour. This way, when losers reject you it doesn’t hurt. Soon your persona will become a part of you, so when guys ask you to talk normal, you will talk normal.’

My head was spinning. I had so many questions but the bartender came back with our two shots. Claire quickly swished hers back. ‘But how do you build a—’

She spotted her regular near the edge of the bar and scurried over to him. Last time we worked together, he stayed in the room for three hours with her. What they spoke about for that long, I wasn’t sure, but as I watched him hang on her words, how he laughed when she spoke, I became increasingly agitated with the mixture of envy and awe. She flipped her chestnut hair back and led him into the curtained area. I shot back the tequila and surveyed the floor.

The next morning after my night shift at the club, I scrolled through the internet for advice on how to have a conversation. There were mountains of articles and I dug into them fervently, reading tips on wikiHow, Psychology Today and Forbes. I took notes on how to perfect timing, how to find a common ground, how to show interest, and how to take a light conversation into more meaningful territory. Just like Claire had said, I discerned a basic formula: ask questions, acknowledge what the person said and then relate it back to you. As my notebook filled up with suggestions, my chest began to feel heavy and I grew more and more uncomfortable.

As perplexing and uncomfortable as my social slips must have felt to my customer and Jess, there was no one more confused than me. I didn’t know I was autistic then and thus I didn’t know there was a reason for my communication struggles. In the absence of an explanation, I blamed myself. Growing up, whenever I failed socially I thought I was just stupid, or even a bitch.

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