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The Consequences of Chasing Acceptance // Emma Fox

The Consequences of Chasing Acceptance // Emma Fox

by | Aug 2, 2023

The Consequences of Chasing Acceptance // Emma Fox

A rich and honest account from Emma Fox (The Autisphere), who shares with us her story to diagnosis: how backing off from fighting to exist the “neurotypical” way is one of the most important things we can do as autistic women. It saves lives.

Grit, tenacity, perseverance. These are things I used to wear as a badge of honour. I prided myself on something I called my ‘bouncebackability’. Things always seemed harder for me than my peers. Yet an outsider looking in would see I was always achieving.

Do you know why I always achieved? Because in my mind there was no other option. I had to keep striving, and nothing less than perfection would be good enough.

Anxiety was with me all the time. And I used to tell myself this was a good thing. “It means you care about this” I would tell myself. “It would be worrying if you didn’t feel this way”. And so, this became my normal state of being.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but my primary motivators in life were anxiety and fear. I based my self-worth on other people’s opinions. Their opinions of my success, of my character. But what they saw wasn’t genuine.

Photograph by Serena Wong

You see, to be accepted in the world I learned to mask at an early age. To blend in and appear like other people. I instinctively knew I was different. And when it showed, others made me feel like this wasn’t a good thing. I didn’t know I was autistic. I had no one telling me these differences were OK. So, I overcompensated to prove my worth to others.

No one gives you any credit for this by the way. Do you know how completely draining it is to act in a never-ending play? And this is without any additional life stressors. You may try to explain to others, and they might dismiss you with “well we all feel like that sometimes”. And so, the message is reinforced – just keep going.

Then in my mid-twenties my physical health started to deteriorate. I’d always experienced various physical ailments on and off. But it became constant almost overnight. I had just started a Master’s degree. And as was my usual approach, I wasn’t letting anything get in the way. So, whilst going to endless medical appointments, I just struggled on. My work placement told me I wasn’t entitled to support for a “suspected” disability.

Then after 18 months came the first diagnosis – Fibromyalgia. And coming to terms with this took a huge toll on my mental health. There isn’t really any treatment as such – the advice given is to pace your activities. Well that wasn’t how I’d ever lived my life. And I wasn’t about to start.

I finished my Master’s degree and started work. A chance encounter with some training on autism in women changed my world and led me down the path of pursuing an assessment. The more I read, the more I really saw and understood myself for the first time. I was formally diagnosed as autistic at age 30.

By this point, I was hanging by a thread. The person diagnosing me said something which has always stuck with me. ‘I’m not questioning your Fibromyalgia diagnosis, but have you ever considered it might be the impact of living in a world not designed for autistic people?” I was sceptical at first. Surely, I can’t have become that unwell just from existing?

In the year following my diagnosis I told myself to keep going. I’d figure all this out but, in the meantime, I had to keep up appearances. I really tried. But it was taken out of my hands. My physical health deteriorated quickly. I was way beyond people’s perceptions of ‘exhausted’. And my sensory sensitivities became so heightened that I was even getting motion sickness from the sensation of driving my own car.

I started to become frightened after that. I was losing speech, losing memory, losing basic skills. One night I became unable to feed myself, unable to speak. My husband kept asking me to explain what was happening, but I couldn’t talk. I had retreated inside myself and just needed to be alone. My GP ordered an urgent brain scan. I carried on. After all, my Manager had told me that I was managing to hold it together in the day, so it wasn’t really impacting on work she said.

And then I collapsed.

I’ve not been back to work since that day. I’m unemployed now, and people are often asking me what I’ll be doing next. The truth is, it’s taken me the last year to get back to some form of myself. But I know I won’t be the same. I’ve lost confidence I’ll never regain. But perhaps that’s for the best? Where did it get me?

I now realise I had experienced autistic burnout. Something widely discussed amongst the autistic community, but rarely among specialists that aren’t autistic themselves. My experiences were typical. Raymaker et al (2020) state “Autistic burnout is a syndrome conceptualized as resulting from chronic life stress and a mismatch of expectations and abilities without adequate supports.” What I hadn’t realised in my naivety is that eventually, I would break.

My mind and body shut down, and I lost count of the hours I spent staring at the wall. I needed the nothingness. Surely, after all this time, I had earned that. I fear the Welfare State would not have seen it that way, denying me any financial aid. My husband’s financial support made this work-break possible. I genuinely believe that without this I would have been forced back out into the world of work. I don’t like to dwell on the impact that could have had on my mental health.

Photograph by Priscilla Du Preez

Recovery is not as simple as it might seem. I’ve heard it said that if you experience burnout once, it can happen quicker and from less next time around. My old coping mechanisms just don’t work anymore. Instead, I’m learning to listen to my body and my mind, to slow down, and to be kinder to myself. I’m not great at it, but I’m getting better.

“I must learn to exist in a different way. ”

I must learn to exist in a different way. I can no longer use fear and anxiety as my drivers. Those qualities I’d always prided myself on became my downfall. I never even realised I was setting myself up to fail.

Autistic people have shared what helped them to recover from burnout, including social support, reduced expectations, and unmasking. These are helping me over time. But I’m still battling the expectations of others and myself. You see, society doesn’t understand fluctuating conditions. If you did something yesterday, there should be no excuse for not being able to do it today. I felt this acutely as my neighbour remarked “you’re not even trying to find another job, are you?”

One thing I am doing, is trying. I’m trying every day. And this is what I pride myself on now.

The fight to exist as we are is so important. But sometimes, you have to stop fighting. Just for a little while. It might be the most important thing you ever do.


References

Raymaker, D.M. et al. 2020. Having all of your internal resources exhausted beyond measure and being left with no clean-up crew: Defining autistic burnout. Autism in Adulthood. 2(2): p132-143. Available online here.

[Accessed 26/06/2020]

My name is sparky // sparky

My name is sparky // sparky

by | Aug 2, 2023

artists
My name is sparky // sparky

Sparky writes about their identity as an artist in Magical Women

My name is sparky. 

My name is also Iain, but that’s mainly for official documents and my family.  I have considered myself in the context of many labels throughout my life, some more helpful than others, though, whether through my cognitive reasoning or lack of a wider cultural and social awareness, hadn’t until the last few years began to take ownership of my gender fluidity and accept myself as a non-binary person.   

I have identified as “queer”, and have come to understand this as a broad umbrella term that encapsulates so many identities outside the realm of CIS heteronormativity.  I wanted to discuss my experiences and relationship with gender as I feel something of a kinship and solidarity with the fine folk of Magical Women.

For those not already in the know, “non-binary” gender identities relate to anyone who doesn’t rigidly adhere to exclusivities of masculinity or femininity.

Activist Riki Anne Wilchins is regularly associated with the term “genderqueer”, and claims to have created it, having utilised it in an essay published in the first issue of In Your Face (1995).  Very often, genderqueer and non-binary people prefer to be addressed with gender-neutral pronouns, i.e. “they”, “their”.  Some prefer the familiar binaries of “he” and “she”, while some simply wish to be addressed by their name.  Additionally, titles such as Mx have been used, instead of Mr, Mrs, Miss, Ms etc.

I personally prefer “they/them” as a pronoun, though accept that “he/him” will continue to be used to refer to me, as I haven’t made it widely known of my identity and preferences.  Equally, I have found myself increasingly using Mx as a title for applications, deliveries and the like, though have found that many businesses have yet to embrace this form of title, which is all very well except when they insist on one selected from their existing options – which is rather too regularly.  But it’s OK – call me sparky.  Or Iain.  Preferably sparky.

As with anyone in living existence, whatever their background, circumstances, obstacles, strengths and foibles, my experiences are purely unique to myself, but I feel there are a lot of relatable experiences that are rarely voiced, and equally mine may be far more common than I care to mention.  The examples of masculinity and male-ness in my family didn’t exactly fill me with awe and inspiration, given that there was a lot of anger and tension growing up, traits I have consciously strived to reject.  Growing up, feeling I didn’t naturally gravitate to archetypal “male” pursuits, I found it hard to put my finger on why this was, or whether it was even an issue.  At school I was a sensitive and reflective child, not to mention easy to upset – the fact I cried and expressed emotion other than physical violence meant I clearly did not belong with the alpha-dogs (or “ladz ladz ladz” (aka Project Jacamo).  

There were exceptions – I was, and still am, obsessed with football, though the gateway to this was due to my fascination with numbers, facts and figures. But my early icons were Sunni, the yellow Gummi Bear, and Funshine, the yellow Care Bear.  Shiny yellow bears were my jam! My sister, two years older than I, did ballet for  a short while at a community centre in town, which I was envious enough of, to want to even briefly become a ballerina myself, until I realised that there were also boy-ballet-dancers, which I didn’t want to be – I wanted a tutu, and tights, and quite possibly a magic wand.  This interest didn’t stretch as far as playing with dolls – Cindy and Barbie had terrifying faces, I viewed unnatural hair with suspicion, and the small accessories such as shoes were terrifying to unexpectedly come across.  There’s a wee insight into my sensory triggers.  

Growing up around mostly male friends, it was a refreshing change to hang out with female mates – it helped that one such friend played football and was generally into most sports, though I didn’t really have anyone encouraging experimentation either way, other than my sister, who had goth friends and regularly frequented the “alternative” pubs and music venues in town, though would simultaneously encourage and put me off entering that circle – I was a whiny indie kid, who hadn’t found my bearings on the spectrum. 

I think that leaving my relative bubble and heading to uni in mid Wales made me all the more keen to find people “like myself”, whatever this might present.   The problem was that I didn’t believe that there were any – I was quick to (internally) point out people’s foibles, why we couldn’t possibly be compatible as friends.  I think that meeting more LGBTQ people made me, in turn, question whether it was sexual orientation that made me feel different.  As it is, society was still focused heavily on who people were fucking rather than any intrinsic aspects of their personality, and I wondered whether my university’s LGBT (as it was termed then, Q-awareness being something of an afterthought) society were necessarily my “tribe”. 

The fact I was questioning with I identified as anything other than heterosexual was not backed up with romantic pursuits (or much in the way of same-sex snogging), which, perish the thought, made me fear I would be exposed as some sort of straight-boy sell-out.   But therein lay both my naivety, my clear obstacles in self-confidence, and my papering over the cracks in simply understanding the essence of myself.   Indeed, as I have grown, a clearer image of what I would like from a relationship dynamic would necessitate a far less rigid concept of gender identity.   Being more personally aware and willing to share my queerness over the past few years has opened up the topic of where that leaves on me the sex and relationships spectrum.  I would love it if the world didn’t purely think in terms of who we might fuck, and how closely this would measure on the heteronormativity spirit level.  Indeed it does frustrate me that such basic binary thinking is still very much of the essence, particularly the way that toxic masculinity lumps “femininity”, “gayness” and anything else which appears to fall outside their narrow bounds of meat-eating, motor-loving, casually-racist and lecherous behaviours.   

Edna Foster // Tracy Vincent

Edna Foster // Tracy Vincent

by | Aug 2, 2023

artists
Edna Foster // Tracy Vincent

PhD Candidate Elinor Rowlands writes about building resilience as an AuADHD Fine Art practice based researcher.

The 1970’s 

We run into the washing area and chase each other in and out of the sheets and clothes hanging on the lines that are assigned to each household. We hear the creak of the aluminium window frame as she opens the window and our pulses surge. “Get out of the washing area!”, she shrieks and we all leg it. 

Our game continues and I for one don’t want to be caught by Edna Foster, Mrs Foster, or just Foster as we knew her. Patrick can’t help himself and returns to the sheets. We’re all laughing and engrossed in our game and I’m enjoying, from a safe distance, the thrill of the risk that Patrick is taking. Then we hear the slap, slap, slap of her slippers on the lino tiles of the staircase as she descends from her maisonette. Anna and I shout to Patrick, “she’s coming!” but Patrick is still wrapped up in the sheet as if it were a tent. 

Anna and I retreat to a safe distance and watch as Foster marches into the space, the shouting bursting out from the confines of the hallway as she explodes from her door, causing Anna and I another thrill as we hid behind the wall at the end of the block. A tirade of chastisement ensued, “Patrick Stokes, how many times have I told you?! Get out of the washing area! I’m going to have a word with your mother!”, plus much else that I couldn’t make out, maybe even some expletives. A flamboyant, continuous word stream of annoyance. We were all scared of Foster, but also couldn’t help ourselves in our desire to wind her up. 

Patrick was marched up to his own front door. Tony, his Mom would listen to Foster and then issue a high pitched telling off, meant to deter us all from ever doing it again. We would be temporarily subdued. 

Later on, we would return to the quadrangle gate quietly. We would all be whispering and sniggering and daring each other to look. We would poke our heads around the corner and look to see if the window was still open. If it was, well we knew better than to “poke the dragon”, but we sometimes did just for the thrill, but today we waited until the window was closed before we ran through the washing again. 

The 1980’s 

I remember many, many times as a teenager returning home, having forgotten my key and being locked out. The first few times I would just sit on the doorstep and wait for my Mom to get home but then Mrs Foster spotted me one time and invited me to wait at hers. 

I remember as an awkward teen feeling uncomfortable at being invited into the sacred space that even as a child, I had not been permitted entry to. She would make me a sandwich and some juice. 

I can’t remember any of the conversations we had, but I can vividly remember the comforting sound of her voice. I was clearly in my very, very self-conscious phase and was mostly preoccupied with getting out of there the moment my Mom’s vehicle pulled up in the croft. I was probably in that phase where I had no opinions or confidence to express myself, so always found these encounters excrutiating. 

Mrs Foster was stoic in her kindness and generosity. I’m sure she understood. She never took my ingratitude personally and was always keeping an eye on me for the next time; which turned out to be many times, that I forgot my key so she could call out of the window for me to come and sit in the warm. 

2015

 

Mom is chatting through the gaps in the fence with Foster who has come to the corner of the washing area and climbed up onto the ledge so that she can see Mom through the two-inch gaps between the slats. 

I go over to chat and after chewing the cud about life and kids for a while she questions, “How old do you think I am Trace?” I know that she is at least 10 years older than my Mom, so I do a quick bit of maths in my head and then I knock a few years off in case I get it wrong. I don’t want to offend her for thinking she’s older than she actually is.

 “Seventy?”, I reply, thinking she is probably mid 70s. “I’m 89 Trace!” she declares. “Bloody Hell!” I say whilst peering through the narrow gap at her smooth, silky, brown face, all plump and soft, some white hairs prickling her hairline that is mostly the deepest darkest brown, so as to appear almost black. “You have NO wrinkles!”, I blurt out, I had way more and I was in my mid-forties. “Black don’t crack Trace!” she replied. 

That was the last time I saw her. 

In loving memory of Edna Foster, forever in my heart. 

Tracy x 

Art Wants // Megan Garrett-Jones

Art Wants // Megan Garrett-Jones

by | Aug 2, 2023

artists
Art Wants // Megan Garrett-Jones

Written in response to a prompt from a Magical Women workshop with thanks to Elinor Rowlands

Art Wants by Megan Garrett-Jones (Video, Edit and Poem by the Artist)

What Art Wants- Megan Garrett-Jones

Art wants 

Unhurried inhabitance

Window daydreams & weight shifting creaks

Voice wants 

Time to stop

And to be coddled

Art wants to bedazzle

Art needs a party date

Voice wants to sing together

& needs kindred spirits

Art wants hairy obsessions

From the folds of history

But I only want mysterious meetings.

I need equal tomorrows.

Art wants you to gasp

Needs your gentleness

My voice wants to speak the names of flowers

To honour my grandmother’s memory.

She uses music to soothe & needs to awaken

I wander, but I need to choose a direction.

She guides and needs to reveal, to open portals

We follow & play

Arts shows off

& voice wants to authenticate

Art needs to educate

Voice joins a debate

Art alarms

Voice needs to learn

To speak up, in solidarity

Art plays tootsies & needs to outrage

Art wants to tickle & argue on stage

It wants to scream vive la revolucion

It needs me to listen to rectify my opinions.

I want to understand and feel the injustice

There’s an art that wants to unsettle

It needs to make space for different textures

I want to scrunch in my fingers

I  need to feel to transform

Isolation Row // Wendy Young

Isolation Row // Wendy Young

by | Aug 2, 2023

EVENTS
WORKSHOPS
MENTORING
TRAINING
ABOUT

Isolation Row // Wendy Young

Wendy writes a rhythmic piece about how Covid19 affects society

Sharon McCutcheon

I’m all fed up uh uh uh … 

I Feel Mighty Real I feel – all fed up uh uh uh – I’m the real Slim lady shimmy shimmy shimmy shaky and lately fading of the shady flat – faddy daddy fuddy duddy housework GOD! 

Wads of wipes easy wash for floors and ones for the tops – what’s it all for – no mop ‘cept on my head – why bother on Isolation Row – what’s that about a furlough? – oh no ‘unprecedented’ – a new ‘let’s be clear’ – I feel like feel it’s Madness (they call it Madness) coming on!

Furlough?  Oh got you – not furlongs cut as in a bough from a branch but off from work – we back at the ranch – the new Furl You Curfew Muthaflouter – broken like a bow down dominator meter – no fewer than two – {brace yourself} – race to chase face to face gatherers – a few flout – some doubt – will it do any good – wearing masks is the new hood – sowing deeds – pleasing needs – smoking weed – does it help – brother can you spare a spliff?  

Annie Splatt

High Street faves cave – into administration – so roll on mega mega Primark mega mega shite thing

Return of the Spiv – black market bog rolls – astronomical hand gels – conspiracy theorists ring bells – poo pooers heads swell purporting it’s drivel – I’m going slightly mad …

Said Fred – yeah Right(ly) said Fred yer did and so do we – wee weeing’s a new pastime – not using too much arse wipe – bog rollin’s bigtime – ain’t no sunshine now Bill’s gone – only bills for paying – no DWP relaying it’s parsimony!  

Money Money Money – funny – the ones who got – they got it they got it – need breaks – take take take – love me or leave me but don’t make me broke – see – 

Christine Bow

UNPRECEDENTED President – DEMENTED TIMES THE PHRASE THE HYPE THE SOUNDBYTE THE TRITE USE IT – DESPITE VIEWS IT’S PARROTTY FASHIONED USE – for vicarious recluse – hiding in the Ridings  – no roamin’ in the gloamin’ – we’re all locked up uh uh uh uh uh yeah yeah

But not if yer BoJo and his Low Jo’s – their Spring sprung in outta town boltholes – no lockdowns in high rise – it’s Chequers love – you say you had the virus I say you try to fool us – Bo-or-is – I think that’s enough!  Well I now you looked real rough – tell us that you’re a tough Tory Toff!  And  We e e e e can’t bin thee off!

We sought him here we sought him there – we searched every Fridgidaire –is he in the City or a leafy dell = our damn elusive PMpernel

Alex Motoc

And he’s  back he’s back as a matter of fact – back with a bang with a bish bash bosh – no tosh no piffle that’s our Pfieffel – fearful and careful – in your part as be-Cumming as Nosferatu’s rats – cats got the cream – wage slave fodder pervade your dreams  of wipe out- ner ner ner ner ner ner ner …. herd us into Sleepwalk 19 Covid ner ner ner 19

This poem will be featured on an upcoming Magical Writers podcast… coming soon!