Gone In Sixty Seconds

My attention span, that is. The thing that’s gone in sixty seconds, I mean. That’s what the title refers to, and not to the film of the same name. This is not a review of the film, just in case you were wondering, after having perhaps happened upon this by accident. There will be no mention of Nicolas Cage, Angelina Jolie, or former “hard-man-of-football-turned-Ac-Tor” Vinnie Jones (and where better to learn and perfect your acting technique than on a football pitch? There’s been many an Oscar-winning performance played out on that stage!) Oh. I just mentioned them, didn’t I, when I said that there wouldn’t be any mention of them. Well, what I mean is that there will be no further mention of them, or the film, after this. If I can only remember what the bloody hell I was going to write about in this article!

Ah, yes. My attention span. Or lack thereof, to be more precise. You know it would be easier just to write a review of the film really, even though I’ve never actually seen it. But then writing or talking about things that I have limited or no knowledge of has never been much of a deterrent to me. It’s not that I embellish or fabricate a story, the way that non-autistics do (commonly known as bullshitting!), but rather that I can take a fact and then string it out to fill a whole conversation; or, if I run out of steam, then I can flit from the fact at hand to incorporate other information, which may or may not have a link (though possibly tenuous) to the topic I’m presently on. Much like the way this article is going, really.

Oh, I remember now what I was supposed to be writing about – my attention span. Ah yes, the absolute joy of having a brain that seems to short circuit every time I try to force it to focus on something for longer than sixty seconds. That may be a slight exaggeration – it’s only on very bad days that it’s this short – but on average I can probably only do about twenty minutes before I get distracted, and I don’t even know whether I’m fully-focused during that time.

Okay, so here’s a case in point. I’ve been trying to write this article for about the last couple of weeks, and now I’ve lost interest. This is despite the fact that when I say I’ve been doing it for two weeks, I do not literally mean that every moment of every day has been spent sitting here, straining my brain to focus on getting the words on the page. Nope. My plan precludes such a thing, because it’s designed to try to break up the obsessive part of me. I do writing on four days of the week, for half an hour each day.

This means that, in total, I’ve been attempting to focus my attention for the humongous amount of ... two hours. That’s two HOURS out of two WEEKS. That’s two hours out of THREE HUNDRED and THIRTY-SIX HOURS!! And I’ve barely even managed that, hence the long and arduous (not to mention frequently damn-well tortured!) route that this article has taken in being conceived and delivered. Hell, I don’t even think giving birth is this laboured!

I used to think that I suffered from writer’s block – a lot! I now think it was more a case of the writer in me going on extended leave because there just wasn’t room for it. It gets a little crowded in here when you’ve got ADHD, complemented by being obsessive/compulsive. Funny thing is I don’t ever seem to get obsessed and compelled by the need to write... or draw, paint, make craft things, do calligraphy, learn how to use the programmes on the computer... All things which I, apparently, love doing. Even yoga, which is probably my favourite thing in the whole world, often gets easily abandoned when my brain is otherwise engaged in distracting my mind. My friend Dee has frequently pointed this out, and all I can say is, “Duh?”!

Reading and thinking – this is what I get distracted by, probably the two least productive activities in the whole world for someone with autism! I even tried to read my way out of writer’s block. I found a book about how to write (even though I already know how to do it!), and proceeded to submerge myself in it. I really enjoyed it, actually: it kept me distracted for weeks, and I didn’t do a single bit of productive writing within that time.

I did, however, try to follow one of the exercises designed, apparently, to get the well-spring of creativity primed and pumping – it was called ‘morning pages’. Unfortunately I didn’t fully understand the instructions, so the intended outcome was not forthcoming. For one thing my morning pages, which were funnily enough meant to be restricted to the morning, actually extended throughout the day. They were also supposed to be limited to three pages, and to take no more than twenty minutes to write out. Oh, and you weren’t supposed to think about what you were writing, but simply to put down whatever came into your mind at that moment, commonly known as “stream of consciousness”. None of which I managed to stick to (another problem I have – following instructions!) Of course it now makes more sense of why this is, since it’s very difficult to do so when you haven’t fully comprehended them.

Okay, so I’ve now taken an extra three writing sessions to complete this, which is another hour and a half on my original total. And now I’m going to finish it ‘cos there’s not a lot more to be said right now on the subject. Basically, my attention’s gone. Again!

Deserted

You know there’s really no point in having any pride when you’re autistic. I seem to spend half my time feeling dumb because of something foolish I’ve said or done, and the other half looking foolish whilst being totally unaware of it – until sometime later when the penny finally drops. Here’s an example of this joyous facet of autism.

I came back from my walk earlier today and found that my water supply had been cut off – not, I hasten to add, due to any deficit on my part in paying my bill! I’ve had this happen to me on numerous occasions (as it does to most people), and I reacted as I normally do – I panic! I am having to accept that this is my automatic reaction when anything unexpected happens, no matter that the unexpected might actually be a relatively normal occurrence in everyday life. It appears to be a part of the hardwiring in my brain rather than a cognitive thing because I cannot talk myself out of it with logic and into a state of calm, like non-autistics are able to do. In fact, non-autistics don’t even seem to need to resort to having to reason with themselves at all - they just shrug it off (or maybe feel a bit annoyed at the inconvenience), and carry on with their day. How do they do that?!! To me it’s like an apocalyptic event – another one. My whole life has been one long apocalypse. (Yes, I am exaggerating – but only slightly!)

And the thing is I know what to do when this happens. I check with the neighbours to see if theirs is off too (a bit of an ordeal in itself, no matter that most of my neighbours are very nice, because I suffer social anxiety), which eliminates the worry that it’s just happening to me; and then I phone the water supplier to find out if there’s a leak in the area or work being done. In every instance there has been some good reason for it, and they’ve had the water back on within a few hours.

Yet I approach every new incident as if this one is going to have no reason or solution for it, and I am never going to have water again! It doesn’t matter that the evidence is that I have never experienced drought, and that there’s no logical reason why it should suddenly occur now. This I do not find reassuring. My logic is that just because it’s never happened yet doesn’t mean it isn’t going to: in fact it’s almost a guarantee that it is because I’m long overdue! And the thing is I cannot offer any explanation, reasonable or otherwise, as to why I think like this. My friend tells me that this gloomy outlook also appears to be part of the autism, though I’m not certain whether that means that this too is hard-wired, or learnt. Either way it’s a pain in the arse!

Now today, for some reason, I seemed to panic more than usual, because I approached doing everything in the wrong order. I didn’t check with the neighbours first, I phoned the water supplier, who of course asked if I’d checked, and then asked me to do so. Unfortunately what they asked was that I check with my neighbour in the downstairs flat, which I told them I couldn’t do because I don’t talk to him anymore. They finally suggested that I check with some of the other neighbours, which I said I can do.

And I did do. And, do you know, none of them were aware that the water had been switched off until I spoke to them? And none of them reacted like I did – no panic, no worry, no anxiety; no wondering how am I going to cook lunch, and stick to my plan?! Does no-one else use water like I do? Does no-one drink the stuff, or use the toilet, throughout the day? Am I responsible for half the world’s drought?!

I have no idea what impression I left the neighbours with, but by this time the impression I had created in the mind of the person at the other end of the phone does not bear thinking about – dippy, neurotic woman with a brain the size of a pea. Nor was this image improved by my having to call back later and inform them that I thought I might have phoned the wrong water supplier!

As it turned out, this was the case. Oh joy! I spent an hour after I got off the phone to the wrong supplier waiting for them to get back to me with news, only to realise the mistake I’d probably made. The thing is we have two suppliers – one deals with the sewerage (lovely!), and the other actually supplies our water - and people accuse me of complicating everything! So I finally got in touch with the right one, and found out instantly that there was, indeed, a burst water pipe in the village where I live, and that it was being repaired, and would be completed within a couple of hours.

As I write this the water has been back on for over an hour (sooner than they estimated) so I am not composing this whilst in a state of advanced dehydration - parched to death, and suffering from mental confusion due to the lack of fluid to my brain. No: the mental confusion is entirely normal for me, so please don’t all rush at once to come and drown me with fluids! I’ve decided that after I’ve died and am rehydrated (I mean reincarnated, but it’s much the same thing, really!) I want to come back as a camel. I don’t imagine that camels panic about the lack of water in the desert. Or perhaps they do? You never can tell with camels – like you never can tell with autistics!

Art Failure!

Oh dear, I’ve discovered something which gives me a justifiable reason for hoarding rubbish – it’s called ART! More precisely, it’s crafts. And, to be even more specific, at the moment it’s actually papier mache. Prior to this it was decoupage – I was going to decoupage everything in sight: I still might do so once this obsession has worn off. In fact I can even combine the two things and decoupage my papier mached creations – how great is that?! Well, it would be if I could ever take the plunge and make a start on the bloody thing!

I love making things, but what I seem to love even more is collecting stuff with which to be creative, and obsessively thinking and reading about the activity. I’ve already come up with half a dozen ideas for what to make with this particular craft form, not to mention having rescued numerous materials which would normally get thrown in the recycling bin. I’ve even bought the additional necessary items required to get going (the flour for making the paste, and balloons for the first easy project). All this, plus having deluged myself with research on-line about how to make paste, how to make pulp (how many different recipes for making the same paste and pulp does one person need?!), what techniques to use, and numerous inspirational guidelines for what to make. Noah’s flood was a light shower compared to this!

And yet I continue to look and, in the process, manage to avoid taking the BIG LEAP of having a go myself. It also has the contrary effect of dampening my enthusiasm for the whole idea, as it starts to get more and more complicated - whose advice is the best?; which instructions should I follow?; how am I ever going to be able to make anything like the things I’ve seen created by other people on some of these sites?; what if it doesn’t work?; should I even bother?!

Ah yes, it’s the Cycle Of Doom! It’s the way I approach everything new (and not-so-new) in life, especially when it’s something that’s meant to be enjoyable. It seems to go like this:-

 First we have a spark (or conflagration!) of interest in a new idea or activity;

 Then the fire gets fuelled by plenty of petrol (meaning I start thinking, reading, talking, and dreaming about it all the time – commonly known as obsessing!);

 I “plan” to do it (this is my version of a plan, which means a kind of vague wandering in my mind going over the instructions again and again, and, if required for chosen activity, start buying or hoarding things for it – one of my favourite parts of the whole process!);

 And then I procrastinate about making a start, as I worry about how and where to begin, what the end result will be like, whether I can actually do it, whether I’ve understood the instructions properly, what a waste of materials it will be if I get it wrong, what will I do with it if I get it right, where will I house all my creative efforts (having, as I do, very little space to spare, and visualising being snowed under in an avalanche of solidified paper!), what will I do instead of this if I discover that I either don’t enjoy it or am useless at it, and what will I do for my next project if I ever get this one finished! As you may have noticed from my list of worries there’s no logical progression from one to another, and they generally all descend on me together – it’s like being mugged by a bunch of dufflepuds! (For amplification please read ‘The Voyage Of The Dawntreader’ by C S Lewis.);

 By this time I’m almost in a state of meltdown, my whole happiness has become dependent upon the success (or otherwise) of my ability to make a bowl out of a few bits of newspaper stuck onto a balloon: everything else in the world has paled into insignificance, to the point that if I don’t manage to prevail then all the meaning to my life will be lost and, basically, there will remain no reason to go on.
You think I jest? You think I exaggerate? If you’re non-autistic you probably do: if you’re autistic you’ll likely know what I’m talking about and know that I don’t, that it’s no laughing matter .... at least, not while it’s happening!;

 Then finally, after reaching a crescendo of anticipatory dread and anxiety (with, if I’m lucky, possibly a smidgeon of excitement lurking guiltily in the background!), the magic moment materialises and I take the plunge. Well, actually, it’s more like dipping a toe timorously in the water, in case something hideous is hiding ready to leap out and get me – like, perhaps, an unforeseen bout of enthusiasm!

So, there’s the Cycle: and here’s the really thrilling thing – I get to go through it with every single project I undertake! Yes, every time I come to the end of making one article I have the great good fortune to have to endure the exact same process, with no omissions, for the next creation. There’s no “once you’ve taken the plunge the first time, the next will be easier” for me. No: I’m always wary of sticking my toe in the water, even when it’s the same water and I’ve been keeping a check on it to make sure that no-one changes it or introduces something untoward during a moment when I might have been off my guard – people are like that, you know, always wanting to tweak things!


BREAKING NEWS!!! AUTISTIC WOMAN TAKES PLUNGE INTO PAPIER MACHE!!!

Not literally, of course, but yes I have made a start and, in the attempt, braved the Cycle of Doom 2 – The Revenge! Yes, this is where, having survived the first, I’m hit by the Second Wave of Doom – very similar to the original, with just slight modifications to take into account the fact that I’m now doing, rather than just thinking about doing, whichever activity it is that I’m trying to avoid!

I’ve also discovered that I can’t blow up a balloon! Seriously: I have seemingly forgotten how to do it. The instructions, simple as they are, just don’t compute. I know I used to be able to do it, but it seems that, as with all things connected with being an Asperger, if I don’t keep up a consistent practise then, for some bizarre reason, I forget how to do it (I swear I’d forget how to breathe properly if I didn’t have to think about it for yoga!). And since balloon-blowing hasn’t played much part in my life, not really being a necessary skill for living (unless you have children, are one of those balloon artists who make strange shapes out of them for a living, or do papier bloody mache!), the technique has deserted me. Which is a bit of a bugger considering that it now appears to be a requisite for my newly-acquired interest in the paper mashing arts. I’ll just have to buy a balloon pump – it’s either that or go around asking people if they can blow up a balloon for me; and then I’d have to explain to them that I don’t mean that I want them to use an explosive to blast the thing to smithereens – just in case they’re literal too!

So I’ve ended up having to use a bowl to make, of all things, a bowl! And I’ve also ended up having to dispense with most of the ‘rubbish’ that I’d managed to accumulate in the space of a week because it turns out to be not very useful. This should come as no surprise, really, as I also have an innate ability for being incapable of knowing what’s important and what isn’t, which translates as being able to dispense with what matters whilst holding on like a limpet to what doesn’t! So I think that, in an attempt to copy the Egyptians, I shall have all of my most treasured worldly goods buried with me to take into the afterlife – which means that I’ll be surrounded by papier mache sculptures and, rather than bury me, someone will just need to strike a match and I’ll go up in flames. Performance art!