Page 3 of Saint
My father was a drug trafficker.
Is…
Is not going to be anymore…
Whatever. He’d set our family up well. Now, at the tail end of that narrative, he was seeking legitimacy. Because of his occupation, financially, I never wanted anything. My parents made sure of that. Emotionally, they tried their best with the knowledge they were equipped with to support me. Mentally? Socially? Well, that was the reason why I was sitting across from Dr. Gibson.
Back when I was younger, seeing a psychologist, psychiatrist – hell, any -ist was often taboo for Black families. Now, as a grown man and army veteran, the taboo of bettering my health didn’t concern me. Anyone with a problem with me seeking professional guidance didn’t concern me. If what I’d been experiencing all my life had a name, I was eager to know despite my age.
An unrestrained chuckle manifested from the depths of my throat, causing Dr. Gibson to pique a perfectly arched brow. I wonder if she knew that if she continued waxing away at those hairs, they’d eventually stop growing back. One day, she’d be fifty with no more eyebrows. Imagining her face void of them caused me to grimace. What a shame, too. Dr. Gibson was fine as hell.
A conversation furnished by those thoughts would have taken place back in the day before I understood that certain things weren’t socially acceptable to say aloud. I’d go into depth about the significance of eyebrows and their impact on physical appearance before divulging their actual purpose. Now, far better equipped in allistic engagement, I wouldn’t dare have a conversation like that.
My, how far I’ve come.
There was a host of shit I used to do that wasn’t socially acceptable. Wholly aware of that, I tried to transform into the perfect puzzle piece. I tried to fit in with the conundrum of society. I tried to fake my interest in conversations about sports and shit that I could care less about.
Dr. Gibson called it masking. A thing autistic people did to fit in –altering our behavior, words, inflection, et cetera. Masking didn’t always work in my favor. There was a perpetual scale weighing in my head the positives and negatives of being embraced by my peers versus simply embracing myself.
I chose the latter, accepting that it would lead me down a lonely path. My brothers and my baby sister were all the damn friends I needed. Honestly, they grated my nerves enough to where I often wondered why I needed friends. The concern weighed much heavier on my mother than on me. I wasn’t concerned about friends at all. I was more concerned with the effect of acidification on the ocean.
Hyperintelligent, socially awkward, special rules for engagement with the world around me… Shit. The world denied me an embrace me for my differences, so instead of trying to become someone I wasn’t, I mastered how to mask as required. I faked it through high school, basic training, through two tours in Iraq... Whatever was required to ensure my survival, I did it.
As an outsider, I accepted the notion that I didn’t belong to the world around me. I’d learned from my past experiences. Through observation, I created a manual of my own on how to navigate life. My guidebook was slightly different from the one everyone else received earlier on – ingrained in them. I didn’t have that luxury. I had autism.
“Autism is an umbrella term referring to a range of neurodevelopmental disorders that affect how one might socialize, learn, or interact with others. There is no one type, and it is often referred to as a spectrum of conditions ranging from mild to, for lack of a better term, severe.
“Being autistic doesn’t mean you have a disease that needs to be treated. This diagnosis serves to assist you in better understanding yourself. In understanding Saint, you’ll find and develop ways to cope with the demands of society,” Dr. Gibson explained.
“It sounds like you may also experience sensory processing disorder. I can assist you with that by recommending an occupational therapist and perhaps a low dose of–”
“Nah. I’m good on all that.”
I’d lost count of the number of times I’d fucked up in the social world, attempting to pick up on cues and rules to integrate myself into society. It was challenging and often embarrassing. Now, the confirmation that there was nothing wrong with my belief that I was indeed different from others was wholly freeing.
“What does coping look like, Doc?”
The dialogue between us had gone from dull to intriguing. Fully invested now, I shifted, sitting up in my seat. The adjustment made her hike one of those perfect brows to the sun.
“It can look like something different based on what your needs are. For some, it may be getting community support. For others, it can mean going to therapy. For a select group, it may be getting medication to treat anxiety or depression.
“Each individual with autism may have a distinct set of strengths and challenges. No two are the same. I’m of the notion that you may be erring toward what used to be called Asperger’s syndrome. This is distinguished from other types of autism by strong intellectual ability and verbal language skills.
“You mentioned banging your head to soothe yourself. In clinical terms, we call that stimming or stimulating. Does any of this sound right to you, Saint?”
My phone drew my attention away from the woman sitting before me. Not bothering to issue a response, I observed a text message from my brother.
Chicken came home to roost.
Supreme
Returning my attention to Dr. Gibson, I tucked my phone away. “Unfortunately, our time is up, Doc.”
Ignoring the bewildered look on her face or the way she scurried to check her watch, which I already knew read 10:01, I stood, announcing my departure. I had a bird to cook.
Victoria
“Good morning, Ms. Jacob.”