The Kitty Seal of Approval
For some time now, my career counselor at school has been nudging me to consider getting the help of an aide. As I've mentioned before, I spend most of my time teetering on the edge of independence. I can feed myself, keep myself and my apartment clean, pay my bills, and do all basic and most instrumental ADLs by myself--but only if I spend all of my time on them.
My history bears this out. Even as a teenager, I used to spend two hours in the shower if my mom didn't stand outside the door and yell at me to get a move on. When I left the house at seventeen, I only managed to survive because the place I moved to was a cult-like environment that made all of my decisions for me; and even then, I got in trouble for not being able to make it to dinner (required of everyone) because I was too tired from working. Looking back on it, I'm not sure what my roommates thought of this strange girl who showered perhaps twice a week, skipped dinner and breakfast and gained weight anyhow (I usually ate huge lunches), and didn't have any friends. Even after I finally managed to learn to keep myself clean and fed, more advanced things were still beyond me. I learned to drive at twenty-five; learned to use a bus system at twenty-seven. I'm still unsure about how to order in a sit-down restaurant and I have yet to independently make a large purchase (computer, new furniture, car, etc.). But because I can do my own basic ADLs, I'm independent. I live on my own.
As a result of those barely-adequate independent-living skills, I often burn out. That happened last summer. I made the mistake of scheduling myself for a full class load when I was already somewhat stressed, and predictably, I ended up with another near-suicidal depressive episode. My disorganization increased; I missed appointments, then started missing classes. I forgot what day it was, then forgot whether it was day or night. Eventually I had to drop all of my classes and stay at home, spending basically all of my time just keeping afloat.
Thankfully I know what to look for, and loss of interest in my special interests was the red flag that led me to explain the problem to my psychiatrist. I needed some help paying for medication, but as time passed and I had some time to regain my equilibrium, I pulled out of it. And now, I can happily say I am once again in remission.
Back to the nudging about the aide. Toward the end of the summer, I finally said yes. I was very apprehensive about the concept. I've heard a lot about people having their decisions made for them or even being outright abused. I worried that this person, instead of helping me get to appointments, organize my homework, and cope with new situations, might decide that they knew better than I did how to live my life.
But finally I said yes. I had to. I simply am not capable (at least not yet) of independently keeping up with all the small tasks that are required of a college student. So I was assigned a "transition coach" (which, I'm told, is a person who can help disabled freshman college students adjust to college--ironic, since I'm a senior; honestly, I think perhaps they're called that instead of an aide because they thought that would make people feel better about hiring one).
I met my "transition coach", S., last week. She is tall, a cat person, and has a little daughter who is in the first grade. She swears by organizers and stopwatches. She's not new to her job; she's been a PA for a while. And, most encouraging, the first time I met S., she mentioned that "You should wear the stopwatch, so you won't leave it somewhere." I have never in my life met someone who understood that about me. Depending on my state of mind, if something is not right in front of me, it may well be irrelevant. Most people seem to be able to somehow keep track of things they are not currently thinking about, like the fact that they've got to go to class even though they are currently reading an interesting book; or the fact that they have an appointment to get to, even though they are currently at home.
One of the first things I asked S. was, "Are you allergic to cats?" She said no; she liked cats. Which is good, because I have two very shy cats--Tiny, who used to be a stray and still fears thunderstorms, sneezes, and new things; and Christy, who spent her days at the shelter hiding and still needs to squeeze into small spaces to feel safe.
The first time S. came to my apartment, she sat on my bean-bag chair and we discussed how I might keep track of my homework, bills, appointments, and similar. Tiny hid. Christy hid at first--but then she got curious. She crept out of hiding, low to the floor, very cautious, and sniffed at S.'s shoe. Then she darted away. After S. left, both cats sniffed thoroughly around the bean-bag chair, investigating every molecule of new-person scent. I gave them treats for being patient with us.
The next time S. came, we went shopping and I finally bought some of the things I had been needing for a long time, as well as a new planner. S. brought her daughter--also a cat person--and when we returned to my apartment, Tiny was sitting in the windowsill, watching us very cautiously. As we carried things inside, causing the usual new-thing upheaval for the cats, Tiny crouched under a chair, eyes big, watchful. The little girl, obviously pleased at meeting a cat, understood when I explained that Tiny was afraid of new people, and didn't try to approach him. And when I couldn't find Christy and decided to bring out the treat bag to lure her out when S. left, S. advised I should text her when I found Christy. I did: "Cat found in closet, lectured for making me worry. See you Monday at 2." I was exhausted, and crawled gratefully into bed not long afterward.
On Monday, S. came in carrying a big posterboard with all of my homework assignments on it, and we spent some time figuring out homework, class, bills, paperwork, and appointments. As we sat on the floor around the posterboard, Christy casually approached us, first requesting petting from me, then sniffing S., then briefly headbutting her hand in the way that cats do when they want to get your attention. And then, to my surprise, Christy went into her "I'm cute" routine, in which she flops onto her side, then rolls onto her back, waving her paws in the air and showing her snow-white belly. It's an irresistible thing to see, and until now, I'm the only one she's done it for. I'm convinced she knows exactly how cute humans find it.
Even Tiny got in on the act. While he didn't actually make contact with S., he did wander "casually" into the room and head-butt me for attention. Having elicited his requisite head-to-tail petting from me, he "casually" wandered off.
So S. gets the kitty seal of approval. Somehow, that reassures me. If a person can be respectful enough of a cat's needs to earn a friendly relationship with two of the shyest cats I've ever met short of outright ferals, then it's more likely that she'll be respectful of an autistic person's needs too. And if she isn't? Well--I've got claws. And so have my cats, though theirs are far less figurative.
My history bears this out. Even as a teenager, I used to spend two hours in the shower if my mom didn't stand outside the door and yell at me to get a move on. When I left the house at seventeen, I only managed to survive because the place I moved to was a cult-like environment that made all of my decisions for me; and even then, I got in trouble for not being able to make it to dinner (required of everyone) because I was too tired from working. Looking back on it, I'm not sure what my roommates thought of this strange girl who showered perhaps twice a week, skipped dinner and breakfast and gained weight anyhow (I usually ate huge lunches), and didn't have any friends. Even after I finally managed to learn to keep myself clean and fed, more advanced things were still beyond me. I learned to drive at twenty-five; learned to use a bus system at twenty-seven. I'm still unsure about how to order in a sit-down restaurant and I have yet to independently make a large purchase (computer, new furniture, car, etc.). But because I can do my own basic ADLs, I'm independent. I live on my own.
As a result of those barely-adequate independent-living skills, I often burn out. That happened last summer. I made the mistake of scheduling myself for a full class load when I was already somewhat stressed, and predictably, I ended up with another near-suicidal depressive episode. My disorganization increased; I missed appointments, then started missing classes. I forgot what day it was, then forgot whether it was day or night. Eventually I had to drop all of my classes and stay at home, spending basically all of my time just keeping afloat.
Thankfully I know what to look for, and loss of interest in my special interests was the red flag that led me to explain the problem to my psychiatrist. I needed some help paying for medication, but as time passed and I had some time to regain my equilibrium, I pulled out of it. And now, I can happily say I am once again in remission.
Back to the nudging about the aide. Toward the end of the summer, I finally said yes. I was very apprehensive about the concept. I've heard a lot about people having their decisions made for them or even being outright abused. I worried that this person, instead of helping me get to appointments, organize my homework, and cope with new situations, might decide that they knew better than I did how to live my life.
But finally I said yes. I had to. I simply am not capable (at least not yet) of independently keeping up with all the small tasks that are required of a college student. So I was assigned a "transition coach" (which, I'm told, is a person who can help disabled freshman college students adjust to college--ironic, since I'm a senior; honestly, I think perhaps they're called that instead of an aide because they thought that would make people feel better about hiring one).
I met my "transition coach", S., last week. She is tall, a cat person, and has a little daughter who is in the first grade. She swears by organizers and stopwatches. She's not new to her job; she's been a PA for a while. And, most encouraging, the first time I met S., she mentioned that "You should wear the stopwatch, so you won't leave it somewhere." I have never in my life met someone who understood that about me. Depending on my state of mind, if something is not right in front of me, it may well be irrelevant. Most people seem to be able to somehow keep track of things they are not currently thinking about, like the fact that they've got to go to class even though they are currently reading an interesting book; or the fact that they have an appointment to get to, even though they are currently at home.
One of the first things I asked S. was, "Are you allergic to cats?" She said no; she liked cats. Which is good, because I have two very shy cats--Tiny, who used to be a stray and still fears thunderstorms, sneezes, and new things; and Christy, who spent her days at the shelter hiding and still needs to squeeze into small spaces to feel safe.
The first time S. came to my apartment, she sat on my bean-bag chair and we discussed how I might keep track of my homework, bills, appointments, and similar. Tiny hid. Christy hid at first--but then she got curious. She crept out of hiding, low to the floor, very cautious, and sniffed at S.'s shoe. Then she darted away. After S. left, both cats sniffed thoroughly around the bean-bag chair, investigating every molecule of new-person scent. I gave them treats for being patient with us.
The next time S. came, we went shopping and I finally bought some of the things I had been needing for a long time, as well as a new planner. S. brought her daughter--also a cat person--and when we returned to my apartment, Tiny was sitting in the windowsill, watching us very cautiously. As we carried things inside, causing the usual new-thing upheaval for the cats, Tiny crouched under a chair, eyes big, watchful. The little girl, obviously pleased at meeting a cat, understood when I explained that Tiny was afraid of new people, and didn't try to approach him. And when I couldn't find Christy and decided to bring out the treat bag to lure her out when S. left, S. advised I should text her when I found Christy. I did: "Cat found in closet, lectured for making me worry. See you Monday at 2." I was exhausted, and crawled gratefully into bed not long afterward.
On Monday, S. came in carrying a big posterboard with all of my homework assignments on it, and we spent some time figuring out homework, class, bills, paperwork, and appointments. As we sat on the floor around the posterboard, Christy casually approached us, first requesting petting from me, then sniffing S., then briefly headbutting her hand in the way that cats do when they want to get your attention. And then, to my surprise, Christy went into her "I'm cute" routine, in which she flops onto her side, then rolls onto her back, waving her paws in the air and showing her snow-white belly. It's an irresistible thing to see, and until now, I'm the only one she's done it for. I'm convinced she knows exactly how cute humans find it.
Even Tiny got in on the act. While he didn't actually make contact with S., he did wander "casually" into the room and head-butt me for attention. Having elicited his requisite head-to-tail petting from me, he "casually" wandered off.
So S. gets the kitty seal of approval. Somehow, that reassures me. If a person can be respectful enough of a cat's needs to earn a friendly relationship with two of the shyest cats I've ever met short of outright ferals, then it's more likely that she'll be respectful of an autistic person's needs too. And if she isn't? Well--I've got claws. And so have my cats, though theirs are far less figurative.