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Different . . . Not Less. Temple Grandin
Читать онлайн.Название Different . . . Not Less
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isbn 9781935274735
Автор произведения Temple Grandin
Жанр Биографии и Мемуары
Издательство Ingram
ANNA’S INTRODUCTION
Since July 2008, I have worked for the Berrien County Mental Health Authority as a psychiatric rehabilitation practitioner and certified peer-support specialist at the Riverwood Center. I work both one on one and in group settings with individuals with severe mental illness, facilitating their recovery. I oversee a number of recovery- and wellness-orientated workshops and classes. I do benefits counseling, housing, and sometimes employment. I am also an advocate for the mentally ill and sometimes speak publicly on mental illness and my own experience with a severe mental illness.
I consider myself fortunate to work where I do and to have an understanding supervisor, who gives me the freedom to be myself. I work on a number of committees, both at work and on the state level, and I have grown both professionally and personally as a result. I am able to incorporate several of my likes into the work I do, namely literature research and review and curriculum development. One aspect of work I am not fond of is documentation, because I find writing so difficult and intimidating. I feel awkward and sometimes have trouble finding the right words.
I have experienced some interpersonal problems at work. In the past, I had difficulty understanding the role of a coworker and made some terrific blunders. I have said things I ought not to and misunderstood what was said to me. The social aspects of life have always presented a problem, but I am working hard to “be nice.”
I’ve been such a free, stubborn spirit for so long, that I have had some difficulty at work adjusting to supervision. After 3 years of employment, I just learned that one asks one’s supervisor if one may take time off. I thought one just told. This has been a struggle to learn and remember.
Lars, my son, lives in Napa Valley and is pursuing a degree in computer science. He’s researching topics such as augmented reality and human-machine interfaces. He would like to bring cutting-edge technology, such as head-up (transparent) displays and intuitive input interfaces, into everyday use. He supports himself and his education by working as a janitor. He’s a union steward and a classified senate vice president at the college at which he works. (As he explained it to me, the union is the negotiating body at the school. The senate is a governance body. He represents the nonteaching staff.)
Else, my daughter, is an artist and an integral part of the Sebastopol alternative art community in California. She is currently working with colored pencil on birch panels. Else is also a costume designer and art director for an indie rock band called Baby Seal Club. With a group of friends, she formed a large community garden, which provides her with quite a bit of her own food.
Growing up, Else took it upon herself to teach me about social cues. “You didn’t have special ed,” she quipped. “You had children.” She used to tell me in the grocery store, “Mom, don’t point—it’s rude!”
It is important to note that both of my children believe they were profoundly affected by my experience with bipolar disorder, anxiety, and an autism spectrum disorder. Lars has told me that he is now in the finishing stages of working through childhood issues. He believes that the biggest impediment to a more healthy childhood was the almost complete lack of information on how to deal with both his and my symptoms and idiosyncrasies. He also has an autism spectrum disorder, although he feels he is now “without symptoms.”
CHILDHOOD AND YOUNG ADULT YEARS
With the exception of Stanley, my twin brother, I am the eldest of five children. Becky and Barbara are 1½ and 2½ years younger. John is 10 years younger. I tended to play mostly with Becky. Stanley and Barbara played together, as I recollect. Since John was so much younger, he was like “an only child.”
I remember playing with Stanley’s trucks in the sandbox and in the dirt. I colored and painted, read books, put together puzzles, and played with dolls. I made rose petal perfume and covered myself in mud. I pretended to be a pioneer and an Indian. One magical Iowa day, I played all by myself with little rocks in the dirt by the side of the road. Every summer, I designed a new handwriting style to use during the coming school year. I rode my bike, executed insects with Becky (by hanging them or decapitating them), played in the haymow (piles of hay) in the barn, and made forts. I watched cartoons and Shirley Temple movies at the neighbor’s house. I was fascinated with exploration.
But I was not a happy child.
I Was Taught Manners and Punctuality
I was brought up in a conservative Christian home. I attended the Seventh-day Adventist church, was baptized when I was 12 (and took it very seriously), and attended private Seventh-day Adventist schools. As kids, we were expected to obey and were taught manners and to say “please,” “thank you,” and “excuse me.” I was taught to be neat and clean. While I did not always keep my room straight as a child—I shared it with my two sisters—my drawers were always ship-shape. I was taught to let my mother know where I would be and when I would be home. “How come you trust Anna?” Becky queried. Because I was always where I said I’d be, and I was punctual in returning home. I was given chores and was expected to help clean the house every Friday afternoon in preparation for the Sabbath. I played “sink the saucers” (washed the dishes), ironed, and was expected to keep my room clean. Every Friday, I dusted the living room. It was all I had time for on Friday, because I felt compelled to dust everything—every book, shelf, rung, furniture leg, figurine, and picture frame. I also had other irregular jobs, like sweeping the walk or helping my mother can fruit in the summertime.
Early on, I was taught to know the difference between right and wrong and to always tell the truth. I was also taught to respect adults and refer to them by title. My parents emphasized the importance of generosity. One winter, I gave my sister, Becky, my favorite coat as a nice gesture. Later on, I found out that the one I kept for myself was actually her favorite!
When I was 10, my little brother, John, was born. It was my responsibility to help my mother care for him. I protected him as best as I could from Becky, who used to try and bribe him to do things for her. When he was 2 years old, I saved his life by plucking him from a stream—he was sliding down toward a precipice and a waterfall. I saved my mother once, too. We were tubing in rough water, and she fell off into the rapids. I grabbed her and pulled her over to the riverbank, sputtering and thrashing. She had never learned to swim.
I Was Educated to Value Art and Music
I was raised to value art and music, the accoutrements of “culture.” We were the only family I knew that attended classical music concerts and visited art museums. As a child, I once invited my friend, Suzanne, to accompany us to a Sunday afternoon concert at Redlands University. She declined. Growing up, the only music I listened to was on the classical music radio station out of Los Angeles. I remember lying on the carpet by the radio in the evening, listening to someone playing the piano. When I was 10, I started taking piano lessons. We all took music lessons, but the piano became my instrument. Sometimes, when I practiced, Becky would stand behind me with a paring knife at my back. She told me that if I moved, she’d stab me. While she may not have done it intentionally, she was clumsy enough to do so accidentally. I was afraid.
I was taught to value the natural world. Every Saturday afternoon, we went to the country. We often went camping—to the beach, the mountains, or the desert. We were free, then, or at least I was. We collected rocks, shells, insects, and flowers. I knew the names of things then. My father thought I would become an entomologist. Close. I did graduate work in entomology, I just didn’t complete the thesis.
Teen and Young Adult Years
On the Sabbath, I went to work at the hospital with my dad. Sometimes I was scared of my mother’s driving. Going to summer camp was a source of discomfort. I was afraid of my cousins. I was also afraid of a girl named Ann, as well as older children. I lay awake for hours at night. My mother chewed too loud.
When I was 17, I discovered the lutenist Julian Bream and Elizabethan