LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

College Was a Disaster

      If high school had been tough, college was an utter disaster. At first, I resisted the whole idea, but there did not seem to be a feasible alternative. I had very little guidance in choosing a career path. A large IBM headquarters had been built in a nearby town, and the people who worked there were paid a much higher salary than anyone else around. I never learned what it was the IBM folks did, but it was assumed that all the “bright” kids would try to get such a job, if not at IBM then in a similar firm. In preparation for such a position, one had to go to college. The entire prospect scared the living daylights out of me, but I was completely unaware that there were other options.

      If a young Aspie came to me today and asked for advice, I would say, “Above all, choose a work environment in which you can thrive and be productive.” Not everyone is cut out for the corporate life. Would you be happier working on a ranch? In a zoo? Designing sets in a theater? Punching tickets on a train? As for me, it took many years—and many false starts—before I realized that work does not have to entail a windowless cubicle or a forbidding high-rise.

      In the end, I selected Catholic University in Washington, DC. I selected it for no legitimate reason other than I thought it would be exciting to live in the nation’s capital.

      It was a bad fit from the beginning. The student body was homogenous to the extreme—all white and middle- to upper-middle class, all perfectly attired and perfectly behaved. I found no diversity of thought, either. Somehow, it seemed I had chosen the only university in the l970s without its share of hippies, counter-culturalists, or freethinkers.

       I Wanted to Be Social but Was Rebuffed

      I wanted very much to be social. I tried very hard to make friends, but I was constantly rebuffed. I tried to establish relationships with young men, to no avail. Unable to find a warm welcome on campus, I spent a lot of my time in the downtown area, running wild in the streets and attempting to latch onto the radical groups who eventually rejected me, as well.

      In truth, I was not an attractive person when I was in college. My parents, for all their poor nurturing skills, had at least provided me with some structure. They cooked my meals, did my laundry, saw to it that I went to bed at a reasonable hour, and got me off to school the next day, adequately dressed and groomed. Without their guidance, I did what was right in my own eyes. I bought an oversized khaki jacket from the army supply store and wore it day in and day out. What had begun as innocent idealism had devolved into full-blown anarchism. I was so full of resentment that I wanted to bring the world crashing down with me. I walked around campus muttering about the coming revolution and the “military industrial complex.” My hair was uncombed and uncut. Showers grew more and more infrequent. I plastered my dorm room with controversial posters.

      The school administration attributed my weird behavior to drugs, which was a fair assumption. Illegal drugs were rampant on college campuses in those days, and it was known that students who abused drugs acted in strange ways. In truth, I never really took drugs, but the college officials searched my dorm room regularly anyway.

      Things came to a head at the end of my third year, when rumors swirled around campus that I had attempted to do someone an injury. Although the rumors were completely false, no one came to my defense. I was subjected to a psychiatric examination. I must have passed the exam, because I was readmitted to the university. It was too late, however, to salvage my college career or my faith in humanity. I spent the next 2 years holed up in an off-campus apartment, gorging myself on my favorite foods and rarely attending classes.

      Once I graduated, then I had a real problem—what was I supposed to do next? I was in my early 20s and had absolutely no clue as to how to live an adult life. If I had not been rescued, I do not know what would have become of me.

       EMPLOYMENT

       A Kind Aunt Helped Me Get My Life Together

      My dad’s older sister, Aunt Rose, graciously took me in. She cleaned me up, gave me a bit of a polish, and provided me with some minimal social skills. I returned to the village in which I had lived as a child, and she taught me to bake bread and drive a car. It was far from easy. When I first went to live with her, I had the social graces of one of those jungle boys in the old movies, “Raised by Wolves.” I may as well have been.

      Up until this time, I had never worked a day in my life. I hadn’t done any babysitting as a teenager, presumably because I had fallen to pieces and my parents wanted to keep me at home. In high school I did do some volunteer work for antiwar political candidates, but by the time I went to college, I really was in no condition to work.

      Aunt Rose helped me look for work. She called up her friends and neighbors and lined up job interviews. She dragged me to career counselors. She found me temporary positions as a lunchroom monitor for the school district, an election registrar, a dog walker, and an office clerk. However, nothing really panned out long-term, so when my parents offered me the opportunity to go back to school, I jumped at it. Reading books and taking tests had never been a problem for me. I earned my master of arts degree, and then I went to law school. Aunt Rose inquired whether I would not be more comfortable with some “quirky, offbeat job” (her words). She was unaware that I was an Aspie, of course, but she was a keen judge of character. Unfortunately, it would be another few years before I listened to her.

       Getting and Losing Jobs

      I was 30 years old when I got my first “real” job, working for a lawyer in Atlantic City, New Jersey. The year I spent working in Atlantic City was the happiest of my life since junior high. I had gotten the job entirely on my own merits—no one had called up a friend of a friend. No agency sent me. I had not even responded to an ad. I had just knocked on the door of an attorney who happened to have an important brief due the next day, which he had not even started to compose. I was so proud to be employed. I felt authentic, legitimate, and grown-up. People no longer walked through me. They talked to me with respect. Atlantic City was a good fit for me, too; it almost felt like home. In those days, the city was transitioning from a quaint, rundown, seaside resort to the bustling “Las Vegas of the East” that it is today. There was enough of the quirky old town left to make me feel that I belonged, while I could enjoy the adventure and excitement of venturing into the sparkling new casinos that sprung up at an amazing rate. For the first time, I had money of my own; I no longer had to beg my parents for every dollar. My boss’s secretary and I developed a friendly working relationship. I located an apartment with a landlady who was sympathetic and kind. I made up my mind to stay and practice law in South Jersey for the rest of my life. That summer, I took the New Jersey bar exam. When I passed, my boss threw me a little party. My commitment to my new career was so strong that I put down 2 months’ salary on a secondhand Chevette, which I could drive to the courthouse on the mainland.

       I Never Saw the Social Warning Signs

      Like many Aspies, I never saw the warning signs, which, in retrospect, I am certain were there. Perhaps my boss was growing irritated with my quirky behavior. Perhaps I was tardy once too often. Perhaps I dressed too casually in his eyes. Maybe it was not all my fault. My boss was a lone wolf himself and simply may have had no desire for a permanent associate that he had to pay week in, week out, no matter what the workload. One Friday afternoon, my boss handed me my paycheck and announced, “This isn’t working out.” I was stunned and completely blindsided.

       A Kick in the Pants

      Losing that first job sent me into another tailspin. I hopped in my Chevette and headed west, looking for another place where I might feel that I belonged. I spent the next year on the road, sometimes picking up work along the way. For 6 months, I worked for a small-town lawyer in Colorado. He asked me to stay, but the twin demons of loneliness and homesickness landed me back on Aunt Rose’s front porch, begging her to take me in again. She agreed, but on one condition. Aunt Rose gave me what she called “a kick in the pants.” This time, there would be no “moping around.” I would have to work. Even though I experienced depression and anxiety, when I was working steadily, the depression receded. I am glad I found work

Скачать книгу