Am I subversive? An autistic person navigates the Open Floor and wonders how inclusive we really are

I was described as ‘subversive’ in the Open Floor mentor group the other day. It set me thinking about all the ways in which autistic modes of being are constantly interpreted / misinterpreted in allistic1 culture – often so thoroughly and insistently that eventually we as autistic people incorporate the interpretation as reality. Throughout my life I’ve repeatedly been referred to ‘subversive’, ‘anarchic’, ‘rebellious’ and other variations on that theme. Sometimes it has been with affection; other times it has come with a backwash of judgement and disapproval. Up to now, I’ve pretty much taken it on and defended it, as if it belonged to me, but there comes a moment when a tipping point is reached. Something’s got to fall off the top of the heap.

To me, subversive suggests an intention to subvert. But I’m actually not interested in disruption for its own sake. What you’re witnessing if you see me engage with Open Floor is just an autistic person engaging with Open Floor. I am really searching out ways of understanding and offering this work that feel authentic and meaningful for me, ways of being in it, both as a praxis and as a community of practitioners, that feel nourishing and supportive rather than dysregulating and overwhelming. As someone autistic, I often know only vaguely and two beats behind everyone else what is the ‘normal’ (read ‘allistic’) and expected response; and even then it’s a kind of intellectual apprehension; it doesn’t register on my internal compass. I seldom have an intrinsic sense of the ‘rightness’ of it being the way allistic people presume it’s going to be. So I am always wobbling on the pointy edge of producing what you expect me to produce or allowing the expression of what naturally wants to push through to the surface.

It’s challenging to be in a curriculum which is so fond of referring to itself as that, and in which the language of ‘teaching’ and ‘student’ is so valorised. Autistic people are most often our own teachers. We will research every angle, but in order truly to know, we have to take the whole thing apart and reinvent it, generally in wild, strange and unanticipated ways. We take nothing as given. As one of my autistic clients says, ‘It’s never enough to be told; I have to go through it myself to know for certain.’ This is why innovators and ground-breakers – those people who revise cultural, scientific and artistic understandings – are often autistic. Yet while the results may be revolutionary, the autistic person is usually far more absorbed in the stuff of their specialism than they are interested in what society makes of their break-through productions.2

It felt really, really good to shuck off ‘subversive’ ­and reframe it as what it actually is. And I’m grateful that the mentor group is the kind of receptive space where it feels possible to up-end perceptions in this way, knowing that different realities can be received and held. Not all spaces are like this.

I’d love for there to be more genuine inclusion on the Open Floor. My experience is that while there’s a wish and a willingness to include up to a point, it doesn’t extend far enough to motivate most of those who organise and facilitate actually to do things differently where this entails some disruption to their own habits and preferences. You can be included if you’re willing to make all the accommodations yourself. If you’re unable to stand, for instance, (I can’t for long), you can sit down during the standing circle, but – as if you don’t actually exist in the group – there will still be a standing circle.

It has been an enormous struggle – over many years of remaining upright through pain, fatigue and dizzy-faintness – for me to be able to stand up (sit down) for myself in this simple way on the dance floor. It takes A LOT of self-confidence to offer yourself as the big sore thumb in a large international workshop with a high-profile teacher who has not made any enquiry into the special needs of individual dancers on the floor. Make no mistake about it, this is a powerful statement. A teacher who is more involved in control than in listening and receiving may judge you as lazy, uncooperative, challenging, or, oh yes, subversive. Even in a small workshop with a relatively unknown facilitator, power dynamics are surely in play. Many of the people we as facilitators hold in our dance spaces are drawn to movement practice for reasons that make them vulnerable in multiple ways. They need our help in listening to their authentic needs and in holding their genuine boundaries. We have to take care that we are not only talking the good talk but are really engaged in helping them to do this work. For all of us, the extent to which we are managing to offer this kind of supportive inclusivity must be an ongoing open question.

It’s not that I haven’t received help like this – I have, and I’m super-, heart expandingly-grateful – but it was over a decade before I was able to make known that I needed it. It was like the crackling of glacial surfaces and an ice age coming to an end. We are all growing older, wiser and more decrepid, and as a result some of our spaces (I’m speaking here of the Five Rhythms and all of its children, of which Open Floor is the youngest) are becoming kinder, more open-minded, less attached to the delivery of cherished teachings and more responsive to the needs of the dancers in the room. I feel so anyway. I hope so.

I’m in another mentor group. We are seven autistic women. I told the group my ‘subversive’ story. These were a couple of the responses:

I totally recognise that. I’m often described as awkward, contrary, rebellious, perverse or non-conformist. Some are disapproving and others admiring, even envious. I’ve kind of taken on that identity with pride, but reframing it now, it’s all about our intention being misconstrued. I never set out to be rebellious, but I guess I’ve taken it on because I was being seen that way. There have been more than a few times when I wanted to say (and sometimes have said), ‘Actually that’s not my intention at all.’

I recognise this only too well. I get misinterpreted by a certain kind of person who thinks that my desire to play with concepts and excitedly share information is trying to prove I’m cleverer than them and that my willingness to do things that frighten other people is me being ambitious and having ideas ‘above my station’. I had a supervisor who was a classic example of this. I’m not ambitious in the way he believed. My motivation is around services for clients, or my desire to learn new things, or be creative, not to empire-build or grab opportunities for personal promotion.

It seems that it’s difficult for the neuro-majority to really ‘get’ that the way they process and perceive things is only one possible way of processing and perceiving. If you want to make an autistic person incandescent with rage, try telling them, ‘We’re all on the spectrum.’ We are not. People who are autistic – and only people who are autistic ­– are on the autism spectrum.3 Maybe the recital of the dread sentence is well intended; presumably it’s a misguided attempt at empathy; the problem is that it whitewashes and belittles the very real and unique difficulties that autistic people routinely face in allistic society. As one autistic woman commented, ‘You wouldn’t go up to someone in a wheelchair and tell them how you sprained your ankle once so you know how they feel, or say to someone with Alzheimer’s that you are really forgetful too.’

As I feel for an end point to this writing, it strikes me that ‘subversive’ as a descriptor is really a way of excluding. What ‘subverts’ is the thing that the school or the teacher or the teachings or the practice container is not yet elastic or expansive enough to encompass. By bringing our difference, our unexpectedness, the uniqueness of our perceptions, our left-field, autistic, one-directional determination and ‘cussedness’, together with our absolute commitment to honesty and authenticity, we can challenge the container to grow. And if it’s a good container – a vital, generative, evolving one – it will respond.

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1. Allistic: ‘non-autistic’. This is a good article about the language of autistic and other neurologies.

2. Steve Silberman’s acclaimed book Neurotribes is a a brilliant discussion of this.

3. I like this – very autistic – explanation of the autism spectrum.

Containers not contents: reflections from the Open Floor

For me, dance movement practice is essentially a surrender to emergence. It’s what happens when I slide away some door-like part of consciousness and allow movement to unspool through me. This arising-into-form is both essentially of me – so very personal – and at the same time much bigger and beyond.1 Facilitating dance movement is the work of holding a strong but elastic container in which this unforeseeable choreography can materialise. The purity of the vessel is important. The work isn’t about imposing content, directing attention or in some way imposing something on the spontaneous pressing-through of impulse into movement. Even intention feels suspect.

An autistic person is a goat, not a sheep, and I have always needed to follow my own trajectory, to cut loose from the prescribed curriculum, the required texts. I remember the immense sense of relief when I started my PhD. Finally, there was only me following only my own string into the centre of the labyrinth.

I seem to be – am – doing something with the Open Floor that is different from the thing everyone else is doing, and although it feels obvious to me, it appears to be difficult for other people (except the people I’m actually doing it with) to grasp. It’s a lovely, lonely situation. During the mentor group meeting on Friday, I wrote down:

I’m not trying to teach anything, but to create conditions in which the mover can become more regulated, and so their body can become the teacher. This is an organic process. As the nervous system falls into rhythm, the process naturally unfolds.

On reflection, perhaps this is a difference between teaching and therapy. The therapist gives less energy to explanation and more to opening opportunity for becoming and discovering.2

I don’t go into a dance space to teach Core Movement Principles, but they are offering me a language to identify and articulate what I see emerging on the floor. I work a lot with autistic people and with people with developmental trauma (sometimes they’re the same people). In this context, Activate and Settle speaks to me of a re-tuning of the nervous system, which needs to be able to undulate fluidly between parasympathetic and sympathetic in order for there to be well-being in the whole person. Towards and Away suggests a capacity to touch into and out of painful places.3 Ground speaks to how we find ourselves here and now, on this earth, in this body, in this room. We have a relationship to where we are – physically are – now. Looking through the frame of the Four Hungers, I can see that where my Small Group are at present, at the beginning of their journey together, is in the first Hunger – feeling into a sense of safety, finding or re-finding connection with themselves, expanding into their own internal capacity to create and to enjoy – and that we need to open towards the second Hunger (I with another) only very slowly and with attention to experience in tiny increments.

Clarifying what it is that I do, letting go of the imagined, self-imposed and ill-fitting project, and putting my feet back squarely in my own shoes has been an essential recalibration in locating myself in Open Floor work. I’m grateful for the permission, space and encouragement I’ve been offered to find myself and to work from that place. Still, it’s hard to keep standing in otherness. There’s no one to bounce off without odd tangents, and I’m constantly anxious that I’m about to be kicked out or brought to book.

If I have any doubts about the orientation I’m bringing to my work, what lays them to rest is the responses of the people I’m working with. I’ve been deeply touched to witness them in the process of movement and to hear their reflections on how this work is changing things for them. There’s something here for me about the potency of simplicity – of setting it up, trusting that it’s enough and having the faith to step back and allow it all to happen. It does take faith not to intervene, suggest and control but simply to go on holding the structure. Only that.

Being on this training has been for me so far a complex confection of willingness and resistance, belonging and feeling outside, being present and being energetically absent without leave. But it has made me put myself behind my own dance work in a way that up to now I hadn’t. That work has been happening for about six years off and on, but it has never quite had the courage of my convictions. It was a missing piece of me. Now it is taking its place at the table.

More about my dance movement work.

armsjohnand partner

1. Dan Siegel explains the neurological mechanism behind the feeling of being moved in Mindsight. If anyone can find the page reference, please tell me.

2. Because I’m on the teacher track, I’m not able to refer to myself as a therapist, or what I do as therapy, under the Open Floor banner. This is tricky, because I’m a Registered Somatic Movement Therapist and a certified yoga therapist and I’ve been working therapeutically for longer than I’ve been teaching, which is quite a lot of years. I wonder what Open Floor teachers who already work therapeutically with movement are going to do with ourselves. We’re not psychotherapists introducing movement into speech-based work either. We already work therapeutically with the person through the medium of the body.

3. ‘Pendulate’ in Somatic Experiencing language.

 

Attention Autism: a strange piece of writing about schools (special and not), Open Floor and Thoracic Ring Approach, sharks, love, trust, process and not having a conclusion yet

All this year I’m dancing one Saturday a month in a special school. As soon as I walk through the door, something about being here allows me to exhale. In the classroom where I got changed yesterday, there was an A4 print-out from Attention Autism tacked up on a cupboard. (I googled Attention Autism this morning and discovered the rather wonderful Gina Davies, a speech and language therapist who offers training to carers and professionals working with autistic children.) The A4 in the classroom was a series of reminders for group leaders about how to be with an autistic child – don’t insist on eye contact, if you want focus make sure there’s no background noise … The special school is the only environment I’ve ever been in where my presence as an autistic person is overtly acknowledged. Everywhere else, if I wanted to be taken into account, I’ve had to explain who and what I am and advocate for my difference. It’s as if in the special school I could just settle. Just breathe and settle.

I’m in two ongoing processes at present. One is the year-long Open Floor group which is dancing in the special school’s hall and is facilitated by Sue Rickards. We’re focusing on wishes, hopes and dreams, or at least it says so on the tin. The focus that’s emerging for me is just being, which could be, in a way, the anithesis of a wish / hope / dream: not the leap to somewhere else but what’s right here, right now. It’s a softening, a dissolving; subtly tuning in, accepting, trusting.

Yesterday morning, the invitation was to do something differently, so in the hot middle of things, I left the dancefloor and made a cup of tea. I am not someone who just leaves in the hot middle and makes a cup of tea. Or, at any rate, I have not been that person. Then I came back in and sat in a chair. Sat in a chair, for god’s sake! Sat in it. For the rest of the dance. Radical acts! It wasn’t an old fuck-you!; it was a new attention to the quiet impulses of my body and a readiness to respond to them through simple actions. And at the end of it all, I arrived in a kind of embodied presence I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before: full, unsheltered, without pulling or distortion, expansive and at rest.

I have outlawed so many parts of myself. In 1968, when I started school, autism wasn’t yet a thing. It existed, of course; autism has always existed; but there was no language for it. When you belong to a neuro-minority and you’re five, and you have no words to articulate your experience or to understand your difficulties, or visible forerunners to be that thing that you are in such a way that you know it’s more, so much more, than just OK … how do you make it tenable? How do you survive?

My response essentially was to shut myself down. I stopped eating. I rarely spoke. I suppressed my own information to the point where I was no longer even receiving it myself. I created an alternative structure, which I hoped made me look sufficiently like one of ‘them’ to avoid being eaten by the sharks. I lived and breathed like a cartoon shadow two inches outside and above myself.

This kind of displacement of self from the stream of impulse happens in a physical body, in myofascia and bones. Which brings me to Darren and Thoracic Ring Approach, the other process I’m involved in at present. We’re focusing on unwinding my ribcage. In a sense, though, it isn’t another process so much as a different emergence of the same one.

Thoracic Ring Approach sometimes seems to me to be a bit like horse whispering, or maybe it’s that Darren is a whisperer – a whisperer of ribs – I don’t know. Anyway, it’s a very subtle physical manipulation, so subtle that it seems to be at least equally neurological suggestion. As I understand it, underlying the less functional adaptive patterns in my body are older and more synergistic ones. Thoracic Ring Approach feels like slowly waking up to the original synergy. Because adaptive patterns are formed around experience, this must also be a somatic process – waking up to myofascial synergy catalyses waking up to behavioural synergy (and vice versa) – and a cathartic process, involving the re-emergence, sifting and integration of memory and the feeling and release of emotion. It devolves from body, but it’s a series of tiny and far-reaching shifts and recalibrations resonating through a whole person.

I spent a lot of my childhood being a horse. I didn’t relate to human beings very much at all, and for a while I insisted on eating from a bowl on the floor. (Children, if you want to freak out an adult, pick up your food with your mouth: it really, really disturbs them.) It wasn’t until some time in my forties, perhaps, that I fell in love with people. It happened through moving and experiencing the congruencies that arise in moving-with. It happened through touch: that thing with feathers, granules, veins. I had to learn outside social contexts, because social contexts were alien to me and only made me feel more dislocated from my real experience. I learnt to trust human beings, and I am very grateful for it, always. Because I learnt through my body senses, I’ve acquired – I think – the most reliable kind of guage of who to trust and who not, and so far I’ve never got it wrong.

Partly I wrote this article because I want to name the people who are currently holding transformative spaces for me. It’s a big-small thing we can do for each other; it’s a sacred task and it’s also very ordinary and human; and I’m extremely grateful that there are people with the capacity to do it for me. I want to name those people and I also want to acknowledge the level of trust that’s involved in relationship becoming transformative in this way. So, here goes: diving off the high board …

Gratitudes and acknowledgements
I’ve known Sue for about fourteen years now. In that time she’s been lots of things, not least a foremost ally for me in the reclamation of outlawed places. More than once I’ve been on the dance floor doing something that never appeared on the instruction sheet, some part of me doubting whether this can possibly be allowed to happen or whether the sharks are already stirring behind the rocks, and I hear Sue’s voice in my ear: ‘Trust it, Jess.’ I love you, Sue.

In a way, what I love about Darren (and actually I love a lot of things about Darren) is just that he’s willing to work with me, even though – and actually because – I’m super-complicated. I love that he keeps holding the box and doesn’t try too hard to veto poetic licence, that I always feel listened to and never coerced (which isn’t all that usual in my experience of physiotherapy), that what we’re engaged in feels like a collaborative exploration on the edge of what’s known. I always have the sense that if we both pushed at the same time, neither of us would fall over. I think that’s a measure of right relationship. Thank you, Darren.

All you need is love Afterword
It’s Tuesday. I’ve had this cold since right after the last lot of thoracic ring re-aligning, and I can’t shake it. I’m struggling to embody what’s pressing through to the surface. I want to collapse. I know what I need to do in my body, and physically I can do it, but somewhere else the horse is refusing the fence. I feel overwhelmed and submerged, and I hate being in this place. It’s sticky and uncomfortable, like wool against the skin. I don’t have much perspective and I definitely don’t have a conclusion.

Every time I write, I know in one atavistic part of me that that I have surely infringed several strange and unfathomable rules of neurotypical conduct and that I am therefore forever beyond the pale ­– but more compelling is the urge for self-exposure. I’d be burnt at the stake for it just because I couldn’t help it. I feel suffocated within the bounds of what’s speakable within neuro-normative culture. I know, too, that the places where we feel most unacceptable are the also the ones where we can potentially be most loved and that if we don’t expose them, we remain essentially invisible and unformed. So even though it feels like waving a bloodied rag at the sharks, I keep on speaking.

Image by Kenneth Geiger ©.

Bleeding words: I write about why it’s hard to write

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”―Ernest Hemingway

I may possibly not have the same relationship with bleeding as Ernest Hemingway. While I think he’s probably intending razor blades or knives, I’m getting tides, the moon and the leg-collapsing sensation of drawing down, an organic cycle that transcends choice, desire or need and isn’t very dramatic. But it’s true there’s nothing to this kind of bleeding.

And I really wish I could write that way. I really wish there were a running tap or a tide, because nothing to me is more perplexed, trammelled, stilted and stuttering than making the little ants march across the big white spaces. For me, writing is more like wading through waist-high sludge than opening a vein.

In that case, you might reasonably be wondering why I keep on trying. Byron (I love Byron – I don’t really like Hemingway) explained, ‘If I don’t write to empty my mind, I go mad.’ I feel that. I often empty my mind by moving these days, but it’s a different kind of emptying. Byron is right: there’s something cathartic in tipping out the trash can. At least then you can see what’s mouldering and mulching; it’s no longer silently doing its inexorable organic thing inside your head. There’s a satisfying sense of compensatory aesthetic control when the inchoate is mustered and corralled, penned into neat black lines and grammatical structures – even if all they really do is frame its essential wildness.

But for me it’s not enough just to quietly lasso a few horses. I have this desperate need to be heard, seen and truly apprehended, to know that I am not sifting away like sand through an egg-timer. It’s as if some maniacal little Führer in my head is constantly yelling, ‘Listen, all of you! Listen! Just listen! LISTEN!’ Because otherwise I don’t exist. I’m whirling and whirling away, down the plughole, over the event horizon.

So, start where you are and all that, I thought I’d excavate it a bit, this feeling: the wool in my mouth, the thick tongue, gagging, choking. Just why is it so fucking difficult? Just why?

The thing is, when I write, I do feel as if my life depends upon it, and it depends upon it being good – so I have very high standards. It has to sing for me; it can’t clunk or collapse with an exhausted sigh. Writing is something I do well or I don’t do at all – which you can see is a crippling position to begin from. Who the hell can write like that? Like it has to be perfectly finished before it’s even started?

In some ways, this urgency, this sense of life-depends-upon, begins in a response to my neurology. I think in images. I see my thoughts, all of them, and then translate them into words. A writer friend – neurotypical – once told me she was envious of what she saw as my ability to generate images in poetry. I wanted to explain to her that I don’t have to generate anything. The inside of my head is an overwhelming prolixity of multi-layered and inter-penetrating images. Images are for me the ground of consciousness. The difficulty is in sifting and sorting. It requires a huge amount of executive function, and if you’re autistic, you don’t have a lot of executive function.

The first time I heard an autistic person describe the way they think as a movie, I was puzzled. Why was this something that needed explaining? How else was there to think? I still find it difficult to imagine what it’s like to think in words or how it’s even possible. Words seem such a sophisticated product of consciousness, like an aeroplane or the iPhone, so removed from the primal mud of the source. How can they arise pristine and fully formed?

I love films (actual ones), especially when they create their own landscape and communicate mostly through it. They are for me a form of direct apprehension: visual to visual. It’s a jaw-unhingeing relaxation to inhabit this kind of instantaneous world in which meaning presses through the surface like colours in a dirty sponge and soaks unmediated into my consciousness. Sponge to sponge.

When I write, there has to be the interpolation of another surface, one that must be negotiated and surmounted, and with it comes a sense of impotence. The thing is, when you think in images, so much of everything that matters – detail, colouration, mood, tone, and a kind of slidingness between one thing and another that allows for multiplicity, for more than one thing to be true at the same time and for everything to be connected to everything else – so much of this slips though the spaces between the words, leaving you with something at best diminished, at worst tangential to its actual meaning or signifying absolutely bloody nothing.

I also feel in images. My emotional experience happens in intense, rich, brightly coloured moving pictures, saturated with metaphorical meaning. I am one of those autistic people who experiences an overwhelming amount of emotion (whereas others report feeling almost no emotion at all). There’s so much going on in here that I often feel in danger of drowning in myself, and I struggle to experience a sense of containment. Like many autistic people, I find it difficult to name and categorise emotion. Partly, this seems to be due to the sheer volume of it happening all the time. Partly, it seems to devolve from the fact that no words have been coined for many of the emotions I see-feel. They exist like outlaws beyond what is languaged, defined and accepted as a known emotional experience. I need fifty words for snow. These days, given time (I’ve practised a lot), I can usually match what I see roughly to a fully accredited word for a feeling, but it’s a very broad category that loses much of the particularity, aesthetic wonder and intensity of the actual emotion. It communicates a lot less than it leaves out, and this is mightily frustrating.

There’s something else too. It’s biographical. I came to dance, but in my family dancing was considered a bit like masturbating – embarrassing and better done behind closed doors. So while I was always a secret dancer, writing became my first public practice and discipline, the first expressive form where I was witnessed. It also became the dungeon where my dancer was tied up and hidden. While I have set her fully at liberty in the world (another story), writing continues to be freighted for me with the frustration, limitation, dislocation / relocation of something that is not my first means but which had to be reached for, manipulated into. Maybe that’s why dancing is indeed for me like Hemingway bleeding: an open vein, a running tap.

Just lately I allowed myself to notice something else: writing and reading are erotic experiences. It’s the name I didn’t name of that intensity of being intimately read – by school English teachers and onwards to mentors and lovers I’ve written to. While I was fiddling around, turning the compost for this article ­– writer’s fore-play, essential to the writing act – I typed some words I like by Matthew Remski:

Language is continually overflowing its consensus meanings … When we use it playfully, it co-creates with us. But when we domesticate it to a conceptual purpose, our most serious grammar and richest vocabularies become very fragile nets through which most of the world escapes.

And as I typed, I was overtaken by this swoony, vertiginous feeling, of one thing collapsing into another – time, space and personhood. And for a moment I could not quite recollect … Who do these words belong to? To me? To you? Where did they come from? And I wondered, do you press through into another person’s consciousness when you re-write their words? Do you? Is it like lying naked, mind to mind, but still essentially unknowable? Are words really sex? Did my family get it all wrong?

And somehow I waded through the mud to the end – and the bit of writing I really love: polishing, refining. I’m autistic; I’m a details person. I have no eye for the big picture, and the process of emerging a structure is laden with anxiety for me. I can’t always bear to stay present for it. It’s got better since I embraced the associative nature of my thinking. I no longer look for lines, but drop in a pebble and follow the rippling out. And the rippling out and the rippling out … until the ripples dissolve into a sort of stillness.

threads of yoga, Matthew Remski, 2012.

 

Autistic movers and shakers: some suggestions for supporting autistic people in yoga, dance and moving practice

As lots of you reading this will probably know, I was diagnosed and came out as autistic (1) in 2013. Several of the blog posts here touch on my experience of being autistic as it relates to movement practice in different forms. Naively (and perhaps if I wasn’t autistic I would have foreseen this), I wasn’t expecting the gentle avalanche of requests that followed from colleagues, friends, and friends of friends for a ‘chat’ about autism. Some of these have been, poignantly, from closeted autistic people wanting to come out to me; some have been from people with autistic family members seeking ways to offer more useful support; some have been from professionals in the movement field wanting advice on how to work with autistic clients. All people with good intentions and a genuine desire for communication and greater understanding.

I have been touched that my experiences have resonated with other people and gladdened that there are those of you out there wanting to know more about autism and how to work in helpful ways with those of us on the spectrum. And yet at the same time I’ve found this desire for more of me difficult – sometimes invasive – if I’m honest. A foremost intention for me in writing is for authenticity and truth to my experience, and so I imagine my writing often comes across as intimate and confessional. And it is. But it’s also highly controlled. I’m selective in what I choose to share and how I choose to share it. And I’m autistic. Which means that ‘chatting’ to someone I don’t know well is never going to be high up on my list of easy and enjoyable experiences (I have social deficits and verbal processing delays) or one that I can take part in without expending a lot of energy.

It seems that autistic people are generally considered to be rare and exotic animals with mysterious behaviours and unguessable needs. And as the local tame autistic person, I’m regarded as a handy guide into the hinterland of the autistic habitat. Here we sit in the trees, hiding from David Attenborough and throwing banana peel on the heads of unsuspecting tourists … The thing is, unless you’ve spent your life meditating in a cave, you will already have met at least a handful of autistic people. We are living, working, parenting and participating in communities everywhere. If you’re a movement facilitator or a yoga teacher, it’s more than likely that any group classes you run already include people on the spectrum. However, because there is still a huge amount of stigma and misunderstanding surrounding autism, a lot of autistic people remain either undiagnosed or in the closet, so you may not be aware of who your autistic students, friends and colleagues are.

So this blog post is by way of offering a few suggestions for yoga teachers and movement facilitators working with autistic people. Please bear in mind that it’s subjective. While it’s probably safe to assume that some of what makes it easier and some of what makes it harder for me to participate in sessions, classes, groups and workshops will be general among those of us on the spectrum, I’m not a specialist in what other autistic people need, so if you’re about to start working with someone autistic and you’re not sure how to go about it, here’s my number one suggestion:

Don’t ask me, ask your autistic client
They are the expert on what it’s like to be them. Have a conversation – perhaps initially by email rather than verbally, as many of us find writing easier than speaking. (But check with the individual client: if they’re dyslexic, as many autistic people are, an email exchange may be difficult for them.) Ask them what they would like to get out of the sessions and what they need in order to be able to participate most fully. While there are commonalities, autistic people are individuals. As the saying goes, ‘If you’ve met one autistic person, you’ve met one autistic person’. We wouldn’t expect all our neurotypical clients to want the same thing or to react in the same way. All autistic clients won’t either.

Sensory issues
Most autistic people are hyper-sensitive to some or all of: texture, smell, sight, sound and taste. Whereas someone from out-of-autistic-spectrum may be able to disregard a sound or a texture they find unpleasant, an autistic person is likely to have limited sensory filters and may not be able to stow the sensory stimulation out of the field of their attention.

In general, make the environment as clear, quiet and unfussy as possible. Check in with your autistic client about fluorescent lights (they interfere with processing for most of us and may feel painful), incense, particular textures, background sounds (your autistic client may be bothered by sounds you hadn’t noticed and can barely hear) … even colours. I have a reaction to the mauve shades of purple that amounts to physical interference. They make me feel as if someone’s running a comb across my teeth. They jangle inside my bones and create a buzzy feeling in my head. So I’d rather not have a purple yoga mat. On the other hand, I know autistic people who love purple so much they’ll want to get down on their knees and lick your purple yoga mat. No, not really. Although we are usually highly oral (and I do sometimes want to put colours in my mouth), we also tend to be more fastidious than the average non-autistic person …

… which means that things you find pretty inoffensive may be literally nauseating to someone with autism. Nobody (I think) likes toe nail clippings on the floor, spitting when you talk, stale sweat, rubbish bins overflowing with empty fastfood cartons and snotty tissues, snorting and other overly demonstrative methods of mucous clearing … but whereas a neurotypical person may be able to tolerate this kind of ordinary grossness or place it out of field, an autistic person may not have these capacities and may be able to focus on nothing else.

A word on music
Sensory sensitivity has implications for those of us who facilitate movement to music. I may or may not like a track, but I can dance with it either way; this is an important skill for a dance practitioner that many of us have cultivated. However, if the track contains sensory triggers (for me usually very loud and insistently banging), I need to stop hearing it straightaway. Persisting in seeking ways to move with it will generally lead me to dissociate and / or melt down.

If you usually use music in the background, check whether this will be appropriate for your autistic client. For some of us, background music interferes with focusing and processing; for others (I’m one of these) it will be very, very stimulating. I can listen to music comfortably only when it’s possible to dance to it. If I can’t dance, I feel as if I’m going to explode – even if the music is ‘relaxing’.

Verbal processing delays
Many autistic people have difficulties and delays in speaking and processing others’ speech. Even if this does not immediately appear to be the case, check in with your client about their needs in this area anyway. Many of us have learnt to compensate for this deficit very skillfully and may appear – and actually be – highly articulate, but this does not mean that we are processing spoken language at normal speed and with the expected ease, or that we can do so in every context. Particularly if we are tired, stressed, overwhelmed by environmental static (other people talking in the background, strong smells, visual distractions) or bombarded with a lot of speech, we may be struggling to keep up and appear normal.

Someone with autism may find it difficult to decode and assimilate a long string of spoken instructions, so if, for example, you’re explaining the alignment of a yoga posture, it may be helpful to demonstrate it or have someone else demonstrate (quite a lot of us process visually), or use adjustments so that the person can feel it – but see the section on Touching coming up next.

Autistic brains are wired to focus intensely on one thing at a time, so language may be difficult to access if we are wholly absorbed in a physical process. I experience this as a kind of verbal drift, or as some words not being in the right boxes. I may stumble over words and say whatever comes into my head to fill the requirement for speech (even if the result has little relationship with what I’m actually thinking or feeling). It’s not uncommon for autistic people to lose speech entirely (mutism) in situations of stress. Last time I had a filling, the anaesthetic didn’t work (2). I went mute and so wasn’t able to tell anyone there was a problem. I have had similar experiences, when younger, with strong astanga adjustments in situations where I didn’t know the teacher well and / or the teacher felt to me very senior and carried a lot of kudos. (Even if you feel like a very new and inexperienced teacher, to your student you will almost certainly still carry kudos.) Check in regularly with your autistic client about how things are going from their point of view, and always – and repeatedly – communicate to them that their feedback is not only welcome but a crucial part of a two-way process. If your client can’t respond in words and seems generally frozen or passive, know that they are probably very upset, let go of the project, and offer them opportunities to calm down and find their ground once again. It may be an option for them to write, later, about what happened from their point of view and email their writing to you.

Some autistic people don’t use speech at all, and I’m hoping a few of you will comment on this post, because I do communicate by speaking (if sometimes reluctantly), so I feel unqualified to write about non-verbal autistic people’s communicaton needs, but I’d like to include them.

Touching
Before you envelop your new client in a warm hug, check whether they would like to set any boundaries around how they are touched. Some autistic people don’t like to be touched at all; others are happy to be touched in particular ways but not in others; some of us are definitely on the touchy-feely end of the spectrum. Light, floaty touch is unpleasant to many autistic people; some of us enjoy firm touch – which to me feels containing and offers a sense of body boundary that I generally experience only intermittently. But do check with the individual – it may be different for them.

Physical boundaries of course also depend on who’s doing the touching. The difference for autistic people is that our preferences may not be as socially determined as they generally are for those off-spectrum. I have good friends who I don’t like to touch me at all, whereas I’m sometimes happy to be physically intimate (on the dancefloor, for example) with a complete stranger. I can’t explain logically who is who and which is which; it’s just a feeling.

Be aware that if you have not checked with your client about physical touch – in a way that lets them know that their preferences are paramount, that they have control over how they are touched, that their wish not to be touched will not get in the way of the work of the session or offend you – they may be going along with a level of touch you have presumed to be OK but are squirming inwardly.

Sensitivity and sixth sense
Many autistic people are highly sensitive to the unspoken and may be very aware of what you are feeling but not saying, and cogniscent of any discrepancy. Others are actually psychic. Know that your client may be relating less to what you are saying and more to who you are being, so – while maintaining appropriate client–practitioner boundaries – you may as well drop any social or professional masks from the get-go and meet us as you are. We will appreciate your honesty and straightforwardness.

Don’t feel slighted if, for reasons they cannot properly explain, an autistic client chooses not to continue in sessions with you. I have friends I know to be excellent practitioners, but I cannot work as a client with them. I feel them – physically – as dissonant with me. Often, they feel ‘purple’ – for me, a very high-frequency vibration that I cannot assimilate. Some modalities of work feel like this to me too. This seems to be some sort of objective energetic happening on a plane of experience we don’t have language for and rarely acknowledge. It isn’t personal, so, as much as possible, don’t take it that way.

Cut the small talk
We don’t do it, so don’t expect it. Just get down to business.

Neurotypical brains are primed for socialisation in a way that autistic brains are not. We find it difficult to learn and retain social etiquette, or to get the point of it, although some of us become consummate actors, able to fake it by running memorised scripts. As I’ve got older, my repertoire of scripts has become wider and more sophisticated, and I have become highly skilled at juggling them. Unless I’m tired or distracted (when the scripts get jumbled and vocabulary dislocated), it all looks very convincing, but don’t be fooled – I am not using social language spontaneously. Don’t be offended if your autistic client forgets to greet you or doesn’t smile when you expect it. The chances are they’re not upset or angry with you; they may just have forgotten that these kinds of behaviours are significant in neurotypical relationships.

Don’t expect eye contact
Some of us have learnt to mimic neurotypical eye contact in social settings and may fake it convincingly. Don’t be taken in – we’re not enjoying it. Avoid exercises that require your autistic client to make or sustain eye contact. I have heard autistic people describe eye contact as ‘agonising’, ‘painful’ and – when forced – ‘cruel’. I’ve written more about my own experience of eye contact on the dancefloor here.

It’s intense in here
Before I was identified as autistic, I always had the sense that I was feeling a lot more, and more intensely, than everyone else. It was – and is – often overwhelming. Now I know that this is not just an impression but a physiological reality for autistic people. Know that while some areas of the autistic brain are under-connected (for me, those to do with numbers, direction and sequencing, for example), other areas are hyper-connected (for me, vision, written language, emotion). According to a recent study, the brains of autistic children produce on average 42 per cent more information than those of non-autistic children when in a resting state. No news to autistic people. And bear in mind that that’s in a resting state. When we start doing, thinking, processing, interacting and all the rest, 42 per cent multiplies exponentially. There’s loads going on inside here, so slow down, remember less is more, and give us time to assimilate.

Communicate the structure
Most autistic people find unpredictability difficult to deal with and need a sense of reliable structure. This is why I gravitate towards practices based on repeated forms: the four series of astanga vinyasa yoga, the Five Rhythms of Gabrielle Roth’s dance practice. If I’m taking part in a workshop, it’s much easier for me to integrate work if I’m given an outline in advance of what’s going to happen when, and what the intention is. A known structure offers me a container within which I am able to surrender and allow spontaneous emergence.

Don’t change the structure or the boundaries
If you have given your autistic client a structure, know that you risk losing their trust if you change it. Unexpected deviations are difficult for us to deal with and may completely derail us. Don’t vary times either. Most autistic people are punctilious about practical boundaries. We will uphold them exactly and will expect you to do likewise. If you tell your autistic client the workshop will finish at 6pm but it actually finishes at 6.15pm, they may be scared, confused or angry with you for not honouring the agreement about timing.

We give one hundred per cent
Autistic people generally have very high expectations of ourselves and will frequently offer far more than you anticipated or asked for. We are, in general, self-starters and have an abundance of the motivation for working alone and over time that neurotypical people may struggle to find. A yoga student on the spectrum may immediately establish a daily home practice – finding in it the ritual and repetition that autistic people generally need and seek to create in our lives. An autistic dancer may research the background to the work in depth and detail, come up with ideas no one else has thought of, and ask the important questions that are generally placed out of the frame.

‘I want to be alone’
Being with other people is very demanding for those of us on the spectrum, and we will quickly become fatigued and overloaded. If you are facilitating a group, include plenty of time for working solo so that we can calm down, centre and find themselves again. While it is a myth that autistic people dislike or don’t need contact with others – in fact we are each social according to our own unique pattern of preferences and capacities – unalleviated interaction with others is experienced as a form of torture by people on the spectrum.

At the same time, some organised group activity may be appreciated by some autistic people as a way of facilitating participation which they may find hard to initiate and sustain without an externally held structure.

Autism is exhausting
For an autistic person, processing speech and dealing with sensory stimulae takes a lot of energy, a commodity already in short supply (3). If your client is also hypermobile (see below), sitting, standing and generally being upright will also require extra energy. Keep sessions short-ish and offer breaks. Don’t expect an autistic person to participate in lengthy spoken communication, or a hypermobile person to stand for more than a minute or so, and make sure that there are possibilities for the hypermobile person to support their back if sitting.

Stillness and stimming
Most autistic people stim. A stim is something like a repetitive fidget – finger rubbing, hair twirling, face stroking, ankle circling. The word ‘stim’ is derived from ‘stimulating’ and was obviously coined by a neurotypical person, as it’s a complete misnomer. Stims are actually soothing – good god, the last thing an autistic person wants is more stimulation! After years of socialisation, I never managed to eradicate stims totally. Videos made of Phoenix Rising yoga therapy sessions for the four-yearly recertification required for PRYT therapists show me rocking and twiddling my thumbs. Over the past couple of years I have gradually thawed my neurotypical-mimicking holding patterns and allowed my stims back into public space.

Know that being still may not be an option for an autistic person, even if they’re trying very hard. If you have reified sitting still and see it as synonymous with meditation, presence or paying attention, your autistic clients may be about to bring you back to reality. Stimming helps autistic people to stay present. It assists us in processing the rolling boil of thoughts, feelings and sense impressions; staying calm and focusing. It’s inhumane to force an autistic person to be totally still – and if they are also hypermobile, prolonged physical stillness may well also be somewhere in the range from uncomfortable to acutely painful.

Co-existing conditions
Dyspraxia
When I asked some autistic people what they would want a movement professional to know about working with an autistic client, most of them mentioned not issues around autism itself, but those associated with the co-existing condition dyspraxia.

Many – possibly all – autistic people are also dyspraxic. This means that we may have difficulty following sequences and in knowing where we are in space; our balance may be poor; we may appear generally clumsy, wobbly and uncoordinated, and we may have poor motor skills. A dyspraxic person may need to see a movement sequence many times in order to embody it. If you are demonstrating a sequence, they may be unable to mirror you, and they may find it difficult to follow left / right directions. If asked to replicate a shape you are making, a person with dyspraxia may reverse it or be paralysed by confusion. So keep any sequences simple, face the same way as your student when demonstrating, and be prepared to prompt and realign them again and again. Be patient. Remember, they are finding this a lot harder than you are.

Ehlers Danlos / Hypermobility Syndrome
Many autistic people also have Ehlers Danlos / Hypermobility Syndrome (ED / HMS). I’ve already written at length about teaching yoga to people with hypermobility, so all I’ll add here is that, as in the general population, ED / HMS often goes undiagnosed in those of us with autism, so be aware that it may well be present even if your client hasn’t declared it in their medical history, and it will affect how you need to work with them, whichever modality you are offering, but particularly if you are teaching a set movement form.

This writing isn’t a list of things you need to get right for us. Most autistic people will be forgiving if you forget that Nag Champa makes them feel sick or they can’t stand being touched on their back. It’s the intention that matters. Generally, in my experience anyway, autistic people in group settings are expected to take care of our own needs, fit in and get on with it. We so rarely receive active enquiry about what would help us to be present and to access the work that we’re likely to be overwhelmed with gratitude that you even asked.

If you have been offered the opportunity to work with an autistic person, you are very lucky. Autistic people are often highly creative, unusually sensitive, off-the-wall and out-of-the box (box? … what box? … was there a box?). When engaged, we are focused like no other, and we have a phenomenal eye for detail. We will bring original ideas and open up new and unexpected spaces for you. Remember to check in with us regularly about what you are doing well and anything you could be doing differently, and enjoy the ride!

1. An excellent definition of autism is by Nick Walker: http://neurocosmopolitanism.com/what-is-autism.

2. A common issue for autistic / hypermobile people (there’s a significant crossover): http://hypermobility.org/help-advice/local-anaesthetic.

3. Research suggests that there are differences in the mitochondria of autistic people, pointing to a cellular origin for the issues of fatigue and low energy that are frequently an aspect of autism: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3885720.

It is not the words: art, (dis)ability, thinking in pictures and speaking with the body

ImageJudith Scott was an artist (she died in 2005). She made large, intricate, colourful pieces by wrapping with yarn and strips of cloth. Inside these womb-like, containing spaces, x-rays reveal concealed objects: forks, rings – small daily items from her immediate environment. Judith also had Downs Syndrome; she was deaf and non-speaking and spent her life up to the age of 43 in institutions. Here, when she was a child, crayons were taken away from her because she was considered too ‘retarded’ to be able to use them – even though she clearly was using them, perhaps not in the way the staff expected, but artists do the unexpected with their materials. Judith’s medical notes record that after the crayons were taken away, she cried for hours.

The introduction to the video about Judith on karmatube poses the question, ‘Can something can be called art if it is made by someone who does not consider herself an artist?’ I wonder why it’s assumed that Judith didn’t consider herself an artist. Because she didn’t speak, write or sign? Because she didn’t articulate artist as a word? Is the word itself a magical signifier of reality? Folded into the assumption that Judith did not consider herself an artist is a second one that because she didn’t speak, write or sign, she didn’t reflect. But as soon as she got the opportunity, Judith spent every day, all day, making art, continuing sometimes until her fingers bled. It seems to me that her work is a body of non-verbal reflection and that she communicated her identity loud and clear.

Like many (though not all) autistic people, I think in images and translate into words. My thought-pictures are evocative, textured and intensely compelling. I also experience emotion as image and similarly have to slowly deduce – or maybe it’s more like seduce – the terminology for the feeling from the colours, lines, tone and content. It’s a kind of internal pathetic fallacy. For some visual thinkers, see-thinking is realistic. Temple Grandin, for instance, explains that her visual memories are like computer files stored in her brain. They are accurate and precise and make her a highly skilled structural designer. This way of thinking enabled her to note design faults in the Fukushima nuclear plant and predict the disaster that occurred there as a result of the tsunami in 2011. For me, though, see-thinking is mythopoeic. It’s an arthouse movie, an expanding, interconnecting sequence of images that carry meanings on multiple levels, psychological, emotional, somatic.

It’s only very recently that I realised most other people’s mental processes don’t happen this way, and I’m still puzzled by how it’s possible to think without seeing it. It turns out to be equally difficult to convey to non-see-thinkers what it’s like to see-think and how the translation process works. For a start – in my mind anyway – there are always many layers of interpenetrating images going on at the same time. I say ‘going on’ because they’re not static like paintings; they shift and change, and I can move between, into and through them. I can also alter them, though where this ‘I’ is located, what is volitional and what arises organically beyond ‘my’ control, is not entirely clear to me. I suppose it’s really a dialogue of unconscious and conscious mind. Once I start to transpose image into word, the words themselves arise as image – sometimes typed in Courier on a strip of paper – and then generate more images, so the richness and multi-dimensionality of meaning is often overwhelming.

In the process of paring and refining into language, much of the expansiveness, beauty and subtlety of the original vision gets lost frustratingly in the gaps between the words. And there are experiences and feelings that simply have no words in the English language, or for which language fails to provide fine enough distinctions:

When the phone stopped ringing she perceived a peculiar silence. One of many. Which one? There is a silence of perception. It wasn’t that. Thoughtless silence? Forced silence? Chosen silence? Silence because you’re listening. Fearful silence. Because the radio’s broken. Hesitation. When you don’t say it because you don’t want to hurt the other person. Enraged silence. When you don’t say it because it’s not going to do any good. Waiting. Thinking. Not wanting to be misunderstood. Refusing to participate. Self-absorption. When a loud sound is over. Shame. (Empathy, Sarah Schulman)

I wouldn’t be surprised  if someone like Judith Scott found verbal language just too much of a dispersal of creative energy. I’m not deaf and I find it very exhausting. I have hyperlexia – defined as a significantly higher than average ability with the written word, coupled with a lower than average ability to comprehend spoken language. My intuitive sense is that I read body language and facial expression preferentially; I definitely find speech harder to understand when these are not available, and I detest the phone. My hyperlexia seems to me a paradox. I feel that it arises out of the secondariness for me of word as a mental process and a sense of the urgency of translation if I am to swim in the shoal. Because no one wants to be eaten by a shark. Yet I write seldom. It’s too arduous; the sense of the breadth of the of the gulf to be bridged too daunting. While in a sort of way words allow me to feel connected, they also fix me in isolation – because words are cyphers, and the actual experience always floats silently between them just out of reach. As Hamlet says, ‘My words fly up, my thoughts remain below.’

According to research, 70 per cent of interpersonal communication actually occurs not through the clipping of words but through the body, so perhaps hyperlexics are actually more tuned in than the average person to the full range of human expression and are in fact listening where it really counts. And it cuts both ways. My hands are very articulate. I speak with them a lot. They often carry meanings from inside that I haven’t yet been able to understand verbally or that words lack the subtlety and finesse to encode. When I began to investigate the possibility that I might be on the autistic spectrum, I learnt that body-speaking is a defining ability of autistic people. There’s a term for it. The term is ‘flapping’. Yes, ‘flapping’ … as in penguin. Many autistic people who have been in special education aimed at training them to pass – to appear as seamlessly neurotypical as possible – recall the instruction, ‘Quiet hands!’, meaning that they should sit on it and shut up. God forbid you should get the crayons if you don’t know how to use them!

It’s no news to anyone, I think, that in our culture the mind is prioritised and privileged, while the body and its productions are denigrated. Whereas in earlier times the suppression of the body took the form of a kind of moral demonisation– even furniture had to be clad in tablecloths and antimacassars in case it got too exciting – today the body is undermined by industrial-scale prostitution. It flaunts itself in a window in Amsterdam, infinitely purchaseable and totally silenced. Even loci of somatic enquiry and embodiment, the holy asylums of the speaking body, have been infiltrated by commercial pimpery. The reified yoga body is a multi-billion-dollar cash cow. Who would have thought we could be brainwashed into buying ‘improved’ versions of our own bodies? Never mind that these digital manipulations are not realisable in the living, breathing world. No wonder so much energy goes into silencing the autistic body. A body that speaks irrepressibly its own meaning has the potential for very exciting subversion. Maybe this is why I don’t own a pair of lululemon yoga pants.

I found out about Judith Scott from Emma Roberts. Emma is a Five Rhythms dance teacher, a dance artist and a fellow explorer in the badlands of the moving body. As a child, Emma was told she had ‘ants in her pants and poor concentration’. But what if she was concentrating on the ants in her pants? After all, she went on to train in classical dance, which requires a great deal of focus – and a lot of ants. What if the ants in her pants were the way she was communicating? What if she was just speaking her primary language?

Since I was diagnosed with autism earlier this year, I’ve been thinking a lot about ability and disability and what, if anything, these words even mean. As someone on the autistic spectrum, I’m likely to give you the wrong change and the wrong date, my short-term memory would shame a goldfish, and I don’t know left from right or the difficult bits of the times tables, but I do have a first-class degree and a doctorate (in Pictures and Words, of course – I’m frightened of the sharks). I can’t stand or sit with my back unsupported for more than a minute or two, and I really need a seat on public transport because of Ehlers Danlos / Hypermobility Syndrome, but at the age of 50 I have an astanga practice that would be beyond most people in their twenties. Both autism and ED / HMS involve binaries of deficit and hyper-ability – what autism specialist Tania Marshall calls super-powers. It feels dishonest to describe myself as disabled, and dishonest to describe myself as not disabled.  I live in a floating space of both / and, neither / nor. Judith Scott’s deficits  appear far more evident, and yet they bleed so seamlessly into her genius as an artist. It seems incontravertible to me really only that Judith Scott was Judith Scott.

Judith Scott: http://www.judithandjoycescott.com

Emma Roberts: http://www.shapingtheinvisible.co.uk

Thinking in Pictures, Temple Grandin, Doubleday, 2006.

Empathy, Sarah Schulman, Arsenal Pulp Press, 2006.

Loud Hands: Autistic People Speaking, The Autistic Self Advocacy Network, 2012.

Closets

Earlier this year, I was diagnosed with autism by a ground-breaking psychologist who is also a foremost advocate for and supporter of autistic women and girls. In parting, she warned me that many people harbour misapprehensions about those of us with autism. She suggested that rather than use the A-word, I could explain, ‘I’m the kind of person who … gets overwhelmed in social situations / functions poorly in bright lights and noisy places / needs a lot of time to process their experiences …’

Well, I’m the kind of person who likes to call a spade a spade, so I went straight to facebook to publish my new status. I also updated my professional website, identifying myself as autistic and welcoming other people on the spectrum to the different opportunities I offer to move, feel and witness. I’m the kind of person who occupies her own territory. So far, I haven’t experienced any sort of adverse reaction. I’m fortunate in the circles I move in and the kind of work I do.

As a queer woman, I was already well acquainted with the issues pertaining to closets, the ins and the outs and the intermediate positions. It’s a dance of complex, improvised choreography, in which we are always on the back foot coming forward. We are the torn out pages in the dominant narrative. ‘Everyone’ is straight, aren’t they? Just as ‘everyone’ is neurotypical, and the onus is on the rest of us to stand up and declare ourselves.

I’ve never had any time for closets. They’re too damn small and claustrophobic. I want to inhabit the full expanse of myself in the world, and I want you to see me doing it. In my view, if I tell you I am queer or I am autistic, and you have a problem with this, you have a problem.

But some closets feel more insidious and more difficult to emerge from, like the one constructed around my relationship with eating, which, from the time I started school up to now has run the gamut of pretty much every form of disorder other than bulimia, and that wasn’t through want of trying. Over the years, the extremes have gradually worn themselves out, along with the consuming guilt and the operatic drama. I know too much to want or to be able to sustain anorexia as a position or to find myself eating white flour and water at two in the morning when all the shops are closed. I used to feel a lot of shame about my crazy, disorderly eating, and now I really don’t any more. But still, I can’t claim even now – even by the fuckaroo standards of the culture I live in – to have a simple, untroubled relationship with food.

Until I started reading women’s first-hand accounts of what it’s like to be autistic, and the penny clattered to the floor, I was always puzzled by the violence and persistence of my eating behaviour. It seemed to be impervious to insight, therapy, mindfulness, moving, drawing, writing, processwork … According to some recent research and to anecdotal evidence, around two-thirds of women and girls diagnosed with an eating disorder also meet the criteria for autism. The driving need I feel alternately to establish control and to smash it apart now feels characteristic of autism and therefore rooted to a large extent in neurology rather than the presumed psychological dysfunction that I have spent so much time and energy trying to identify and resolve.

Yo soy la DESINTEGRACIÓN (Frida Kahlo)

Yo soy la DESINTEGRACIÓN (Frida Kahlo)

I don’t have much sense of physical containment. This seems to be the product of both autism and Hypermobility Syndrome (which affects many, but not all, autistic people), in which there is a deficit of proprioceptive feedback, so it’s hard to feel where I end, to formulate myself into a discrete, impermeable whole and hold all my pieces together. Controlling myself provides a means of encompassing myself and my experience, which often feels overwhelming in amount and intensity. Unleashing chaos offers a way of piercing the tension when it becomes unbearable. This may be a given; it may not be susceptible to change.

Above all I desire to be truly known. At the same time, by virtue of what I do for a living, I’m aware that I am often the recipient of a variety of wide-of-the-mark projections from clients and students who want to believe that a yoga or movement practice is going to beam them up out of the steaming shit heap of their own life. If you are one of those people, I have to tell you frankly that in my experience, practice is more like the fan in the axiom. What actually happens is the shit hits and you get to be more intimately acquainted than you ever thought possible with what comes out of your own arsehole. And this is the thing of beauty, this its very self.

What has tended to happen for me, what offers some loosening and breathing space, is that I have become quite a bit less reactive to my own shit. Because what’s the big deal anyway? We all shit, don’t we? It’s really very human. I haven’t stopped shitting, or being queer or autistic, or being perplexed by my other than shiny-magazine-paper relationship with food. But I feel that in some much bigger picture all of this is OK, just OK.

Since I have written publicly about being autistic, several people in my practice communities have confided privately that they too have a diagnosis of Autism Spectrum Disorder. I feel sad and dismayed that autism still carries such stigma that the majority of them are unwilling to be openly autistic. So if being an out autistic weren’t vital to me because it’s the way I can be truly myself and clearly seen as who I am, it would still be very, very important because if we each own and speak ourselves, as honestly as we can, in all our dimensions – and especially those of us who are teachers, facilitators and therapists – together we become a body of living, breathing practice that others can be received into. No one has to become more perfect than they already are, and healing can be what I think it mostly is, an expanding sense of acceptance, rather than a surreptitious self-improvement project.