The Happiest Man Ever To Die

When one undergoes therapy for depression, suicide is always a concern of the therapist. I have told mine not to worry and none should be worried for me. There are reasons why I won't do it, although they're a bit muddled. For instance, I fear failure in the attempt and becoming further disabled as a result, not to mention the stigma that would be with me for the rest of my life. So that's the purely pragmatic reason. A more noble reason is that I genuinely believe I can do some good with my generous nature. While I am hedonistic as well, that's all just the stuff I do to keep myself going. In the end, I no longer live for myself or what I might accomplish, but for others. Theirs are the lives that matter and that will truly be of substance. Although I am not suicidal, that doesn't mean I don't have an odd relationship with death and my thoughts turn to said relationship as I ring in the year 2015.

While I was not present at my grandfather's funeral due to international travel, I have been told that reference was made to his suffering ending with his death. When my grandmother died, his diet worsened, leading to diabetes and doing his gout no favors. He hadn't felt well for some time and it was said that he was in the afterlife and could say for the first time in a long while that he felt just fine. That has stuck with me, because I too do not feel just fine. The daily struggle with autism, the limitations it has placed upon my life, and the loneliness that fills each day mean I am not afraid to die. On the contrary, I will be very happy when that day comes near enough to be obviously close at hand. Elderly people in nursing homes know this feeling and I have seen that firsthand. They feel that their days have gone on past their usefulness to themselves or others and that each day they awaken is just a pointless struggle to prolong a life they would just as soon leave.

I never judge those who commit suicide. Putting aside those who were too mentally ill to understand what they were doing, I completely get it. They just got tired of the struggle and watching every reason they might have to live turn to dust or be outweighed by some reason or another to die. My own decision to wait for death to come in whatever form it may take me in the fullness of time is supported by many things, such as possession of the means to live in comfort, the joys I take in generosity, cooking, and writing, and a disciplined rational mind formed out of necessity by the very autism that has so limited my life. For those without means, sources of joy, and/or the capacity to be objective under stress from struggles, they may choose another path. Whether it is right or wrong for any given person to take their own life, I do not and cannot know. All I can know is that that must be their decision. As for me, I will do as much good as I can with as much time as I'm given and, when the time comes, I will welcome death as an old friend.

-Frank

Something For The Kids

There's many things neurotypicals say to me regarding my autism. Many of these things turn into articles for this blog. One of the most common ones is some variation of, "Why don't you work with autistic kids?" I can understand the sentiment. After all, I know what these kids are going through from the inside and I understand the very real practical concerns that an autistic child might face in the future. However, these seeming advantages would rapidly reveal themselves to be the disadvantages I know them to be. Some things about autism are not well understood by the professionals that work with kids on the spectrum, and that is to their benefit. Even with the rare professional who does understand these things, which I will discuss shortly, knows how to compartmentalize them and, above all, keep their mouth shut about them. Total honesty is a social liability, not an asset, and being totally honest with autistic kids is where I would fail.

Low-functioning types aren't who I have in mind here. Their parents and professionals working with them already know they're damned and have probably tried to explain that to them as best as native ability to comprehend such information allows. For high-functioning ones, however, you have shades of grey. So what do parents and professionals tell those kids? Well, they probably tell them that if they work hard in therapy to develop coping mechanisms and develop as many skills as possible, they'll be fine. The problem is that might not be fine because sometimes they're not going to be fine. My mistake would be in letting them know that. I could not stop myself from telling them how hard their life may well be even in the event they manage to make friends, have a job, and a romantic life. Sure, I'd tell them they're lucky to be born now, when so much promising research into cures, or at least treatments, is ongoing and that improving their functionality is possible to a degree, but I would not sugarcoat anything.

What is so hard for any neurotypical to understand is the sense of isolation that autistics feel. From my earliest memory, I knew I felt apart from the rest of humanity, although I could not articulate, or even name, why for the longest time. That profound loneliness is the most wearying part of autism. Even in your moments of greatest comfort and joy, however functional you've managed to be, it eats at you relentlessly, mercilessly, and painfully. What most autistic kids, especially the undiagnosed, do not know is that there is no escape from this feeling. There's not a phase you can grow out of, not a class you can take, not a medication you can be prescribed, and not a therapy you can undergo to overcome that feeling. As the years go by, you will live with it as a burden you must carry alone and it will wear on you as mileage wears on car. So that's what professionals who work with autistic kids don't know that I can't help but know. They cannot know how hard this journey is and that is what allows them to sugarcoat things, give sincerely offered hope, and present white lies where they would do better than the truth.

-Frank

Utility

To quote a line from one of the best episodes of my most beloved Star Trek series, "One of the most important things in a person's life is to feel useful." Such utility has been a phantom I've been chasing my entire life and this wild goose chase is something up upon which I only recently gave. The quest to become a useful human being is a trial by fire for many autistics. Those who succeed are rewarded with a productive adult life and become capable of independent living. For those who fail, however, wandering about attempting to be useful in the lives of those about whom they care is their neverending struggle. My own quest has failed, despite waging it long and hard. So I wander my world plying my core skills of writing and baking and pastry arts, as well as financial generosity, as my way of compensating for my general lack of utility as best I can. It isn't good enough and it never will be, although what little success I have sustains me with the tiny taste of feeling useful I get from it.

There are very different reasons that my core skills do not suffice to make me useful. Baking and pastry arts, to be done professionally, requires working quickly and multitasking, both of which I am incapable. Writing is more of a matter of being born in the wrong era and having talent in the wrong areas. Novelists are still somewhat viable in the modern world, although distribution is largely changing models from the bookstore to the e-reader. Non-fiction writers, primarily meaning journalists and columnists here, are considerably less viable in the modern era. Very few opportunities are available and what few are present tend to be unpaid. A toxic idea has taken hold that artists, especially writers, ought not to expect pay for their work and the public also expects their work for free. This idea has done incalculable damage to the job market for writers. While I have my doubts that a given publication's staff could endure my company sufficiently for me to succeed, I am confident that I could perform the job well.

Generosity is the real lifeblood of what sustains me in the aftermath of failing in my quest to become useful. Someone else's life becoming better by my action is the most powerful way for me to feel useful, but it is not without its risks. I know from long experience that many people, however sincere their need, will not hesitate to take advantage of the naïveté I come by honestly via autism. So I've had to learn to be careful, but I must stay the course because the benefits outweigh the risks. As I know that I am a hindrance in most respects, I generally try and leave other people to their lives and keep to myself. Even with friends, I try and help when I can and interact primarily when invited to do so. When it comes to others, they have long since made themselves useful and I must respect that. They aren't like me. All I'm up to is marking time as I pass through a mostly useless life that I predominantly observe rather than live. So it is their lives and their happiness that matter to me. Useless though I generally am, I can sometimes manage small exceptions. These small exceptions represent what little comfort I may eke out for myself as I walk a long and lonely road.

-Frank

The Farm

Once upon a time, I was a small child at play in the forests and meadows of Oakland, Arkansas where Granny Bailey had a hobby farm. While it was nothing compared to the backbreaking labor and harsh reality that real farm kids experience, I did get a bit of a taste of what that might be like. Walking around barefoot was standard. Exploring real bat caves, crawling through hollow logs, planting my own trees, digging irrigation ditches, catching fireflies to put in a jar, and watching tadpoles become frogs in the trough where rainwater would gather were all par for the course. I think often of that blonde kid in 1980s Marion County and how happy and hopeful he was. Whatever ways autism afflicted me at the time didn't seem to matter on the farm. All I had to do was have a blast and listen to my grandmother tell me what a wonderful person I was and was going to be. You know, I really did believe that.

Granny Bailey is dead five years now. Granddad 13 years, Grandmom 26 years, Pocky seven years, and nearly all of their generation is gone from my family on both sides. While I miss them all, I'm kind of glad they're gone at the same time. Now, I don't know if they realized I was profoundly disabled by my autism or not, but surely some of them had an inkling that something was wrong and of what was coming. I suppose I'd like to think that they died with hope in their hearts for me, if only because that would've helped make them happy and I'd like for them to have died happy. In any event, I don't have to face them and tell them that I'll never earn a living or that no great grandchildren will ever be forthcoming. For that much, I'm grateful. These were not broken dependent people. They all made grand contributions to their families and the economy. May they be at peace, safe from the knowledge I cannot claim this for myself.

The more I understand the extent of the severity of my autism, the more grateful I am for understanding of the natural world and my disbelief in the existence of a supernatural one. That so many believe in and pursue immortality speaks a great deal as to how satisfactory the average person considers his life to be. Death is a consolation to me, precisely because it will mean the end of my autism. While I do not seek it by any means, it will be an enormous relief to me when it finally comes. Whatever good effect my existence may have on the lives of others, and I have always tried to make a positive impact in this way, will not change the fact that it has been a trial to me. When one is raised with all the infrastructure for children available telling you all the work you will do in school and at home is for the express purpose of finding a career and a mate, I'm not sure one is supposed to react to the reality of failure on both fronts. Maybe that kid on the farm was ultimately wrong about where life was going, but, I gotta tell you, I envy him.

-Frank

Nothing To Report

Christmas is over. I have survived my first season with the full knowledge of the limits my autism places on me. Well-wishing relatives ask me what I've got going on, and I pretty much answer with an only slightly elaborated upon, "The usual." Smoking, cooking, writing, and little else, that's what's going on. That's what'll be going on the next year, the year after that, and all the years I've got left. Of course, it's understandable why everybody asks that. Most everybody has something going on in their lives that's new, especially if you haven't seen them in a year. Nobody wants to acknowledge the disabled relative in the room as a disabled person. Maybe that's what other disabled people want out of a holiday gathering. Pretending to be just like everyone else in the room of sound mind and body sure makes a lot of sense to me, but I can't do it.

There's a lot that I did right this Christmas, especially the vast majority of the candy I made. Aside from one or two cases where relatives either didn't like food coloring or the variety of candy, nobody came close to saying I made a poor product. Buying good gifts is something for which I've long been known and I think that, since I am unlikely to have accomplishments about which to speak at gatherings, I shall need to keep up, and even step up, my game. Mostly, gift-giving is a skill that relies upon equal parts knowing the recipient and insistence upon quality goods. Obviously, the most effective way to ensure quality is to make the gifts oneself, as I did with the candy this year, but the exhausting nature of filling 48 tins with candy ultimately means that I will favor purchases, at least for the most part, in the future. As long as they get the kind of reception I got this year, I'll know there is a very important function served by my presence.

I'm still young enough that most Christmases of my life have been about how I am others of my generation are doing. Well, even though I doubt any of my peers among the Gen Xers in my family have had as discouraging a report to give as I do this Christmas, I still had a lot of fun. There's warmth and cheer to be had in everybody getting together that really is unique and precious. For now, the family I was born with is populous and we have elders to keep us anchored together. While I enjoy it immensely, I do not take it for granted and I certainly do not expect it to be around forever, at least not for me. The Christmas will come one day that is my last with my family because my generation will move on and have their own traditions and I will have nowhere to go. That's okay though. No good thing lasts forever. While it does, I'll keep trying to do it right.

-Frank

Do We Negotiate?

Well, here it is. The moment has arrived where we, as a nation, must confront terrorism without the fig leaf of religion. When Muslims resort to death threats to oppose speech they don't like, we may safely side with them because their religion must be respected above all else. When Salmon Rushdie publishes a book that inspires death threats, when Theo Van Gogh makes a film that actually gets him killed, when Ayyan Hirsi Ali tells her story and must have armed security for the rest of her life because of it, when Jyllands Posten publishes some cartoons and embassies are burned, when South Park attempts to show an image of Mohammed and gets death threats, and when a woman must change her name and go into hiding because she tried to inspire people to draw Mohammed, our society simply shrugs and says that they shouldn't have blasphemed against Islam. Free speech is important to the western world, but not so much as respecting religion, no matter the cost, is important. So we're not cowards for capitulating to Muslim terrorists routinely, we're just super respectful of their religion. What if the terrorism wasn't done by Muslims though? What if you had to take a stand to give into terrorist demands or not and you didn't have a way to hide your abject terror when you capitulated. We no longer need wonder. North Korea can tell us all what films to watch and which to not. 

The Interview didn't look like much I'd be interested in seeing when trailers for it were out. Just a goofy comedy with a gimmicky premise that could be easily avoided in favor of films like the final Hobbit installment. What never occurred to me was that North Korea could intimidate the United States into not showing a film. Art in this country is promised to be free from censorship on the part of the government, but it never occurred to me that a studio would censor itself based on threats from the most obviously insane nation state on the Earth. There can be no possible excuse for this. Fear that people would be hurt of killed of these film were released is all there is to the story. Respect for the bizarre religion of ancestor worship and deification of the dictatorial line is most certainly not in play here. Neither can the studio claim to somehow sympathize with their cause, as they are not crazy people. So let fall the notion that, "letting the terrorists win," is just a hackneyed political slogan, although it is certainly that, because that is precisely what has occurred. Do you think there are other organizations that might have occasion to perform similar terrorist threats when films portraying themselves in a negative light come out? You can count on it. By not drawing the line here, the studio has simply delayed the inevitable decision to draw it at some point, unless, of course, there is no line in the sand worth keeping so that those who would attempt to censor art through terrorism would, at some point, be told they may go no further. 

We are a society at the edge of a precipice. It must be decided, and soon, whether or not we capitulate to terrorism. What I was raised with is the idea that one should never give into terrorist demands and that the Unites States in particular does not negotiate with terrorists, let alone capitulate to them entirely. Oh, I know the sacrifices involved could be terrible. Imagine if they did blow up a cinema and we had terrible loss of life. Sometimes though, there has to be things for which you're willing to put your life on the line. Patrick Henry famously said, "Give me liberty or give me death." When you'd rather live than have liberty, you'll live, sure, but what kind of life is that you'll be living? If your liberty remains, that's a fluke and it can vanish in a million different ways the moment those to whom you are so ready to capitulate simply insist it be cast aside. North Korea is a land of a deified boy dictator whose people must endure his every insane whim. My country is supposed to be the land of not putting up with that kind of crap. When someone threatens terrorist action against the United States, I only have two questions: 1). Where are the terrorists? 2) Are the terrorists dead yet? Maybe the boy dictator will see this blog post (okay, probably not, but go with me here) talking about how awful his evil line of dictators is and how his country deserves so much better than they've gotten for generations. If that happened, and he threatened me with terrorist action, I'd write nothing but articles that boil down to, "Fuck him," for weeks. That's how the America I know acts. Liberty is sacred to my country and if you want to threaten that liberty, I sincerely hope a Seal team shows up and ventilates the meat bag containing your abhorrent brain.

-Frank

Fatalism & Indifference

For most of my life, I cared deeply about politics. By that, I mean from the ages of around 10 to the age of 31. It was something about which I thought I understood quite a bit and I generally thought I had a good bead on things. Probably around the end of the second Bush Administration was where my passion for politics began to deteriorate, finally shattering utterly and irrevocably at the close of the 2012 elections. Now, I used to think that my disgust with the Republican Party on social issues, the utter rejection of my core fiscal values by the electorate and Occupy Wall Street, or sheer frustration at the GOP for sheer incompetence in messaging, compassion, and the ability to find candidates who weren't batshit crazy were behind my lack of passion and nonvoting status. Don't get me wrong. Those objections remain important, valid, and present, but there's a greater issue I've come to understand that keeps me in a constant cocktail of fatalism and indifference to politics. Autism limits my ability to understand the lives and thinking of the vast majority of human beings and I think that that is not something I can simply cast aside.

As I have written before, I no longer watch the news, although my Facebook feed tends to insist upon exposing me to it nonetheless. The great battles of modern politics rage on, fresh with debates, ad hominem attacks, and inevitable comparisons to Hitler and Stalin. While there are still issues about which I care, I do not feel any confidence in my analysis or my ability to properly going on with current events. For this reason, when I do offer comment, it is in the form of armchair ratiocination, rather than specific comments about matters at hand. My own internal logic remains something I find to be fairly reliable. Ideology is one thing, and politics is another. What I've learned is that I am competent at the former and rather clueless on the latter. When it comes to politics, you're dealing with the messy facts of the real lives of human beings. Sure, I have aspired to that kind of life before, but that doesn't mean I come close to really understanding it. For how can a disabled man understand the life of a man who possesses the traits that allow him to live independently and must apply those traits to the struggles of making a living? How can a man incapable of good relationships understand the pressures of having and supporting one? He can't, and that's a lot of what it means to be human.

At the heart of it, I don't really feel that the world that our politicians seek to govern in the various styles available to them is my own. The world I live in is built by, for, and of neurotypicals. Perhaps autistics higher-functioning than myself feel more connected to it, but I do not. As I watch the political tide flow, I am watching it as one would watch a fictional television drama. One might root for one character to come to a certain end or a certain storyline to turn out a certain way, but this does not mean one is invested in these outcomes in the same way one is invested in, say, the condition of one's car. Of course, the actions of politicians could well affect me as much as any of you, but this does not mean that I feel a sense of agency about the outcomes of elections or that I any better understand the rest of the electorate. Everyone else has much to consider in the direction the country is headed because they are fully a part of society, understand it reasonably well, and have specific and deep interests about how they would like to see the United States government proceed. Whoever one votes for doesn't really matter to me. If a particular candidate is going to take us to Hell in a handbasket, then that is what the candidate is going to do. In any event, I'll keep enduring my struggle to stay as sane and functional as I can. Saving the world may matter a great deal to you, and, if so, go try and save it. To quote Doctor Manhattan in Watchmen, "Why would I want to save a world I no longer have any stake in?"

-Frank

Not Meant For Me

As I go about reflecting on a life without employment or relationships, I find my thoughts on the romantic element are markedly different than they were when I still considered myself to have potential in that realm. This is not to say I haven't given up before, because I have done so many times. That fact causes no small amount of entirely understandable skepticism in the ranks of my family and friends. While I totally get why they don't believe me and suspect that I'll get back on the horse if/when the proper combination of good humor and opportunity arises, I calmly insist that I am well and truly done based both upon my past experiences and the underlying reality of what about relationships and family life always appealed to me. Every time I've given up before, it has been based on some notion of my inability to manage relationships. Although that is present this time too, the deeper issue is who I have come to understand that I am, which is to say a profoundly disabled man.

At 33, I'm quite old enough to where most of my friends, especially most oldest ones, have had kids. I look upon each new life with fondness, because my friends are good people and they are making new good people, a phenomenon that can only result in good things. Of course, I also know people who've had kids where the opposite of all that is true and, with them, I feel badly for said kids and for the world that will have more dysfunctional humans thrust upon it. One has to think about what kind of parent one will make before one becomes one, and the same moral obligation applies to romantic matters. Understanding the extent of my disability, as I have been forced to do, causes me to conclude that I have nothing to offer worth having. Mine is a sad little life full of struggle and maintained only by the blessings of my family. So I, what, bring a woman into a circumstance where I can never be a breadwinner and am constantly battling my own neurology to even come close to functioning in society? There is no romance in that. Tears, frustration, disappointment, stagnation, and incompetence are no kind of foundation for love.

Of my six major relationships, I only bear ill will to two of them, and that is only because they did things to me that I would bear ill will towards anyone if they did them to me. The other four are mired in curiosity about why they ended. None of them said they ended for autism-related reasons, but I suspect it played a role about which I was simply never told. Maybe I alienated friends of hers, maybe I kept at it oblivious to an obvious lack of chemistry, maybe her parents secretly didn't like me, or maybe I moved too fast for her. Whatever their reasons, I am genuinely sorry I came into the life of the women I've dated. They were looking for the same thing I was, I suppose, but neither of us could know, at the time, that I just can't give then what they need. Human nature dictates that we want love and are slow to accept it when we are too disabled for it to be possible. Part of accepting my autism is learning to embrace the loneliness that it will bring me. As I watch my friends and family fall in love, get married, and have kids, I must remember that, however much biology and culture make me want to emulate them, I must not. They are functional adults and I am a profoundly disabled autistic man. Sometimes, we simply shouldn't have what we want.

-Frank

In Therapy

I had my first therapy appointment today with a new therapist. Over the years, I've had many of them for various purposes. What makes this one significant is that it's the first time I've been in therapy since my professional and romantic life ended and I completely accepted that my autism is severe enough to prevent either from ever being possible for me. The resultant depression is something I've been battling for the last few months and I've been using Paxil to combat it. However, medication alone is not sufficient to pick up the pieces of my shattered life and figure out how to be as happy as I can be as a profoundly disabled man. For that, I'm going to require some professional help and I've sought out a therapist who specializes in autism so she will have a good grasp on all the issues involved.

In the first session, we talked about many things, most of which were about the demise of my professional and romantic life and which I have written about before on this very blog. We also talked about my atheism and how it allowed me to let go of an anger that had been building in me for years because of the limitations I seemed to have. What surprised me was that she told me that the depression I'm going through is actually healthier than the anger common to autistics regarding the effect their condition has on their lives. Truth be told, I've let go of most of my anger, including bitter grudges I'd held for most of life. All of the people, places, institutions, et cetera that I'd been angry with were really just relics of a time before my diagnosis when I'd been looking for someone to blame. Well, I know what's to blame. It is called autism.

As therapy continues, I hope for further insights like the one about anger. I look forward to telling my story to someone who can help me learn from it. Certainly, I've learned from talking to other autistics and people with other disabilities that it's not the same journey for all of us. There's a lot of variance in severity and functionality within and between disabilities. People with physical handicaps and/or chronic pain don't even consider my journey remotely similar to theirs, although I do. All disabled people are in for a little or a lot of a private Hell completely unique to them and that only they fully understand. My own is that I'll never be part of the world that neurotypicals and higher-functioning autistics live in. To go to work every day and feel you have contributed to society, to feel a loving touch in my bed at night telling me everything will be okay, to have my children experience family traditions I once did, and to feel whatever it is people feel when they truly grow up. These are the things I will miss and the things I must properly mourn with the guidance of therapy.

-Frank

The Christmas Gathering

Some of my happiest childhood memories involve Christmas gatherings at my great grandmother's home. There were several factors that went into this. The family had been doing these gatherings for decades by the time I came along and I was lucky to get along when they really had it down pat. By that, I mean that the decorations were familiarly just so, everyone had good memories they wanted to build upon for the sake of my generation, and there had been many established traditions that the years of history had given a special resonance. It was also special because a great margin of extended family was present and this meant we legitimately got to catch up with loved ones we didn't see too often. Under one roof, you'd have Coffmans, Savells', Brandts, Morrises, Magnesses, and even some extended family based out of Atlanta members of my generation would've never otherwise met. Of course, another reason these memories are so wonderful is because I was a kid and any good Christmas is enhanced by being in the prime of childhood. All that's gone now. Our WWII generation died out and all those families I mentioned celebrate their own Christmases these days. This year though, the Brandts are all together and something a bit akin to those Christmas gatherings of my youth has come into play. Looking forward to this gathering, as I am, has caused me to contemplate the Christmas gathering.

As I have written before, I greatly fear losing the Christmas gathering as an aspect of my holiday experience. There's great comfort in it as a family gathering. Holiday gatherings are likely to remain a feature of my life, most notably the Festivus party that takes place on the 23rd at Just For Him. Other forms of holiday gathering are available, of course. Office parties, parties thrown by friends, and simply getting invited to other families' Christmas gatherings are all on the table for your average person, regardless of whether the family gathering is still available to them or not. To the extent that one's family is unique and special though, gatherings of said family are equally special. One gets to watch babies be born and grow up in the same traditions oneself did. Conversely, one gets to watch elders grow more elderly as they prepare to pass and pass on the responsibility of keeping the traditions ongoing to whatever extent possible to their adult children. A marking of time and a reassurance of one's place in the world and roots within it is comforting in a way that is unavailable in any other context and far more than the sum of its parts. When people talk about how Christmas is about more than just the presents, I think it is gatherings like this that keep that statement from being a mere moralistic platitude.

For Christmas this year, I am making candy for family and friends. There will be six kids at this upcoming gathering who will be opening the tins to see what I have made for them. The novelty and surprise at handcrafted confection should be a very worthwhile reaction to observe. While I fear that this type of gathering will be lost to me as I grow older and my parents' generation begins to die of, it is important that I do more than simply mourn the kind of experience I had as child. After all, I'm still here and most of the people left necessary for the execution of a proper family Christmas gathering are too. So I'll try and enjoy the remaining Christmas gatherings of my life, however many or few that may be, as much as I possibly can. While it is a near certainty that, as my stepsiblings and cousins have families of their own without a matriarch or patriarch to any longer bind them together, I will walk the path of most unemployed, single, and childless people and end up celebrating Christmas Eve & Day alone, I calmly accept this likely possibility. What I'll always have is the best memories I could ask for and a heart and resources capable of feeding a palpable generosity towards whatever loved ones I manage to have in my life.

-Frank

The Theory And Practice Of Torture

Torture has become a hot topic again, according to my Facebook feed. While I don't watch the news, many of my friends are still apparent news junkies. As best I can tell, the story basically goes that a senator spearheaded action to get CIA records of torture performed upon detainees in the process of American efforts to prosecute a campaign against Islamic terrorism during the second Bush Administration. Liberal friends are angry about this simply because of the use of torture methods such as waterboarding, as they conclude such methods are hypocritical, immoral, and anti-American. Conservative friends are angry because they believe declassifying these records has the potential to get Americans killed and fuel further outrage in the Muslim world that can be used against the United States, both for propaganda and recruiting purposes. As the debate rages, I can only conclude that I am not sufficiently well-informed to offer useful comment on the military and foreign policy aspects of the debate. Where I can get by on mere ratiocination is the moral aspect of the debate.

As I understand it, there are three reasons to torture, putting aside pure sadism. First, it is in order to accomplish retribution against the victim for some real or imagined slight, such as a horrific crime like rape. Second, it is in order to accomplish the concession of a point of contention with the victim, such as the famed conversions by torture once commonplace in the Roman Catholic Church. Third, if is in order to accomplish a successful interrogation because of the vital nature of the victim's withheld knowledge, such as a captured terrorist's knowledge of an upcoming attack. Reasons one and two are entirely invalid because retribution does nothing to further justice and it is impossible to verify the veracity of a conversion made under torture, respectively. The third reason is the only one where I see some room for some sort of grey area. A moral question like, "Does one take one man to the point where his suffering can admit of no possible increase if it may prevent a similar increase, or death, of several other people," can admit of no easy answer.

Liberal friends argue that torture is an ineffective means of extracting information from victims because it is impossible to know whether the victim is giving up valid intelligence or simply making something up in order to make the torture stop. The CIA claims that the use of torture has yielded good and vital intelligence. Well, one side might be absolutely wrong and the other absolutely right, but I don't think we live in a world where it's that black and white. Perhaps there's always a gamble when one extracts information with torture and certain situations are dire enough to warrant whatever action it takes to shade the odds. Sam Harris notes that torturing a single man results in far less suffering than dropping bombs, which cripples many innocents and leaves them with levels of chronic pain that equal the kind of pain anyone would agree constitutes torture. For my part, I know that the idea of intentionally causing suffering to another person is utterly repellant and I would only entertain it under the most dire need. Harris also notes that neuroscience may be able to offer technology capable of reading thoughts. If this is true, the day that happens is the day that no more moral arguments for torture can even be possible. All decent people should be as eager as I am to make the practice of it a part of our past.

-Frank

The Solace Of Smoke

For 15 years, I have been coming to a pipe and cigar shoppe in Springfield, MO called Just For Him. The place has been around since the mid 80s and is also a gift shop specializing in merchandise men like. Knives, fine hats, bar accessories, poker accessories, shaving accessories, canes, and a variety of other products can be found within its walls. What really makes the place special, however, is the lounge aspect of it. On either side of the shop, there are tables and chairs, ashtrays, and high quality televisions, with amenities like a nice bathroom, soda machine, and a few refrigerators for beer and other items. Every day, men, and a few women, gather here to smoke, commiserate, and watch television. Being a regular there is like being a regular in the Cheers bar. Everybody knows your name, your nickname, and your troubles, insofar as you wish to share them. Social environments have traditionally been temporary for me. College ended, gaming stopped being fun, religion didn't work out, and work became untenable, but Just For Him has endured for 15 years, is still going strong, and there is no end in sight. Here, I'll tell the story on how I became a fixture at the shoppe and how it ultimately became among my most powerful tools for coping with my autism.

I was standing on a small stoop attached to my dorm at what was then Drury College among friends. These friendly commonly would stand on this stoop smoking Swisher Sweet cigars. On this occasion, they ran out and asked me, as the only one with any money, to go buy them some. My instruction were to get five vanilla and five cherry cigars. Unknowledgeable about cigars as I was at the time, I was unaware they meant to go a gas station for them. So I and my best friend consulted the yellow pages for cigar shops and arrived at Just For Him in short order. Upon our arrival, we met a man I would come to know as Uncle Bob. Bob showed us to a high-end cigar line called Cojimar, which did, indeed, include vanilla and cherry flavors. These were purchased for around 50 bucks. When I returned, my friends were perplexed, since they didn't have the plastic tip to which they were accustomed. With a pocketknife, we managed to smoke them. Although my friends were not enamored to these better class of cigars, I was and began hanging out regularly at the shoppe. A year later, a freshman would go to the shoppe with me and introduce me to pipes, which further cemented my relationship with the place and made my visits to it much more frequent.

As my professional and romantic life have fallen utterly apart, most of my friends have moved away, and I've found myself battling depression, Just For Him has proven more vital than ever to helping keep me functional and sane. The easy familiarity I have with other regulars and obvious icebreakers available to me when I meet new customers have allowed me to make and maintain friendships in a way that has proven impossible in any other context. We come from all walks of life there. There's lawyers, doctors, policemen, firefighters, musicians, butchers, business owners, lawnmowers, railworkers, jewelers, phone workers, servicepeople, insurance people, truck drivers, window washers, pilots, horseshoers, mechanics, and just about anything else you can name. Incredibly, there's even another autistic in similar circumstances to myself. For him and myself, the shoppe provides an opportunity to belong and feel like a real functioning member of society, at least for a little while. That feeling of belonging is more valuable than the whole world and whatever is in it. You see, autistics crave that sense of belonging and, throughout their lives, are routinely denied it. With all the time I've put in, the shoppe has become my sanctuary from my troubles, my home away from home, and a place where I can always find a friend when I need one. They say smoking's bad for you, but I consider it a hard fact that smoking is, in fact, the best thing in a life that is largely difficult and lamentable.

-Frank

How The Atheist Stole Christmas

An atheist who likes Christmas may seem a strange thing to you, but such is the case with me. Many times, I have written on my love of the holiday and have even broken it down into its Christian, pagan, cultural, and moral components. Recent years have brought us the concept of The War On Christmas, which, as far as I can tell, is predicated upon the notion of trying to push the Christian elements of Christmas out of the holiday. While I sympathize with efforts of other atheists to try and push religion out of the public square on the basis that their tax dollars should not have to go towards depictions of, for example, a nativity scene, I am also not too concerned about the matter. It is important for atheists to stop and reflect upon what the religious are really concerned about with their concept of The War On Christmas. Individual instances of, "merry Christmas," being replaced with, "happy holidays," nativity scenes banned from public land, or traditional nativity-based school plays being replaced with productions of A Christmas Carol are not at the heart of the matter. No, the heart of their concern is that Christmas is becoming less and less proprietary. One may take heart that this is true and, I believe, inevitable.

Let's back up and take stock of one of the most defining traits of atheists and other freethinking types. We do not accept claims submitted to us unless they are accompanied by sufficient evidence. So whether or not Christmas ought to be a thing in which we may participate boils down to whether or not participating in it requires such acceptance. It seems plainly evident that the modern American Christmas requires no such acceptance. Sure, the holiday is filled with straight-out religious notions like the birth of Jesus, quasi-religious notions like Santa Claus, and entirely secular fantastical notions like Frosty The Snowman. Yet we do not have any problem celebrating Halloween, despite its connection to the Catholic holiday of All Hallows' Eve, the pagan festival of Samhain, or the secular depiction of clearly fantastical notions like ghosts, witches, and other magical monsters. Halloween is all about the joy of pretend and the power of laugher to help us deal with our fear of death. Religious origins and the fact that the church still recognizes it as a religious holiday plays no role in how the atheist feels about Halloween and nor should they do with Christmas.

Christmas is ultimately about hope, whichever of its elements makes it a meaningful and worthwhile holiday for you. People of other religions, as well as those with none, let Christians tell them that Christmas is about the birth of Jesus and that's all. Well, the holiday can be about that for them all they want, but why do we have to let them get away with defining it for us? Festivus was conceived as a holiday for everyone left out of Christmas, but I say it's our holiday too. Anyone can decorate a beautiful tree, exchange gifts with friends and family, eat delicious seasonal food, and get caught up in the joy that comes from every man, woman, and child trying to be just a little bit nicer to one another for a little while. As the days grow shorter, the weather gets colder, the trials of the year culminate into whatever terminus at which they may have arrived, and we're all taking stock of where we're going in life, we all deserve to be able to claim Christmas, not as a Christian holiday, a pagan holiday, an American holiday, or any other kind of holiday but a human holiday. Whatever Christmas may have been in the past, it has outgrown that and become a thing that offers an outstretched hand of human kindness and merriment to all who wish to participate. Those who wish to put the Christ back in Christmas have missed the fact that now there is simply human solidarity in Christmas and that that may just be the greatest miracle of all.

-Frank

An Autistic Life

For two years, I substitute taught in three major cities in Missouri and Arkansas. These years preceded my autism diagnosis just barely. I got a lot of work because I had checked boxes indicating a willingness to work with special needs kids. Special education meant just about whatever the school wanted it to mean, I found, whether that be detention, study hall, true diaper-changing sadness, to simply learning and developmental disorders. One kid stuck with me for reasons that were vague at the time. Nobody liked this kid, even amongst his special education peers. He had a need to talk constantly, to the point where, unless a teacher was speaking, he was talking. While I was not then and am not now able to diagnose him with autism, it seems an obvious fact of the situation. Once he figured out I COULD keep up with him, he and the teachers basically requested I stick to him like glue and I think I genuinely brightened the kid's life for a day. Talking to the special education teachers about him during a break, they explained to me that his condition was such that they didn't think he'd ever have a job or a normal life because he was too low-functioning. Floored by this information, I was also sure that I could never be a special education teacher. How do you tell anyone, let alone a kid that's supposed to have a full adult life ahead of them that that can't happen. "Sorry sweetheart, but disregard every time an adult asks what you're gonna be when you grow up. Let go of the dreams that your heart or your loins might put in your head. Learn that certain aspects of being an adult, or even a human being, will always remain unavailable to you. You were born...different. Different enough that your life is only a partial one." That memory haunts me deeply now because that kid, with all his myriad dysfunctions was, as best as I can tell, only slightly lower-functioning than me.

As I reflect on that student in the story above, I wonder about him. He's 24 or so by now. Now, the way his teachers talked about him, it's quite obvious he's been raised with the idea that he'd always be on disability and single. So I wonder if he's found it easier to cope with that reality than I have. His grandmother never told him he could be anything he wanted to be when he grew up, he hasn't been pitched a million business and career ideas, and he's never had litany of failed relationships that each crushed his soul in unique ways. No, he grew up with no doubt in his mind that he would never be a real adult and always be a broken human being with little to offer society. Obviously, I can only know one side of the dichotomy, but I think I envy him for knowing where he stood for so long. Those who are diagnosed with autism young, however functional they may or may not be, get a head start on the work I've only been doing since the age of 27. They get to work out their limitations, what the realistic romantic and professional prospects for them actually are, and generally integrate that knowledge into how they feel about themselves and whatever kind of life that may or may not mean for them. When I was a kid, my autism was mistaken for ADD and I was simply given Ritalin, which was supposed to make everything fine. Generally speaking, I was thought of by myself and, to the best of my knowledge, others as weird and not exactly on the ball with certain things, but still possessed of a healthy amount of potential, insofar as that sort of thing goes. Laboring under that misapprehension, I went to college, dated when the opportunity arose, and developed a variety of professional skills in which I pursued employment. If I had known then what I know now, I'm not sure I would've done any of that, save for the undergraduate work I did at Drury because of the social experience it gave me.

Above all, much of my life feels as if it has been a waste of time and energy in pursuit of reaping a harvest of potential that was never there in the first place. That being said, I don't have anything like a reasonable idea of what I should've been doing this whole time. It is certain that it took my myriad trials to convince myself and my family that the pursuit of love and career were a waste of time. Learning that wasn't possible any other way, but that knowledge came at a high cost in every sense of the word. Given this, I suppose it always had to be this way, but damn it if it didn't hurt to go through everything I've been through to get where I am now. There cannot, therefore, be any real sense of regret for all of that wasted time and energy. Nowhere can I say I should've zigged where I zagged. Instead, I can only say that I wish I didn't have autism, or at least that I didn't have it to the degree it so limits my functionality. A life with autism is a difficult one to endure, although how difficult and how one feels about the difficulty will most certainly vary from autistic to autistic. For me, it honestly is all I can do to keep myself sane and functional. When concerned people ask me how I'm coping with my circumstances, I have come to tell them that I'm taking it one day at a time. Efforts to overcome it frayed gradually, and then finally collapsed in late summer, so it's been a slow bleed. While I cannot predict how I will feel about it as time goes by, I can say that right now I am mourning everything I ever thought or was told I would or could become. This is a very powerful sense of loss, and I feel it is the great tragedy of my life. Managing this feeling mostly involves enjoying myself however I can whenever I can. All the baking, this blog, the many hours I spend in the cigar shop lounge that constitutes my social life, are little shots of happiness and joy to keep my spirits up as I go through this life. These things are vital to my continuing to function as well as I do, under the circumstances. Life will get lonelier as I grow older and I fear the challenges of that time. Meanwhile, I'm just waiting out the clock as I try to do the best I can to be healthy, helpful and generous to my friends, and pass the time in pleasurable ways. Somewhere, that autistic kid I met is coping with a damned difficult life as best he can and I wish him luck. He'll need it and so will I.

-Frank

The Police

For about as long as I can remember, I've had profound respect for police officers. The only blip in that pattern has been when I'm behind the wheel and there is one in a squad car behind me. It bears similarity to having someone look over your shoulder while you're writing. Now though, the image of police officers is in a state of crisis and I find myself reevaluating my respect. Michael Brown's death at the hands of Officer Darren Wilson caused a number of issues to flare up, including but not limited to racial profiling, police brutality, and racial tensions between whites and blacks. While the evidence I've seen seems to indicate that Officer Wilson shot Brown in self-defense, I do not claim to know whether or not he is guilty. That was the decision of the grand jury, who had better access to evidence than any of us. Aside from the riots that it provoked, I was basically at peace with the matter. Then a black man was choked to death in New York by a white officer for the crime of illegally selling cigarettes, the events of which were captured on video. The following acquittal, in the face of far clearer evidence available to everyone calls much into question and all the while racial tensions boil.

I don't have a romantic view of police officers. They are only human, underpaid, and under tremendous pressure. The history of corruption in the police force is well-documented and there have been times and locales where said corruption has become toxic and highly extensive. As the Supreme Court has recently made clear, the police have no obligation to protect anyone, only to enforce the law. Undoubtably, we need the police to do so, but only where the law exists to protect us from one another. Laws meant to protect us from ourselves deny us liberty and enforcing those laws makes it the duty of the police to deny us said liberty. A certain amount of violence will always be necessary to enforce the law and a certain amount of civilians and officers alike will necessarily die as a result of said violence. Police officers are not, however, above the law they enforce and an attitude, whomever by which it may be perpetuated, that they are makes them our lords and us their subjects, instead of the mere agents of law enforcement they ought to be.

As to the racial tensions that this has brought on, I have two main thoughts on the matter. First of all, I do not buy into massive institutional racism as a given, although I certainly am open to the idea that it may occur in certain locales at certain times. If there is racism, to whatever extent, in law enforcement, I favor addressing that in whatever manner will be most effective, of course. Second, I think that anything that causes or justifies racial strife is necessarily a bad thing. When I see rioters on my television screen, I do not see anything worth having. At best, those who riot are enraged beyond the point of being rational actors and, at worst, they are amoral opportunists, using an environment of anger and mistrust to contribute to anarchy that will allow them to take what they want and destroy the rest. Above all, I see that there are massive problems, both in society and in law enforcement, that must be addressed somehow. In the past 15 years, I've smoked many a cigar with many fine members of law enforcement and my experience with these men tell me that there are too many good people in law enforcement for me to ever justify hatred of the profession or those who serve in it in any general sense. However, a police officer who abuses the power to enforce the law cannot be tolerated and falls from being exalted in my estimation to being vile.

-Frank

How I Feel

Imagine all the possibility that lays before you when you're young and how excited you are about the fact that there's all these things that you can be when you grow up. Compare this to the possibilities that are presented by the various forms of speculative fiction. You certainly get excited about the idea of being a wizard, a Jedi, a Starfleet officer, or a superhero, but that excitement is not like the excitement of possibility of having a job you love, a social life that is dynamic and enjoyable, or a spouse who is charming and loving. The difference between the two types of possibilities is obvious. With enough work and luck, you can land that dream job or find that companion, but no amount of work and luck will allow you to become a fantastical hero of any description.  Now I face a life where the ambitions of most human beings on the planet are as impossible for me as the exploits of fantastical heroes are for them. In this way, I exist as a member of society just as much as I exist as a resident of Middle Earth. Although I can perceive and enjoy human society, I can never really be a part of it beyond some superficial level. Here, I will do my best to explain my feelings about having arrived at that terminus. This will be difficult, as autistics are not terribly in tune with emotion. Bear with me.

The first thing to understand is that acceptance, both internal and external, has been the hardest part. As I wrote about in a previous article, many people have trouble accepting my unemployable nature and my inability to maintain a romantic relationship. Well, damn, don't you think I have a lot of trouble accepting it too? This is my life we're talking about here. Sure, it's nice having a disposable income that allows for diversions and being relatively young enough to live it up, but there's more to life than mindless hedonism. Money cannot buy happiness, because happiness isn't gained by the acquisition of goods and services. What it can do is buy security and the ability to enhance and maintain happiness that was there at the core from the start. Many opinions exist as to what makes for that core of happiness. My feeling is that happiness is formed by one's ability to be useful to others, especially to those about whom one cares most. Without a job or a family of my own, I have to make my own usefulness day by day and where I can get it.

A person bound to a wheelchair does not make happiness conditional upon walking again. A blind person does not make happiness conditional upon seeing again. They can't because, although medical breakthroughs might make it possible one day, the likelihood of living with their disability for the rest of their live is simply too high. So it is with my disability. I have autism and it has always been leading me to face the life of a man necessarily limited by it. Finally accepting what that would mean is one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life, but reality is forced upon me so clearly that I can no longer cling to the dream of a normal life. All of my friends and family with their normal lives look beautiful to me. Exciting careers, beautiful families, and often both, color their adult lives and I am not always successful at fighting back the tears of, yes, happiness, but also envy and regret, that sometimes come when I think of them. They have grown up and are living the lives we all want for our loved ones. As much as I want to, I cannot be part of their world. So I'll stand here on life's sidelines, always ready to cheer on, raise a toast to good cheer and prosperity, and helping out however I can whenever I can. Across the spectrum of autism lie those who function better than me, about the same as me, and far worse than me. For those as badly afflicted as me or worse, we like your world and we wish from the deepest wellspring of yearning that we could be part of it, but we can't. Just try and be as happy as you can as you lead the life we cannot.

-Frank