The shit blog of Paul Chris Jones
Dear Diary. When I was 23, I realised I had traits of autism. I was clumsy; I'd been bad at sports at school. I walked awkwardly. I would watch my reflection in shop windows to practice walking more naturally. I was bad at socialising. I'd had no close friends at university. No girlfriend. I needed long periods of time alone but at the same time craved human interaction. I had stimming behaviour: I often picked my lips until they bled as a way of comforting myself.
I went to an autism specialist to get a diagnosis, but he wrote "Paul does not have strong features of Asperger's disorder but could have traits of it. However, he is able to function reasonably well in the community and is able to hold down a job."
I kept myself on a rigorous gluten and dairy free diet for ten years, because I'd read evidence that gluten and dairy makes autism worse. I stopped only after becoming a parent, because the demands of parenting made me too tired to care about the diet anymore.
And I guess I stopped thinking of myself as autistic. Autism wasn't in my thoughts anymore. I guess I started thinking of myself as just socially awkward instead.
But last week this changed. Girlfriend was watching a new Netflix show called Life & Beth. It's a show based on Amy Shumer's life, and her relationship with her husband, who has autism. I started watching it too, particularly an episode where her husband takes an online autism test and discovers he probably has autism.
Girlfriend asked if I wanted to try an online autism test too.
"Sure," I said.
So I took a test. I scored 74 out of 140, which meant I had "a high probability of symptoms of autism". I wasn't surprised.
I realised I should probably learn about autism, so I've started buying books. And the first one I bought, it's a total joy. I've cried several times reading it. It's called Unmasking Autism. The book claims that many autistic people can blend in by acting normal (which has been my own experience), but this comes at a high price, since any friendships they make are superficial (because they never reveal their true selves). What's more, they get exhausted and burned out from pretending to be normal all the time, and they have to suppress behaviours and hide interests that would otherwise make them happy. The author (a transgender autistic) argues that it's better for austistics to "drop the mask" and to show people who they really are. It's a beautiful sentiment: just be yourself. This means instead of autistic people having to fit in, it's the world that needs to adapt to people with autism.
Finally, a book that says I don't have to pretend to be normal anymore. It's okay to just be myself. I'm glad I live in this era of understanding and compassion. I grew up in the 1990s, which was an era of sneering hatred and anger at anything different. Even the word "gay" was an insult back then.
Thanks to reading this book, I'm now an ardent supporter of rights movements like the LQBT movement. I "get it". I know what it's like to be different. Everyone should be free to be themselves, whether you're autistic, spastic, gay, trans, or an albino rhino. You should never have to change yourself to fit in. Also, if the people bullying me at school for being autistic were the same people bullying transgender people, then I'll gladly stand side by side with transgender people, so we can all trample the bodies of the bullies with our boots.
I'm still forcing myself to go to social events, by the way. This evening I played basketball with two people I've never met: a Spanish girl called Cecilia and a Brazilian girl called Gabriella. Cecilia's an accountant who moved to Girona for her work (she said she wouldn't be living in Girona otherwise) and Gabriella's a tomboyish software manager. With only three people we didn't have enough for teams, so we played 21 instead. I scored the least amount of points, because I'm not very good at basketball, or any team sport for that matter, but I still enjoyed spending time with people. I no longer shy away from social situations: I seek them out with open arms instead. Because I understand you have to face your fears in order to grow.
Dear Diary. I upped my dose of testosterone a few days ago. Now I feel more angry than usual. Today's Sunday so both kids were home. The morning started well, with me reading 6-year-old the latest Dog Man book for an hour. At the end of the book I cried, as I do at the end of every Dog Man book. And as always, I hid my tears from 6-year-old. What made me cry this time was that when Petey the cat has the choice to be good or bad, he chooses to be good, and all his friends hug him. Ever since I took drugs in Ibiza, I've chosen to be good too, like Petey. I don't think Petey the cat has taken drugs though.
Then the morning got worse. I tried to tidy the house but everywhere the kids went, they left a trail of destruction in their wake. 2-year-old wanted some pineapple juice. I gave him a cup of pineapple juice and he dropped it, spilling it all over the floor. Meanwhile, 6-year-old was shouting "Daddy! Daddy!" from another room. I almost very nearly shouted back, "FUCK OFF!" but managed to control myself.
Then 2-year-old wanted to water the plants. I gave him a toy watering can filled with water. But instead of watering the plants, he cheekily tipped water on the floor instead. I was tempted to tip a bucket of cold water over 2-year-old's head, the same way people spray their dog with a hosepipe as negative reinforcement for when the dog bites someone. Fortunately, I controlled myself. But I couldn't stop myself from swearing: "OH for FUCKING JESUS SAKE."
Then I had an idea.
"I'm going to the beach," I said the Girlfriend. "And I'm taking 2-year-old. If you and 6-year-old want to come, you can."
Girlfriend agreed that the beach was a good idea, so we packed our stuff and set off in the car. I snapped at Girlfriend when we started driving and the boot wasn't closed properly. I snapped at her again when she failed to point out a turning.
The kids quickly fell asleep in the back seats. For the first time today, I started feeling calm.
We got the beach. It was same beach I went to yesterday. Same sand, same dunes, same shimmering blue water lapping gently at the shore. No naked man like yesterday though, but plenty of topless women. Luckily I'd brought my sunglasses with me so I could ogle the topless women to my heart's content.
The kids loved the beach. 6-year-old ran into the water up to his waist. Pretty soon he was feral, crawling through the sand on his belly like a worm. Meanwhile, 2-year-old was half toddler, half sand person.
"It was a good idea to come here," said Girlfriend.
We disagree on a lot so it was nice to agree on something for a change. I lay back and listened to the gentle waves washing against the sand. I think one of the reasons the beach is relaxing is the continuous sound of waves stops any thoughts from forming. Thoughts like: my brother's wedding is next week and I haven't written the best man speech yet.
On the way we stopped at Burger King. The sun was burning down, despite it being only April. We ate inside because there was air conditioning. Both kids had a kids meal. Girlfriend and I shared a combo meal for 9 euro.
That night, I lowered my dose of testosterone.
Dear Diary. "Did you mind if I go to the beach?" I asked Girlfriend.
"The beach? Why?"
"It's the people from the social group. They're going."
Dear Diary. Today I asked Girlfriend for advice on how to talk to people before a gym class.
"Wait," she said. "Why are you even trying to talk to people at the gym? It's a gym. People just go there to exercise."
"No they don't," I said. "There's a few minutes before every gym class when people are just standing around talking," I said. "But I don't talk. I don't talk to anyone."
She sighed.
"Can you help me?" I said. "I need to think of things to say to people."
Dear Diary. Today I went bouldering with a girl called Elena. I met Elena a month ago. We're both in the same WhatsApp group for people who want to make friends. She started bouldering a month ago. She asked if I wanted to come along.
I got there late, at 9 pm. The streets were dark. I locked my electric scooter to the bike rack outside the bouldering centre and walked inside. It was brightly lit. Daft Punk was playing over the speakers. The walls were covered in green, yellow, and blue rocks. There was a feeling of energy as some climbers scaled the walls while others laughed and chatted with one another.
Dear Diary. "Paul?" says Girlfriend. "Can you come here for a minute?"
I go find Girlfriend. She's sitting in the spare bedroom, listening to the radio and playing Candy Crush on her phone. It's almost afternoon but she's still in her pyjamas.
"Can you go to the market and buy some bread?" she says.
"Why can't you go?" I say.
"I can't go, I'm working," she says.
Dear Diary. At 5 am, noise woke me up. People were shouting and laughing outside my hotel room. I heard someone shout: "Run! Run, quick!" More laughing. I went back to sleep.
At 7 am I woke up, and 6-year-old woke up shortly after. It was still too soon for breakfast so we watched Spidey and his Amazing Friends on the hotel TV.
At 8:30 am we left the room and knocked on Corryn's door. The door opened. It was Corryn.
"We've had a terrible night," said Corryn. "The room next to ours had some girls in it and they were awake until 4 o'clock in the morning."
Dear Diary. Today my sister Corryn had an idea: "Let's go to the beach. We can book a hotel and use the pool."
"Are you sure the beach is a good idea?" I said. "The weather's looking a little cloudy today."
"Nah, it'll be fine."
6-year-old was excited. He packed his armbands and swimming costume into his Avengers backpack. The rest of us packed some stuff too and we all walked to the bus station.
After an hour's bus ride, we arrived at the hotel. It was me, 6-year-old, my sister Corryn, and her 12-year-old daughter Aurora.
But there was a problem: the hotel pool had no water. It was just a big empty hole.
Dear Diary. I went to another social event today. Ironic that I go to all these social events and yet I'm the most anti-social person I know. This year I'm forcing myself to go to as social events as possible. "Going social", I call it. Like "going postal", but instead of killing people with guns, I'm talking to people.
Today's social event was at a vermouth bar downtown. I felt nervous but strangely excited. I arrived punctual, at 6:30 pm, at the start, so I didn't feel overwhelmed by too many people. But already a large group of people were standing in a cirle outside the bar. Saw them, thought "nope", and went inside the bar instead. Bought an alcohol-free beer because I didn't want alcohol to affect my social skills. The organiser of the event, a friendly Russian woman called Nastaya, gave me a pen and a name tag. I'd never had a name tag before. I was tempted to make up a cool-sounding name like Rock Samson but I just wrote Paul instead. Then I stuck the name tag to my chest. When I looked around I noticed no one else was wearing a name tag.
Dear Diary. I took 1-year-old to his music class today. It's on the top floor of the local community centre. The babies don't learn to play Mozart on the piano or anything like that. There's just a hippy woman who sings and plays guitar and meanwhile, the babies dance/clap/cry/attempt to escape.
1-year-old usually goes to the 5 pm class but today I took him to the 6 pm class, because I heard Jana goes to the later class, and I wanted to meet her. Jana is a minor celebrity here in Catalonia. (That's her full name — just that: Jana.) She's a 39-year-old singer in a Catalan band called El Pot Petit. El Pot Petit is 1-year-old's favourite band. It's the only music he'll let me listen to on Spotify.
Now, I like Jana too. If you've ever listened to La Gallina Tica - a song about a hen inexperienced at hatching eggs - then you'll have heard Jana fit thirteen syllables into a line that should only fit six or seven syllables, and you'll know she's a great singer. But I also like Jana for her physical appearance, in that she's cute and she's in my category of Children's Presenters I'd Like To Marry, along with Cat Deeley and Wacaday-era Michaela Strachan.
So I was excited about meeting her. She's a celebrity here in Spain. Or at least, here in Catalonia.
Just before 6 pm, I arrived at the top floor of the community centre. I was out of breath because I was carrying 1-year-old and his plastic tricycle. I took 1-year-old inside the room. I looked around. With disappointment, I saw there was no Jana, just the teacher and a couple of non-famous moms with their kids. No problem, I thought. I've arrived early, that's all. Jana will be here any minute.
But it was ten minutes into the class when I had to finally concede Jana wasn't coming to the class today. And it was then, while I was holding 1-year-old in my arms, dancing only half-heartedly to an acoustic guitar song about horses, when I saw her. It was Jana. She wasn't wearing her bright green dress covered in purple and orange stars. She didn't have her hair done in a girlish ponytail either. Instead, her hair was cut short to a sensible shoulder-length, and she was dressed in conservative jeans and a black blouse, making her look more like a middle-aged mom than the lead singer of Catalonia's most popular band for children. But I could tell it was Jana from her face. (And she still looked pretty cute.)
I knew it was rude to go over and introduce myself. So I kept a reasonable distance. There'd be time to talk to her after the class, I thought. I could tell her about how much 1-year-old loves her music. And how I like her music too.
Halfway through the class, something unexpected happened: Jana's two-year-old child suddenly vomited on the floor. It was a watery vomit with peas and little cubes of diced carrot in it. Jana ran of out the room carrying her child, who vomited again on the way out. For a moment everyone just sat there, looking at the puddle of vomit in the middle of the floor. Then I reached into my back pocket and calmly pulled out a crumpled sheet of kitchen paper. I went over to the little puddle of vomit and wiped it up. Then I wiped up the second puddle using another sheet of kitchen paper I found in my other pocket. This is the benefit of having pockets full of random stuff. I threw both sheets in the bin.
Jana didn't come back to the class, sadly. I guess she decided her kid was too ill so she went home. But I can say that today, I cleaned up the vomit of the child of my celebrity crush. I feel a little bit like I've touched Jesus.