Anemone's Research Emporium

View From the Glass Hill

by Anemone Cerridwen
January 2009

Once there was a princess, whose father put her on top of a glass hill. Anyone who could get up the hill and claim the three gold apples she had in her lap could win her as a prize. But in this version, no one seemed to notice that she couldn't get down, and I guess they figured she liked it up there. Over time they may have forgotten about her completely. And I'm a little tired of the view up here. Anyone got an ice axe??? I want down.

Autism

I am autistic. I do not know if I qualify for classic high-functioning autism (HFA) or if I qualify for Aspergers Syndrome (AS), since I don't know how much of a late talker I was (and that's the only real difference). I know I did talk late, just not sure by how much. My psychiatrist gave me the AS label since she said there was less stigma with it than with autism, since at the time I was diagnosed (1996, if memory serves me correctly) no one had heard of AS but everyone though autism meant Rain Man. As they are both Autistic spectrum disorders (ASD) and will probably be rolled into one in the next version of the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association), I suppose it's irrelevant. I refer to myself as autistic. I do not like the label "aspie". It gets on my nerves (I hate that "sp" "sp" "sp" sound). I also do not like the current stereotypes of AS, since I am too girly to appear to have the "engineer's disease" or whatever they're calling it right now.

Family Background

I am indeed a princess. I am the eldest daughter of an upper middle class family: more upper than middle on my mother's side, and more middle than upper on my father's. My most famous ancestor is on my father's side. John Molson is the only English ancestor that I know of that we admit to (the rest mostly Scottish and some Irish, with good Irish names like Scott and Lang - how much Irish depends on how much you like to party, my mother being more Irish than I), but since he was an industry giant (you know, the beer guy), I suppose we have to admit to him. He was from Lincolnshire, which is far enough north in England to not be so embarrassing, and has a Viking-ish surname, so I guess that's ok. That side of the family is Protestant and tends towards making money rather than being esoteric. Somebody has to do it, I guess.

On my mother's side I am descended from Scottish aristocracy (Highlands, making up for having an English ancestor on the other side of the tree), plus some Irish (see above). I distinctly remember my mother telling me not to tell people I was descended from a laird (= Scottish lord), as this might hurt some people's feelings. Until she told me this, I had no idea we weren't normal. I'm still not sure why she expected anyone on this side of the pond (post-colonial Canada) to care, but perhaps she was simply repeating what her mother (not on the laird branch, alas) told her verbatim. I can just see myself doing the same thing some day. Family scripts.

My mother's side of the family is not business oriented at all. They specialize in law and left-leaning politics (google Sir Richard Scott if you like), or, if they're less eminent, they go into science or engineering (more recently) or the priesthood or medicine (earlier generations), and everyone goes to university. Everyone. Which is perhaps why that side of the family generally does not keep dogs, since you really can't send dogs to uni these days. Heck, even Byron couldn't swing that one. Her side generally earn good money, in more esoteric ways than the other side. University is supposed to be good for that. They're Catholic, you know, and in the old days Catholics couldn't go into business, so the wealthier ones went to uni and became doctors or lawyers or priests. We did all three. My mother's father was a Jesuit, for ten years, before dropping out and getting married. I'm sure he was fascinating. Too bad he's the only grandparent I never met (died before I was born).

My Socio-Economic Status

In addition to being a princess, I have also spent many years on welfare. I guess this makes me a welfare princess.

I went to university. My mother went to university. Her mother went to university. Her mother went to university. I went to university, got three university degrees, then hit the wall (the third degree was pretty much the third degree). Then, after we'd all finished with post-secondary, my mother told us that it would have been nice if one of us had graduated from the University of Toronto, since that's where the three previous generations had gone. Well, now you tell us. Two of my siblings struggled for the right to not finish their university degrees. My brother dropped out and did a diploma in art instead, and is doing very well indeed, thank you, and one sister dropped out after doing a few years of university music, but I suspect she's gone back again to do something more practical. I think those two got the business genes (my brother's a commercial artist, not the Picasso type, though he didn't do so badly either, come to think of it). The other sister, who like me seems to have the esoteric genes, did a degree in math, since math is supposed to be a practical skill we're all supposed to cultivate. I guess someone forgot to inform her that a math degree is one of the most useless degrees there is when it comes to finding a job. I have no idea what she does for a living, but I think she does earn a living. I am the only one (as far as I know) who can't earn a living. I think the others are doing all right. Hope so, anyways.

My father never went to university, though he could have if he could have found a way of doing it without hurting his father's feelings. My grandfather had to leave school at grade 10 (normal school leaving age for non-academic track types back then) and join the family business. So my father partied enough to flunk a couple of grade 13 courses, then got a diploma at Ryerson polytech instead. He did not join the family business, and my grandfather closed it down when he retired.

My mother, as I said, went to university, got a double major, did a bit of grad school, worked for the government for a bit, then quit as soon as she got pregnant enough with me. Since then she has not displayed any great inclination or ability for economic independence. But she is not a welfare queen. She is a wife and mother, and is supported by her husband, which is perfectly legitimate. Unlike myself, who am supported in considerably less comfort by the taxpayers.

I am definitely not a welfare queen, though. I'm pretty sure you need at least two children by at least two different fathers to qualify for that one. I don't have the patience to let men get that far (they get on my nerves), so I'm still childless. But I think men deserve their own heading in this essay (or should I just stay away from that one completely?).

Holding Down a Job

This is actually too traumatic to talk about. I did try, really I did. Perhaps I will be able to talk about it when I figure out how to get off, and stay off, welfare. Perhaps.

Real Estate

My parents live in a big house on the top of a hill. (Pictured here, centre of photo. Please do not firebomb until I've got a complete copy of contents of family photo albums. Thank you). I used to ride a bike, until we moved here when I was fourteen. I wish, I really wish, we hadn't moved to the very top of such a steep hill. This is when I took up hiking for the first time. And developed considerable skill dealing with mud and ice (depending on season) on steep hills going to and from school. We did not have horses. There actually isn't anywhere to put them, since the lot is mostly escarpment. It does look like there's room, though, doesn't there?

blatantly copied from Google Earth

You will notice from this photo that my parents are fond of living in deep wilderness, even in the city. They have three quarters of an acre, mostly trees. Which is good because they have a fondness for getting their children to move brush. It became a reflex after a while, which is handy for doing trail work now. This is my parents' primary residence, valued at half a million CDN in the early 1990s. The city used this value to set taxes, then property values promptly dropped (but taxes didn't, heh heh heh). I have no idea what it's worth now. It's just the two of them there now. Children gone. No grandchildren. Dog gone. Racoons are probably still around, though.

My parents' second residence is in the bush, on a lake in Quebec. Sorry, this is the closest I could get before Google Earth got blurry on me. It's down there somewhere. I used to love the cottage. Dad said it was for us, but I noticed that when we had to break from them, there was no shared custody agreement. They got everything.

blatantly copied from Google Earth

We did not have horses. But we did have boats. Canoes, a row boat that could not be tipped (the other kids really did try) and a sailboat. My parents are boat people. They met at a yacht club. My mother was the one that owned a sailboat. She sold it when they got married. They got the other one later. I am a lousy sailor, but I can gunnel a canoe. I Am Canadian.

My parents also have a hundred acres in the Lanark Highlands west of Ottawa, on which they battle beaver for dominance. (I think it's a draw. I know for sure my father won't actually win. Rodents rule!) At one time I wandered around the area with a feminist neopagan acquaintance whose boyfriend used to grow marijuana on this property. Then the police caught him, so I guess he stopped. My father knew nothing about it until I told him. City people. Oh, and last I heard, beaver moved in on them on the lake, too. I think someone told me there's an actual beaver lodge under the dock they use for swimming. That is so karmic.

I seem to share in my parents' choices, in that I live in a big house on the top of a hill, and spend much time in the wilderness. The difference is that I rent 230 square feet in an old house with zero soundproofing, and my parents own their pad(s) (and I think they paid everything off on all three properties when I was still in my teens, some time ago). And my wilderness experience consists of day hikes from bus stops, and clearing blowdown from trails (probably the only thing that makes me feel useful these days - I'm rather glad the parks can't keep up). No cabin in the woods for me, alas.

But if it weren't for the cardboard walls I might rather like the place I'm in now. It's cosy, and I think the decor dates from the 1950s. That's hard to find these days.

(Note: It's not normally this tidy.)

The outside:

I live in the back corner overlooking the driveway, but not, alas, in the overhang, which looks quieter with no overhead neighbours.

I have also heard through the grapevine that my parents spent three months in Myrtle Beach last winter because of my mother's SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). They've been going south for a week or two since I was a teen, and I guess now that they're both fully retired they can go down for longer. I get a bit SAD, too, but I do not go to Myrtle Beach. I have a $50 full spectrum light. (Which is actually pretty cool, and very easy on the eyes. The hum gets to me sometimes though.) Plus I have a sun allergy, so I wouldn't be able to go in the sun if I did go there. I hike in the shade, and wear SPF 60, and still get burned sometimes. My dad has a sun allergy too. I don't know what he does.

The poor girl's Myrtle Beach:

My Family

As you may have noticed, I have relatives. I have two parents still alive (and still married to each other), three siblings, eight aunts and uncles (including in-laws), and ten cousins, most of whom are breeding like rabbits. [There's also one dead sister (crib death), one dead aunt and one dead cousin, plus their in-law who no longer counts. And the three grandparents I did meet (and - bonus - a great-grandmother I barely remember) are all long gone.] My own siblings have, as far as I know, not married or had children. I was pregnant once, but that's another story under another heading. So, you see, in addition to having ancestors I wish I hadn't heard of, I have plenty of living relatives, most of whom are not living in poverty, and some of whom are actually very well off.

What I do not have is family. Relatives do not equal family, alas. I occasionally exchange emails with my brother in Toronto, and lately I have been corresponding with the one relative who isn't well off (and who may also actually be autistic too, except she has so many other diagnoses she hardly needs another one). We exchange letters and gossip, and it is thanks to her I know about weddings and such. But if I became homeless for any reason I don't think there's anyone who'd take me in, even though a number of them own houses with more rooms than inhabitants. The one nice aunt has taken in both my sisters on one occasion or another when they were in their twenties, but today neither of us could cope with sharing even if she could afford to help me out. Actually it's better this way. If anyone did take me in it might boost the homicide rate, and we don't want that.

In a moment of desperation some years ago, I did ask my parents for my inheritance ahead of time. They said they couldn't afford it, and gave me some sob story about how their three properties and their government pension and private retirement pension and their inheritances and savings were all they had in the world, sniff, and they might have to sell something. Never mind. I certainly wouldn't ask for an allowance. My father might go along for a month or two but then cut me off cold turkey in a fit of suspicion and mistrust (and social Darwinism). That happened during my third degree, and I really don't need to go there again, thank you. Things are precarious enough being supported by the government.

To be fair to my parents, they are not as rich as my paternal aunt and uncle. They used to own a much more expensive house (have since downsized) in a just-as-posh neighbourhood (a different one) with two staircases and three stories, plus a fireplace in the basement (my parents' place is a California ranch-style bungalow with the kids' bedrooms in the basement). They also have (or had) a place in the country (theirs with electricity and a sauna - not a real cottage at all, though our lake was better), and condos at resorts in two countries. My aunt was heard to complain one Christmas about how tiring it was to have to open four houses in one week. It would be. And they had horses at their country place*. Interestingly, one of my mother's cousins is a neighbour of theirs at this country estate. Small world. So really, in comparison, my parents are somewhat hard up. It's all relative.

*To go even further, my cousins were into Fine Arts degrees and oversized black from the Sally Ann, in addition to the horses and the organic veggies and I can't remember what else. There's a name for that social class, isn't there?

Friends

I almost forgot this heading. Mostly because I have no friends.

Don't get me wrong. I occasionally meet people I like. And I occasionally meet people who like me. (And I was actually popular in high school, if you can imagine, at least within the high school band.) But liking people is not the same as having friends. When I first moved to Vancouver I made friends with two other women, both roommates (actually one was a landlady). After a few months I realized I would never be close to either of them, but was happy to remain on a neighbourly basis with them. Then they figured out they didn't really have that much in common with me and dumped me. Huh.

There are two types of friends: friends you hang out together in a herd with and do herd things with, and soul mates. The first kind doesn't work for me, so I need to hold out for the second. I have had longer-term friendships, but I've never had the kind of friendship where I felt they'd put me up on the sofa if I ever became homeless (always a possibility). And, to be honest, the people I tend to like are the people who are always going off and doing exciting things. And I'm the same myself. If you're moving about all the time, how do you form a strong enough bond to keep up over the years?

Another Story Under Another Heading

Or: How I was never pregnant and no one ever paid to have sex with me (at least not when I was living at home). Autism explains everything.

You see, I remember being sexually abused. I don't remember very much (mostly excruciating pain, then fade to black) but I know I was raped in my own bed (unless I was in a brothel for some of it - you never know). And a friend of the family, whom I met during the pregnancy that never happened (I was 12), was the one who told me I was getting paid for it (as if that made everything all right). I know I had to service any number of men, for at least a little while when in my early to mid-teens, if not for longer, and that I would have done anything to make my "pimp" happy (note I'm not naming anyone here), I just wish he'd given me chores I could manage. "I'll hew wood. I'll haul water. I'll move brush. Just don't make me do this. Please!" I'll never know how little they paid.

But, you see, now that we know I'm autistic, that explains everything. Those memories were due to my lack of theory of mind, or something.

And that time I threw up in French class (grossing everyone out most satisfactorily), right after lunch, with a substitute teacher? (Poor sub: worst job in the world subbing for French class in middle school even without students with morning sickness.) That wasn't morning sickness. It was after lunch, for goodness' sake. Pregnancy? Never happened. (The Morgentaler clinic in Montreal doesn't keep records for more than five years, even for minors, and I'm pretty sure that's where we went for the abortion. I do remember primary coloured stripes on the walls if that helps, but I suspect all hospitals and clinics had them then. It was the 1970s.)

I'm not going to go into what I remember or don't remember, or all this repressed memory/amnesia business. What I remember wouldn't stand up in court (you usually need physical evidence or corroboration for that), but at the same time I trust it. I just wish I'd remembered more when I was younger, so I could have protected myself sooner. At least now I can have lots of locks on the door. The point of this is my parents use autism to explain away everything else. But if autism is my problem, then what's with my sibs? My youngest sib is, at the time of writing (January 2009), 38 years old, and none of my sibs have married or had kids either (unless someone's keeping news from me for some reason). Oh, wait, that's because of my autism, too. The whole family is so scarred by a disorder that no one really noticed much (they did a bit - I think it embarrassed them), and that none of them even have, that they just can't go on. It's all my fault. Someone write a paper on this.