functioning

Content Notes: abelism, masking, discrimination, dermatillomania, verbal abuse, mention of applied behavior analysis (ABA)

I'm in bed, surrounded by plushies and soft pillows, and try my best to forget that I exist. My mind presses harder against me than the two weighted blankets I stacked upon myself. Maybe they can squish me until I become part of the mattress. I need to rest. The exhaustion reaches all the way into my bones, begging me to relax, to sleep (or scream), but I can’t. I don’t have time. I can only allow myself to pause for 30 min, then I have to get ready to leave again. Be a functioning human again. The thought makes me despair - but it's the kind of desperation I'm used to. or so I tell myself. I can't think about how many days until I can properly rest (four days). About how each week it gets harder to get up and the rest gets less effective (it does). About how long until this will stop (until retirement - 47 years - or until I die).

I get up and drag myself in front of the mirror. I look tired, my face is covered in small wounds where I couldn't stop the compulsion to pick (and rip and squeeze until my hands were covered in blood) and the pigmentless spots are slowly advancing, preparing to engulf all of me. My left eye is already circled by white. My skin is a map of my stress: full of battle lines and craters.

They can't see me like this. I apply concealer to hide the shadows under my eyes, rouge to give some false life to my ashen face and some small bandaids on the worst of the wounds. "Oh this? Just a small shaving mishap. It's nothing." I mutter my pre-scripted excuse until it sounds normal to my ears. Then I practice smiling, until it looks halfway convincing. As the finishing touch I put on my glasses. I don't have a prescription, but they are part of my mask. Not looking like myself helps in pretending.

I check the post it notes on my door, reminding me what to do (act appropriately), to take with me (sunglasses, extra bandaids, strong bubblegum), to leave here (myself) and slip on my shoes.

Outside I immediately put on my sunglasses, not against the brightness (it's gray out) but against eye contact. I walk twenty minutes to work, counting steps and not stepping on lines. I arrived 5 min early - perfect. Earlier is seen as desperate, later as lazy. I need to be a model employee, so 5 min is just the right kind of performative engagement and motivation.

Work goes well enough. I stand behind my service desk, the "Please rate my performance" sign turned away from me, so I don't have to see it. I try to ignore the cameras who are tracking our movement and work time. I maintain the appropriate level of busyness (between too lazy and too occupied - communicating that I am working but open to immediately help), answer customer questions and get good ratings. Three hours pass without me taking a break (I could but it looks better if I don't) and I repress my sigh of relief when the doors finally close. I clean up my desk, but hear steps coming towards me. My boss, on his way out and apparently to a party meeting (the blue pin on his jacket is accompanied by a blue tie today) stops at my desk.

"What happened to your face?"

I expected that. "Just a small shaving mishap. It's nothing."

"Untidy is what it is. Fix it and fix your hair, you don't want our customers to think we are a bunch of low-lifes do you?"

I nod again "Of course not, sir, I'm sorry, I'll go to the barber tomorrow."

There is still disdain in his eyes, but he doesn't have anything else to complain about, so he turns and leaves without a goodbye (undoubtedly to complain to his friends at the meeting about the "disabled freak" he has to employ). I spent the next hour tidying up the staff room and toilets (both of which I never use). I don't get paid for this, but it's expected nonetheless - a "gesture of gratitude" for hiring someone like me.

I walk home and collapse on my bed. There is no energy to make dinner or to get personal hygiene done. I manage to type some lines in my mandated journal and then I cry and shiver until I lose consciousness.

The night is short, the dreams stressful and when I hear my alarm go off, it's still dark out and I'm still exhausted. I force myself upright and moving and put on coffee in my little kitchen alcove. The caffeine gives me the artificial energy to eat a cereal bar and start tidying up. Today is review day, so everything has to look perfect. The plushies go in a box, as do my notebooks, craft supplies, fidget tools, post it notes, most of my wall-decorations and all "non-professional" literature, until all that are left are either for university or guidebooks on "overcoming my problems". My room looks sterile and colorless now, the two plants I'm allowed to keep ("to practice taking care of something other than myself") are the only spots of life. Then I clean - enough so it's hygienic and "normal" but not too much so it doesn't look "obsessive-compulsive". I send an email with my financial records and daily logs to my handler, put on my mask of makeup, glasses and mimic and leave to go to the barber.

I'm there as soon as the door opens and ask the man for a "standard professional haircut". When he's done, I don't recognize myself. Good. I need as much distance as I can to get through this. I rush back home to take another shower (the itchy feeling of tiny hairs and the smell of hair-product are too much for me), re-do my mask and basically run to university.

Lectures go by, but I struggle to pay attention, their words leaving my mind as soon as they are spoken. I'm already running on left-overs and it's only wednesday. Sunday - my only day off - seems so far away, it might as well be unreachable. I can't imagine surviving the next few days, or hours, or minutes.

But I do and rush back home, just in time before the doorbell rings. My handler stands before me - middle aged, smartly dressed, hair and face professional - and I force a smile on my face. I let her in, offer her some water or tea (she declines) and then she sits down on the only chair in my room. I take a seat on my bed, hands in my lap to show her that I am not fidgeting (visibly at least).

"So, Julian. How are you?" She always addresses me by my first name, like I'm a child, and the way she looks around my place, appraising it, judging it, makes me feel like one too.

"Good, thank you for asking. I hope you are as well."

"I am. Good, Julian." She makes a note on her tablet, "Now let's get to your quarterly review. your room looks well, as always." another note "and I looked over your finances. They seem in order, although your expenses at book and stationary stores are elevated. I expect you to tone that down. We don't pay for you to engage in quirky hobbies."

"Yes ma'am. I will, I'm sorry."

"Good. Your log-ins are mostly satisfactory, but we think it would be good for you to be more social. I saw you attended two after-work meetings and a few learning groups, but that's not enough for three months. If you ever want to integrate properly" - I make sure to nod at that - "you have to be active in your community, give something back to it. We thought, maybe some volunteer work would be good for you, I'll send you a list of recommendations later today and expect an answer tomorrow."

"That sounds great, thank you."

"Now, let's discuss your performance at work. Your ratings are good, slightly above average for your office. Well done. However, there are some comments who describe you as "awkward" or "robotic", so I scheduled you some additional social classes that you are expected to attend in your free time, starting next week. They will help you to function even better."

I try to hide my despair. "Social classes" - such a nice word for what is essentially forced conditioning. Derived from applied behavior analysis, they try to force everything out of us that isn't "normal" or "productive". By any methods they seem necessary: verbal abuse, physical abuse - the last one I was at, really liked using electric shocks. But one of the worst things is, that we have to pretend that we want to be there. Pretend to be thankful for the abuse (I still have flashbacks and nightmares and I doubt they will ever go away). But I know what happens to individuals who are not "high functioning" enough, not willing enough to work on (destroying) themselves. So I nod but stay silent - I don't trust my voice.

"And I see you got that haircut your boss wanted, good. Your nasty skin picking habit is still a problem though - I made a note to include that in your classes..." oh please, no... "and I really hope you finally get over it. For your sake." A threat thinly veiled with false concern.

"Now the important part: university. This is why you are here after all, isn't it?" It is, but purely by luck. They only allow me to stay here, relatively comfortable and safe, ignoring my major "deficiencies", because I scored high enough on their test to be worth it. Barely. In their eyes I'm wrong and rotten and a danger to their way of life but they like my brain. So they permit me to tarnish their precious populace, eat their food and breathe their air - in the hope of getting something better out of it. But as soon as that calculation changes, I'm done. They will make me pay for everything they have done for (and to) me and more.

"Your professors only have positive things to say about you and your grades are stellar." She laughs about her own pun and I force a small giggle. "Your tutors would like you to be more active in group work, but are otherwise content. We already talked about the social components, so I'll leave it at that. Keep up the otherwise good work! Now, if there is nothing else..." She stands to leave, but I stop her. "Excuse me, I don't want to keep you" (stay pleasant and diplomatic, don’t let her see how important this is for you) "but do you have any news regarding my application?"

She scowls for just a moment. "No, Julian, I don't. I would have told you, if I had any, wouldn't I?" Damn, I made a mistake. Best to rectify it quickly."Oh, I'm sorry, I know you would have, I didn't mean to imply otherwise... I'm just so excited to apply my skills and knowledge." She doesn't seem convinced so I add: "To give something back to the country, like you said, as a thank-you for giving me the opportunity to live and learn here!" That seems to do the trick. patriotism with a hint of submission and groveling. It’s a lie of course, my reasons are the opposite of patriotic.

"It's alright. How about this: if your classes go well and the next review too, I'll ask around a bit? Maybe even put in a good word for you?"

"That would be amazing, thank you, ma'am."

She smiles. "Remember, I am here to help you achieve your full potential as a high functioning member of society. We do all this because we care and want you to succeed."

I wonder if she actually believes that, but I don’t say anything, just politely accompany her to the door ("like a gentleman") and say my goodbye. I wait an extra minute to make sure she's really gone. Then I crumbled to the floor.

I allow my tears to flow freely, but stifle my sobs (the walls are too thin and I can't trust my neighbors to not say something). My mind is spiraling, so full of thoughts and fears that it's effectively empty - like white noise - just a uniform overwhelming sense of "too much".

I can't do this any longer. I have to do this for so much longer.

I can never slip. Not at work, not at uni, not in what is supposed to be my "free time".

The rest of my life. Is this even life? I don't feel alive.

I feel like I'm suffocating, gasping for air but they keep squeezing harder - their hands around my throat tightening, crushing my windpipe with slow cruelty. I imagine my cervical spine splintering under their pressure.

I can only wait until something breaks: them or me.

The odds are not in my favor. They carry power and torches and inflammatory speeches. I'm just one autistic person, completely burned out and yet, somehow, there is still enough material for me to keep burning. Existing in this frame hurts, every second of it, it takes everything and more to keep myself from falling apart completely.

Is this high-functioning?