#personal-essay — Public Fediverse posts

Starting in my mid-30s, I went through a decade where I could suddenly become too sick to follow through on anything. For the first couple of years, every single plan I made fell through.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was falling into autistic burnout, nor did I know I was autistic, so I had no way to define it or manage it.

Last-minute changes can lead to meltdowns for me or, at the very least, steal my spoons,[1] and those are two things that lead to more burnout. It got to the point where I couldn’t even plan to keep a regular job, so I simply stopped making plans altogether.

I turned 50 this summer. I had plans to go to Sequoia National Park over Labor Day weekend with my husband, Adam. The weekend before, the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach. The week before that, a long-anticipated day at the beach. “Long-anticipated” because the beaches get over-crowded on summer weekends, and therefore, dangerous for me, so a special day off must be procured for me to get there. All of this was planned on the heels of an intensive eight week writing class on speculative fiction that was pulling everything out of me. I don’t remember the last time I stacked a schedule like this.

The beach and the pageant went swimmingly, so I was feeling pretty confident, but I was most worried about the Sequoia trip.

When I was a kid, my family drove from Southern California to Yosemite, and on the way back, we were slated to stop and see the giant sequoias. I didn’t sleep the night before in Yosemite because something was biting my feet all night, and upon reflection, I think there were probably fleas in the little canvas hut we’d rented.

Anyway, I’d been anticipating seeing the giant trees for the entire trip, but I fell asleep on the drive back. I woke up in the car and looked out the window and everything looked the same, so I asked when we were getting to the trees. My family told me that they’d already seen them and had decided to not wake me.

They’d stopped, gotten out, had a lovely time viewing the trees, got back in, and drove on. I couldn’t believe it until the vacation photos were developed and there they were, standing in front of the trees, smiling and having a lovely time, just as they’d described.

I was mad about this for years, and like so many other things, I knew that I had to take seeing the trees into my own hands.

Once Adam and I got into the park, every lot was filled to the max, making it so the only transportation between the parking lots and attractions was shuttles, and every shuttle line was an hour long.

We skipped the long shuttle lines and hiked between the attractions. We ended up hiking about 17 miles over two days. The trails were surprisingly empty.

I got to see the trees.

We saw a wild bear cub; a first for both me and Adam. Some other hikers informed us that we’d actually walked right past the mama without even noticing her. We watched as the little cub adorably sprinted in the direction the mother had gone, like a little hairy rag-doll.

Driving up and down the mountain and having to master that whole lower-gear-engine-braking thing was super nail-bitey for me, even though Adam was the one driving.[2]

I took in the sunset from 7000 feet over the Sierra Nevadas as Adam down-shifted out of the park. The purples and blues of the mountains layered and washed over the pinks and oranges of the sky. He asked me if I wanted to stop for a photo. I told him no, saying, “This is one of those views that looks spectacular in real life, but you know the photo will look like an amateur watercolor painting.”

Maybe that was true, maybe not, but it’s not like there’s a pixel shortage. In reality, I was just spent from the hiking, and feeling satisfied, grateful, and a little sad that not everyone gets to see these things the way they are.

#Essay #PersonalEssay #Writing #SequoiaNationalPark #ActuallyAutistic

Starting in my mid-30s, I went through a decade where I could suddenly become too sick to follow through on anything. For the first couple of years, every single plan I made fell through.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was falling into autistic burnout, nor did I know I was autistic, so I had no way to define it or manage it.

Last-minute changes can lead to meltdowns for me or, at the very least, steal my spoons,[1] and those are two things that lead to more burnout. It got to the point where I couldn’t even plan to keep a regular job, so I simply stopped making plans altogether.

I turned 50 this summer. I had plans to go to Sequoia National Park over Labor Day weekend with my husband, Adam. The weekend before, the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach. The week before that, a long-anticipated day at the beach. “Long-anticipated” because the beaches get over-crowded on summer weekends, and therefore, dangerous for me, so a special day off must be procured for me to get there. All of this was planned on the heels of an intensive eight week writing class on speculative fiction that was pulling everything out of me. I don’t remember the last time I stacked a schedule like this.

The beach and the pageant went swimmingly, so I was feeling pretty confident, but I was most worried about the Sequoia trip.

When I was a kid, my family drove from Southern California to Yosemite, and on the way back, we were slated to stop and see the giant sequoias. I didn’t sleep the night before in Yosemite because something was biting my feet all night, and upon reflection, I think there were probably fleas in the little canvas hut we’d rented.

Anyway, I’d been anticipating seeing the giant trees for the entire trip, but I fell asleep on the drive back. I woke up in the car and looked out the window and everything looked the same, so I asked when we were getting to the trees. My family told me that they’d already seen them and had decided to not wake me.

They’d stopped, gotten out, had a lovely time viewing the trees, got back in, and drove on. I couldn’t believe it until the vacation photos were developed and there they were, standing in front of the trees, smiling and having a lovely time, just as they’d described.

I was mad about this for years, and like so many other things, I knew that I had to take seeing the trees into my own hands.

Once Adam and I got into the park, every lot was filled to the max, making it so the only transportation between the parking lots and attractions was shuttles, and every shuttle line was an hour long.

We skipped the long shuttle lines and hiked between the attractions. We ended up hiking about 17 miles over two days. The trails were surprisingly empty.

I got to see the trees.

We saw a wild bear cub; a first for both me and Adam. Some other hikers informed us that we’d actually walked right past the mama without even noticing her. We watched as the little cub adorably sprinted in the direction the mother had gone, like a little hairy rag-doll.

Driving up and down the mountain and having to master that whole lower-gear-engine-braking thing was super nail-bitey for me, even though Adam was the one driving.[2]

I took in the sunset from 7000 feet over the Sierra Nevadas as Adam down-shifted out of the park. The purples and blues of the mountains layered and washed over the pinks and oranges of the sky. He asked me if I wanted to stop for a photo. I told him no, saying, “This is one of those views that looks spectacular in real life, but you know the photo will look like an amateur watercolor painting.”

Maybe that was true, maybe not, but it’s not like there’s a pixel shortage. In reality, I was just spent from the hiking, and feeling satisfied, grateful, and a little sad that not everyone gets to see these things the way they are.

#Essay #PersonalEssay #Writing #SequoiaNationalPark #ActuallyAutistic

Starting in my mid-30s, I went through a decade where I could suddenly become too sick to follow through on anything. For the first couple of years, every single plan I made fell through.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was falling into autistic burnout, nor did I know I was autistic, so I had no way to define it or manage it.

Last-minute changes can lead to meltdowns for me or, at the very least, steal my spoons,[1] and those are two things that lead to more burnout. It got to the point where I couldn’t even plan to keep a regular job, so I simply stopped making plans altogether.

I turned 50 this summer. I had plans to go to Sequoia National Park over Labor Day weekend with my husband, Adam. The weekend before, the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach. The week before that, a long-anticipated day at the beach. “Long-anticipated” because the beaches get over-crowded on summer weekends, and therefore, dangerous for me, so a special day off must be procured for me to get there. All of this was planned on the heels of an intensive eight week writing class on speculative fiction that was pulling everything out of me. I don’t remember the last time I stacked a schedule like this.

The beach and the pageant went swimmingly, so I was feeling pretty confident, but I was most worried about the Sequoia trip.

When I was a kid, my family drove from Southern California to Yosemite, and on the way back, we were slated to stop and see the giant sequoias. I didn’t sleep the night before in Yosemite because something was biting my feet all night, and upon reflection, I think there were probably fleas in the little canvas hut we’d rented.

Anyway, I’d been anticipating seeing the giant trees for the entire trip, but I fell asleep on the drive back. I woke up in the car and looked out the window and everything looked the same, so I asked when we were getting to the trees. My family told me that they’d already seen them and had decided to not wake me.

They’d stopped, gotten out, had a lovely time viewing the trees, got back in, and drove on. I couldn’t believe it until the vacation photos were developed and there they were, standing in front of the trees, smiling and having a lovely time, just as they’d described.

I was mad about this for years, and like so many other things, I knew that I had to take seeing the trees into my own hands.

Once Adam and I got into the park, every lot was filled to the max, making it so the only transportation between the parking lots and attractions was shuttles, and every shuttle line was an hour long.

We skipped the long shuttle lines and hiked between the attractions. We ended up hiking about 17 miles over two days. The trails were surprisingly empty.

I got to see the trees.

We saw a wild bear cub; a first for both me and Adam. Some other hikers informed us that we’d actually walked right past the mama without even noticing her. We watched as the little cub adorably sprinted in the direction the mother had gone, like a little hairy rag-doll.

Driving up and down the mountain and having to master that whole lower-gear-engine-braking thing was super nail-bitey for me, even though Adam was the one driving.[2]

I took in the sunset from 7000 feet over the Sierra Nevadas as Adam down-shifted out of the park. The purples and blues of the mountains layered and washed over the pinks and oranges of the sky. He asked me if I wanted to stop for a photo. I told him no, saying, “This is one of those views that looks spectacular in real life, but you know the photo will look like an amateur watercolor painting.”

Maybe that was true, maybe not, but it’s not like there’s a pixel shortage. In reality, I was just spent from the hiking, and feeling satisfied, grateful, and a little sad that not everyone gets to see these things the way they are.

#Essay #PersonalEssay #Writing #SequoiaNationalPark #ActuallyAutistic

Starting in my mid-30s, I went through a decade where I could suddenly become too sick to follow through on anything. For the first couple of years, every single plan I made fell through.

What I didn’t know at the time was that I was falling into autistic burnout, nor did I know I was autistic, so I had no way to define it or manage it.

Last-minute changes can lead to meltdowns for me or, at the very least, steal my spoons,[1] and those are two things that lead to more burnout. It got to the point where I couldn’t even plan to keep a regular job, so I simply stopped making plans altogether.

I turned 50 this summer. I had plans to go to Sequoia National Park over Labor Day weekend with my husband, Adam. The weekend before, the Pageant of the Masters in Laguna Beach. The week before that, a long-anticipated day at the beach. “Long-anticipated” because the beaches get over-crowded on summer weekends, and therefore, dangerous for me, so a special day off must be procured for me to get there. All of this was planned on the heels of an intensive eight week writing class on speculative fiction that was pulling everything out of me. I don’t remember the last time I stacked a schedule like this.

The beach and the pageant went swimmingly, so I was feeling pretty confident, but I was most worried about the Sequoia trip.

When I was a kid, my family drove from Southern California to Yosemite, and on the way back, we were slated to stop and see the giant sequoias. I didn’t sleep the night before in Yosemite because something was biting my feet all night, and upon reflection, I think there were probably fleas in the little canvas hut we’d rented.

Anyway, I’d been anticipating seeing the giant trees for the entire trip, but I fell asleep on the drive back. I woke up in the car and looked out the window and everything looked the same, so I asked when we were getting to the trees. My family told me that they’d already seen them and had decided to not wake me.

They’d stopped, gotten out, had a lovely time viewing the trees, got back in, and drove on. I couldn’t believe it until the vacation photos were developed and there they were, standing in front of the trees, smiling and having a lovely time, just as they’d described.

I was mad about this for years, and like so many other things, I knew that I had to take seeing the trees into my own hands.

Once Adam and I got into the park, every lot was filled to the max, making it so the only transportation between the parking lots and attractions was shuttles, and every shuttle line was an hour long.

We skipped the long shuttle lines and hiked between the attractions. We ended up hiking about 17 miles over two days. The trails were surprisingly empty.

I got to see the trees.

We saw a wild bear cub; a first for both me and Adam. Some other hikers informed us that we’d actually walked right past the mama without even noticing her. We watched as the little cub adorably sprinted in the direction the mother had gone, like a little hairy rag-doll.

Driving up and down the mountain and having to master that whole lower-gear-engine-braking thing was super nail-bitey for me, even though Adam was the one driving.[2]

I took in the sunset from 7000 feet over the Sierra Nevadas as Adam down-shifted out of the park. The purples and blues of the mountains layered and washed over the pinks and oranges of the sky. He asked me if I wanted to stop for a photo. I told him no, saying, “This is one of those views that looks spectacular in real life, but you know the photo will look like an amateur watercolor painting.”

Maybe that was true, maybe not, but it’s not like there’s a pixel shortage. In reality, I was just spent from the hiking, and feeling satisfied, grateful, and a little sad that not everyone gets to see these things the way they are.

#Essay #PersonalEssay #Writing #SequoiaNationalPark #ActuallyAutistic