I never feel silly or stupid calling home for help. If I did, I would never do it. I feel safe knowing I am guided by my family’s concern and their capable abilities. I feel less anxious knowing they are in my backfield, especially when I come to the terrible realization that I am hopelessly lost. I hate getting lost. I hate seeing the world as a distorted nightmare made up of secret passageways, false exits and trap doors. I overreact with panic. Beads of sweat pale my face, the back of my neck and the palms of my fingers feel clammy and numb, a fast pulse pushes my blood through my veins, my shoulders tense, my mouth waters and my stomach pumps acid to the back of my throat. Yes, it is a natural response to fear; yes, it is a natural response to anxiety, but it is also something more to me. My panic attacks are often very real warning signs, very real unspoken voices that shout to my sensibilities — Be careful, look around and take note of the surroundings, for you are now in real, tangible trouble.
I recall one time when Tom and I were in San Francisco on a business trip. His days were filled with work and mine were completely free. After my first day in the hotel room, I decided to take our rental car to a teddy bear factory in hopes of designing my daughters a homemade teddy. I walked into the room where Tom was conducting business, completely interrupting his work, and blurted out that I needed the keys to the car. I remember him looking as if someone had just put a bright light in his eyes, so surprised and concerned was he by both my behavior and my request. Having been caught totally off-guard, he gave me the keys and just sat there unable to speak. As soon as he did, I noticed I had become the center of attention, and quickly concluded I had stepped on yet another social morality. I could not have gotten out of that room fast enough, so embarrassed was I. I grabbed the keys and ran to the garage where our car was parked, finally found it after much delay, and set out toward the factory with only the hotel city map to guide me.
Within five minutes, I knew I had made a dreadful mistake. I compared the street signs I was passing to those listed on the map and found no matches. I decided to stop at a gas station and ask for directions on how to return to my hotel, thankful its address was printed on the map I crossed traffic to the first place I found and got out of the car to do just that. Within moments a homeless man ran to me, threw himself at me and asked me for money. All at once, I was both frightened for the man and because of him. My heart broke for his predicament, but my body shook because of mine. I was not certain what he or any of the other people I suddenly noticed standing around me would do or want of me, yet somehow I managed to politely tell him the truth — that I did not have any cash. Growing ever more confused, I turned to see the gas station attendant was safely locked behind a set of steel bars. Looking around some more, I was able to determine that I had wandered into a part of town that would not have been considered safe under any circumstances. I stood there paralyzed with the fear that comes when I am lost, the fear that tells me when my safety is in jeopardy. Not knowing where to go from here, I backed away from the onlooking crowd and began to fumble with my car keys. The more I fumbled, the more confused I became. In my confusion, I failed to notice that an extremely large man was standing near me. I have no idea where he came from or how he came to be by my side without my realizing it, but the moment I did see him, I knew he meant me no harm. To begin with, he looked as out of place to the area as I did. He was very well dressed and driving an expensive car. His voice was clear and calming and articulate. He smiled and quietly asked me if I could use some help. Though he did not invade my private space, he was close enough to me to invade the space of the street people who were making their way to me, making it clear by his presence that they needed to move on and away from me. Like a wave that was beginning to recede, I found my pulse return to normal. I rambled on about being lost and frustrated and how sad it was for the street people to live in such deplorable conditions and on and on and on. I knew my words were coming out on top of each other and I knew my conversation was drawing attention from my main problem, but still I rambled. The man listened intently until I found the wherewithal to close my mouth and focus my mind on the reality of my situation. I was lost and had no idea how to find my way home. Very softly, the man told me how to return to the hotel by using specific landmarks and cross streets. He then helped me to my car, shut my door and stood by me until I was safely on my way. Of course, I never saw him again, except in the dream I still have that takes me back to that time and place; the dream that forces me to accept my perceptual disability for what it is — a disability that can lead me beyond my limits.
It took me over an hour to find my way back to the hotel, but I did get home safely. A frenzied and frantically worried Tom met me in our room and repeatedly told me I could never, ever, do that again. I promised him I would never go far without him in a strange place again. And I meant it.
Slowly, at a snail’s pace, I am learning to question my actions before I make them. This does not mean I will not continue to make mistakes in judgement, even mistakes that bring me precariously close to danger. What it means is that I am progressing to the understanding that it is in my best interest to use the faith I have in Tom as my insurance policy. In other words, I am learning to ask him if it is a wise decision for me to jog in an unfamiliar park, or ride my bike alone through any given area, or take a short drive to a city I may or may not be familiar with. I know to ask him about the safety and wisdom behind any action that moves me beyond my routine. Like a seeing eye dog, he leads me to safety each time I let him.
After my parents had done all they could to push me along, Tom came just in time to drag me, sometimes screaming and kicking, to a place where I could find real comfort. With Tom’s help I have been able to move along the autistic spectrum from the childhood I can barely believe was mine to the relative ordinary I find these days. And as a testimony to his goodness for me, he has never given me more than a nod or a smile to tell me how I am doing. He keeps me safe. He reins me in. He lets me know if I am wandering too far in my thoughts or carrying on too long with my dialogue. I can look at him and see from his expression how my conversation is going and how my audience is taking me. And never do I come to feel he is acting possessively or egotistically or because he is annoyed or upset with me. Even when I only have a slight grip on the reality of his influence over me, I can tell he is trying to teach me and guide me, not keep himself from embarrassment or myself from shame. Because I always knew he was a very confident man who let no one’s perception of him tie him down, I knew, too, that he would never let how others saw me, affect him, or us, in any way.
He never missed a beat when he discovered I was different. He never discusses it unless I bring it up. He never alludes to it during my long-winded monologues. He never uses it as a sword to kill my enthusiasm for our relationship. And because he never uses who I am against me, I came to trust him.
Trust. An illusive concept, one so dependent on the ability to generalize, so tied to an ability to read the subtle nature of the human condition — no wonder it so often falls beyond the AS person’s world of discovery. But, when it is found, it becomes a life preserver, a means not toward an end, but an awakening. With someone I trust implicitly by my side, I know I will continue to grow and progress, to seek and to find.
Sometimes all I need to keep from falling over the edge is to look at Tom’s face. I am stunned by the looks of his face, not so much because he is an attractive man, but more because, in the structure of his face, I see so many of the visual elements that appeal to me — linear lines, symmetry, straightness, perfect alignments. His face is firm and anchored and definite. It is chiseled and solidly cast. It is a visual respite for me. I am oddly calmed when I look at his features, so calmed that I find just seeing him puts me at ease, just as looking at a peaceful stream comforts others and a lullaby soothes a baby.