I read this blog post by the amazing Rhi this morning. “Performing Pain” – about the autistic experience of pain, a subject many autistics are familiar with. Many of us live with ‘comorbids’ that carry a heavy price tag – pain – which are often mistaken for Autism itself but they are actually just leeches, parasitical hangers-on, sucking the life blood from us, nothing to do with autism at all.
There isn’t much more to add to this exquisitely painful beautiful piece of writing by Rhi, but just a few questions, suspended mid-air, nebulous, ominous, diaphanous, whirling and twirling, wheezing and teasing, with no beginning and no end.
What if the “I” here (in Rhi’s writing on pain) is always – constantly without reprieve or remission – in intense physical pain? What if the “I” still has to perform in the grand show, the “I” still has to plough through the thick stabbing fog of pain – daily, nary a minute’s respite – while performing the unnatural as naturally as possible? What if, ultimately, there is no Clement Space available into which to retreat and repair. What then? The screaming is reduced to a constant hum, almost silent, compressed, suppressed and repressed, it has no voice, no outward channel of expression, no ability to reach for human help apart from tiny interstices of raw, exposed impatience and irritation which are misunderstood anyway, and too hastily placed by non-autistic observers into the “challenging behaviour of autistic people” box? Is it any wonder that autistics prefer the company of animals, of elemental connections, instead of the un-empathic assaultive drudgery of inter-human interaction?
Scheherazade’s Sea (2010), Roaring Whispers (2013), Little Sweets (2014), and Sonata in Z (2015) were all tiny glimpses, pianissimo enunciations, mere drops in an ocean of tumultuous booming that is the state of living with pain. No, it’s not autism that fragments and crucifies the autistic soul, spirit and body. It is the ever too present (for many, not all) stranglehold of pain that slowly and surely wears us down. As if coping with normative constructs and harsh alienation isn’t battle enough. We don’t “live with autism” or “suffer from autism” – autism is simply our state of Beingness, a crucial encompassing part of us that lends the pulchritudinous ability to view and experience the world in all its elemental dynamic glory, visceral and intellectual at the same time. If anything, autism is the ultimate saviour, if anything can atone for the wretchedness of existence, crucified at the Cross of Normativity. It is Living with Pain that is excruciating. And ultimately destructive. Autistic or not. But for the autistic with heightened senses, pain propels the Being into extremes from which there seems little hope of escape.
Still… in the words of that Irving Berlin song that wrings (no spelling error here) and writhes in my headspace: “There’s no business like show business” – so, “Let’s go on with the show!”
Footnote: Here are the lyrics in case readers cannot access the youtube video. Apologies, but I haven’t the spoons left to punctuate. Maybe this might give the song that added punch of pain, sifting through a huge volume of words without punctuation. Enjoy the show!
There’s no business like show business Like no business I know Everything about it is appealing Everything that traffic will allow Nowhere could you get that happy feeling When you are stealing that extra bow There’s no people like show people They smile when they are low Yesterday they told you you would not go far That night you open and there you are Next day on your dressing room They’ve hung a star Let’s go, on with the show The costumes, the scenery, the make-up, the props The audience that lifts you when you’re down The headaches, the heartaches, the backaches, the flops The sheriff that escorts you out of town The opening when your heart beats like a drum The closing when the customers don’t come There’s no business like show business Like no business I know You get word before the show has started That your favorite uncle died at dawn Top of that, your pa and ma have parted You’re broken-hearted, but you go on There’s no people like show people They smile when they are low Even with a turkey that you know will fold You may be stranded out in the cold Still you wouldn’t change it for a sack of gold Let’s go on with the show Let’s go on with the show