A few earlier posts made me think of this
Now, as I've alluded to in previous posts, I didn't have a happy childhood - far from it. As a coping mechanism, and also partly out of rebellion, I started smoking dope from a young age. I was 13 when I tried my first joint behind the Town cinema, and started smoking it heavily aged 14 and 15. It used to be a joint every day on the walk back from school, which gradually evolved into a joint before school, two during, and another two that night.

I was smoking hash every day - I must have went through about a half-ounce a week. I was stoned in almost every class - my teachers must have noticed my listlessness and general lethargy, as I was constantly asked, "Are you alright, Pavlov's Frog? You're looking a bit...peaky." I had a tendency to drift off, staring into the middle distance. I must have absorbed some of it, as I still managed to pass all my Standard Grades, but for most of the time, I was living inside my own head.

My mother started noticing it - to her eyes, I was slower and less responsive. I even began to stop talking in the house (being too wrapped up in my own stoned thoughts). At this point she had no idea I was on drugs. Add to this the fact that my mother was working as a secretary for an autistic charity, and had been reading up on the condition, and she immediately assumed I was autistic and had never been diagnosed. (She has a tendency to take massive leaps of logic. She believes firmly in astrology, horoscopes, and the stars; she calls me a 'typical Sagittarian' whenever I'm impatient, and used to say, "Oh, it's because you're a fire sign" if I'm ever angry about something.)

She started saying things like, "You know, everyone has some level of autism. We're all autistic, in a way" and then look at me meaningfully, or, "You know, some people aren't diagnosed with autism until fairly late in their lives" and then stare at me with sadness in her eyes.

I did notice the stares and meaningful glances, but, being stoned pretty much all of the time, I put this down to simple paranioa.

My Mum later told me she was seriously considering taking me to the doctors, to get help for 'my condition,' when she walked upstairs one fateful evening to say goodnight, and strode into my room - only to find me sitting there, tray in my lap, rolling a pre-bed joint.

Suddenly, all the pieces clicked together inside her head, and she could see the full picture. I wasn't autistic, I was just a no-good stoner. We had a long discussion that night, and the word 'disappointed' was repeated at least 20 times. I've never heard her use the word that often since, so, by the magic of maths, that must have been the moment my mother was most disappointed of me. Which is strange, if you think about it. Being disappointed your son doesn't have autism.

She's a strange lady...
(Pavlov's Frog figures no-one really reads sigs anyway, Wed 2 Jul 2008, 1:43, Reply)