Hair Trigger

I've mentioned before that I'm one of the few people who actively prefers going to the dentist than the barber's.  The reasons are varied, but they basically boil down to: getting my hair cut is a series of multiple micro-aggressions.  There's the constant hair-pulling, the moisture, the electric cord touching, the vibration of the razor, no glasses, no communication, and the cut hair gets everywhere, no matter how much I try to prevent it, even going so far as to clench my shirt up.  And it itches like mad until I shower up, which I'm reluctant to do.

Compared to that, the occasional stabbing pains from inside my teeth is pleasant in comparison.

However, even compensating for that, some people may still view going to the dentist a traumatic experience they'd rather soon forget.  Therefore, I've developed some little tricks to make your dental visit a more pleasant one:

1. Wear sunglasses to protect against the glare on your eyes.
2. Have a heavy book to press against your stomach.
3. Close your mouth when the dentist isn't looking inside your mouth.
4. Wear a shirt with a collar to protect against the cold chain of the protective bib.
5. If possible, have music to drown out the buzzing noise.  (I'm deaf, so this doesn't really affect me)

What brought this up was seeing this image on Tumblr.  It hurts just to look at it.  It's on par with the kid with butterfly wings and the caption, “Parents, don't be your child's first bully.”  It hurts, but for a different reason.

“art by @BottlngSunshine

Is it about butchering Black girls’ hair to keep white people comfortable? Is it about a woman visiting the same violence on her daughter as was done to her by her mother a generation prior? Is this girl just too… “different” to go into the world unaltered? Does she need to be toned down so she can succeed? Does she need to be defenseless before she is deemed safe by powerful people who would do her harm if given half a reason? Is one of those people holding those scissors?”

And the hashtag:

#ART BY OP #POSSIBLY VERY TRIGGERING #IT IS FOR ME #MY MOM USED MY HAIR TO CONTROL ME #EVEN INTO MY LATE TEENS #I RARELY GO TO THE HAIRDRESSER #AND IT'S A TRIAL EVERY TIME #BECAUSE EVEN THOUGH I AM (THEORETICALLY) IN CONTROL NOW #THERE'S STILL SO MANY NEGATIVE FEELINGS #ASSOCIATED WITH HAVING MY HAIR CUT VIA TEEJAY-KAYE

SOURCE ODE-ON-A-GRECIAN-BUTT

I also enjoyed seeing the mirror showing what was going on in my mouth, and missed that visual stimulus when they no longer used it.  The main thing that prevented me from panicking (apart from knowing what was going on) was the annual appointment where I would have to wear a weighed vest for the dental x-rays. 

In grade school, I was ferried about not by Bus, but by taxi.  And during these trips, I would invite anybody to rest their schoolbags on my lap.  Which they willingly did.  It must have been a sight, me being buried underneath these heavy loads, but I couldn't be happier.  And I carried that same sentiment when I could not longer go via Volkswagen and had to take public transportation to high school.

To compensate for the loss, I started carrying my heavy backpack on my lap, both to and from school.  I found it easier to lug these school books around than keep them in my locker, which had an easily bypassable lock, and apart from my school stuff, never kept any valuables inside.

I used to end the school days by racing out the door the instant the bell rang in a mad dash to catch the early bus before it left, which would usually come around the exact same minute, around when the light would be turning red.  Otherwise, I’d be crammed in with dozens of other students all waiting for the same ride.  And being around rowdy teenagers with little impulse control was an assault on my senses, which only further heightened my anxiety.

It was always a challenge to find a seat, since they would be quickly filled up.  It wasn’t unusual for me arriving home to enter the doorway screaming, wanting nothing more than to vent the frustrations of the day.  I saw no reason to stay behind and engage in after-school activities.  I'd already endured the trials of having to get through a whole day.  Why would I want to prolong that experience any longer?

I never really wanted to grow up and face the responsibilities that being an adult entailed.  Getting facial hair was the closest thing to experiencing dysphoria in the same way that some women dislike having breasts.  I could no longer rub my hands over my smooth face.  It was that experience (and preferring the company of women to men) that led me to wonder if I might be Trans.  I wouldn’t mind being androgynous, but I never actively sought ways to permanently remove my facial hair.  I was worried about having to face too much pain.  I was afraid of shaving out of fear of cutting myself, and having a bad experience with shaving cream getting in my mouth as a kid.  I spent my high school and college years trimming my facial hair with scissors, hacking away until it was slightly shorter.  I didn’t even like calling my facial hair a beard, since I’d have to acknowledge that I was growing up, and I didn’t want to.

Even handling an electric razor years later was an uphill struggle, since the vibration made me uneasy.  Constant reassurances that the razor wouldn’t break my skin didn’t assuage my anxiety.

I got easily upset in work environments where the desk layout were radically different from mine, where the keyboards were precariously placed on flimsy plastic sliding woodframes that could fall apart from the slightest applied pressure.  I needed constant stability world where there was none, and the world wasn’t willing to accommodate those needs.

For a long time, I thought that unlike other Autistics, I didn’t have any visible stims such as waving my hands in public.  (I tend to do that when handling hot plates or in the privacy of the bathroom in order to dry my hands faster, which never get sufficiently dry enough even after applying a towel)  It was only recently that it occurred to me that my persistent need of wanting to sit near the table - constantly pressing my stomach against the edge of the table and wanting to lie down on the floor - THAT was my stim.

It’s why I got so upset when my parents got a dog for my sibling.  They got it as a gift and thought I would warm up to it.  But I never did.  I saw it as an usurper of my floor space, constantly giving me unwanted attention when I didn’t need it.  I didn’t like the idea of having to spend time with something that would never increase in intellect, remaining a perpetual child.

By the time my objections were made, it was already too late to give it away.  I spent my formative years in abject terror of having something unpleasant greet me whenever I came home, a constant reminder of a bad experience of dogs biting me while collecting payment for my newspaper route.  And it was a Yorkshire Terrier, a small animal that wouldn’t shed, giving an allergic reaction.  There was just something about those eternally black dilated eyes that unsettled me, much like how comic snobs look down on Manga characters with glinty expressive eyes.

(Of course back then, I was also cautiously nervous of Anime characters, because their eyes conveyed too much emotion.)

My thoughts which were once optimistic increasingly turned to darker areas not before traversed.  I devised several ways in trying to get rid of the animal.  I deliberately left the gate open so it’d run away.  I had it gorge itself on kibble, threatening to burst its stomach.  That got me a lecture, asking me to think about what it’d be like to imagine what it’d be like to induce vomiting / having my stomach forcibly pumped, to which I replied I’d gladly endure such pains if it meant getting rid of the creature.  Once, while my family was going away on vacation and the dog was being taken care of by someone else, on our day of departure, I fed it some rat poison I’d found lying in the school floors.  I assumed that it would die, far away from any assumed blame.  So when I returned and saw it was very much alive, I felt like I was in the presence of a demon.

Back then, I engaged in shoplifting, because I felt I deserved to be punished.  I had the feeling that I was a danger, since my thoughts and feelings were so out of tune compared to everybody else, and needed to be stopped before it was too late.  Upon being caught (I didn’t try to hide my theft very well), the mall cop asked if I liked boys.  This was a confusing question for me to answer, since while I’d looked at plenty of straight and lesbian Hentai, I’d also experimented and branched out on Yaoi, finding the feminine boys to be cute.  But actual human people?  No, I didn’t.  

Looking back, I'm left wondering if that's the kind of thing law enforcement is supposed to ask.

When my mother found out after I’d basically confessed to doing shoplifting, she had me go back to the stores I’d shoplifted from and personally pay for the items I’d filched and issue a public apology to the managers.  While this was a suitable punishment fitting the crime, I still didn’t feel this was punishment enough for me.  After all, I was still free to do whatever damage I was capable of.

It was a mystery as to why I was so sensitive to these minuscule details that didn’t seem to bother anybody else.  I made complaints about not wanting to be touched by fur that would have uncomfortable sensations.  I was given patches of varying fur samples to try to desensitize myself, but I didn’t like having to overthink these things.  I wanted to have these tasks done automatically and not have to focus on breathing, which I always did to excessive extremes, wanting to get the breathing in and out over with.  I wanted instant relaxation, and breathing simply wasn’t doing it.  Everybody put my actions down to hormones and teenage rebellion.

And then, my psychologist found the description for Asperger’s while looking for another client, and thought that the symptoms sounded a lot like me.  A test of 10 questions consisting of theoretical scenarios was devised to determine my reactions, choosing from multiple choices, and my answers were textbook responses.  My symptoms weren't easily noticeable, since I tended to look people in the mouth when they talked, and they never noticed.  I had an oral interpreter intervene on my behalf to clearly explain things for me.  I'd basically fallen through the cracks in the system for a long time before somebody finally noticed.

After that, my parents who’d been frustrated with my behavior finally had an explanation and better understanding of my thought process, and sought ways to accommodate my needs.  They couldn’t get rid of the dog entirely, but ways were devised to make the continued living experience not as unpleasant.  I compensated by having a raised cushion to block the dog’s resting spot away from my peripheral eyes while watching TV.

So when the dog finally passed away from old age, I wasn’t sure how to react.  I’d lived in abject fear and hatred, constantly pounding my foot to the floor to scare it away.  Every time I opened the door, it would greet me, and remind me of its presence.  All I wanted was to be left alone, and it never learned that much.

Ironically enough, if we’d gotten a cat, I probably wouldn’t have been bothered as much.  I didn’t want constant blind affection.  I wanted subjective affection, but only on my own terms.  My personality would be more on par with a cat’s being more introverted than extroverted.  And yet, my sibling would wind up owning several cats, while I wound up with none.

I was perfectly willing to let myself stay miserable rather than ever let myself admit that I could ever find welcome company with a dog.  It’s why I greatly empathize with women who’ve been assaulted and have to face their attackers at work/school/home who’ve gotten off scot-free.