The Journal of Best Practices (14 page)

“Give it a rest, Dave. I’m sure that once in a while you can find ten minutes in your version of a twenty-four-hour day to empty the dryer,” she said. “Or to take laundry that I’ve
already folded
out of the laundry room and bring it upstairs. That’s all I’m asking.”

Kristen had a good point, but I wasn’t interested in acknowledging it yet, so I said nothing. She resumed the movie, adding, “It would be nice if you were as obsessed with doing laundry as you are with your bathroom habits.”

Crap. Another good point.
If laundry were one of my special habits, then I would stop at nothing to ensure that it was done properly: every article would be separated, washed, dried, folded neatly, and put away in its rightful place. Completing the job any other way might cause my head to explode. Much to Kristen’s disappointment, however, the process of doing laundry isn’t something with which I’ve ever been obsessed. Clean clothes, yes. Correctly folded clothes, absolutely. If the alternative is incorrectly folded clothes, I’d rather they remain unfolded. As for caring about whether they’re lying in drawers or in piles around the house, I have my preferences, but they’re not so strong that I’m motivated to do anything about them.

Laundry isn’t the only household task that hasn’t made my list of essentials. Getting the mail, making the beds, tidying up—these activities are all up for grabs. That’s the double-edged nature of my obsessive mind. When it works in my favor, obsession leads to great accomplishments. Free from normal human distractions like opening mail or accommodating the needs of others, I am able to put all of my mental energy into achieving goals that are intrinsically important to me—closing a deal to boost my career or modifying personal behaviors to repair relationships. But obsession can work against me. Certain interests can distract me from successful engagement in useful endeavors. I am likely to focus on perfecting the bawl of a nervous cow, or juggling, rather than mowing the lawn and interacting with my children, respectively. If I don’t obsess about something then it doesn’t get done.

Unfortunately, I’m not always able to pick my obsessions, as anyone who has ever ridden in my car will attest. “Hold on,” I say to passengers as we approach the car. “I’m very sorry, just let me move some things to make room . . .”

He or she will wait patiently, and I’ll sense their eagerness to comment on what would astound anyone: stacks of loose papers with notes, thoughts, and diagrams scribbled across them. Countless unopened envelopes—bills, second, third, and final notices, many of which have also been marked with notes, thoughts, and diagrams. Bowls and plates sprinkled with pepper granules and bread crumbs are stacked five to ten high or scattered across the front passenger floor. Cups with dried orange juice or old tea caked to the bottom are strewn about. CDs run wild and garbage-stuffed Burger King bags serve as a sort of mound on which the passenger may rest his or her elbow.

After I’ve made enough room on one seat or another for the person to sit down and buckle in, I usually hear something like “Wow. You seem so freaked out about everything else, I’m really surprised by how filthy this car is.”
Yup
.

While we’re driving, the passengers like to blather on and on about God knows what, unaware that I’m busy grouping and transforming numbers on license plates into letters in order to see which words I can spell. Then they are always surprised to hear the same Peter Gabriel songs playing over and over and over. This, to me, is incredibly amusing. “Funny,” they say, “‘Secret World’ was playing in your car the last time you picked me up.” I don’t offer an explanation. I’m too busy timing the blinks of my eyes to when my car’s hood is positioned precisely between two lane lines.

Of course, I’m not the only person, Aspie or neurotypical, with a preoccupied mind or a messy car. I don’t know very many people who open the mail the moment it arrives. The difference is how extreme the preoccupations are for me and the extent to which the associated hang-ups affect me and my family. Most people can have something on their minds without ignoring their families or the world around them. But my brain doesn’t work that way. If I were to stop indulging my obsessions, then my life would be nothing but stress. An odd but analogous situation might involve a person in a full-body cast filled with mosquitoes—all itch and no scratch. All stress and no relief. Completing certain chores doesn’t give me a sense of fulfillment toward an obsession. It doesn’t scratch the itch. So rather than doing them, I engage in activities that do offer relief and pacify my mind: taking lengthy showers, for example, or forcing Kristen into discussions about whether she likes spending time with me.

Fortunately for me and my family, with a lot of discipline and some strategic reprogramming of my brain, I could learn how to manage my obsessions. Transformation is always an option. I simply had to learn how to defer my engagement with a special activity and how to indulge an obsession without overindulging. I had to learn how to respond to the demands of real life without coming unglued.

With Kristen’s help, I had already made some progress in this area during the months that followed my diagnosis. Kristen knew right away that I needed to be shown how to manage myself, so at first she was firm and spelled things out for me as clearly as possible: “Parker just wants you to play trains with him, Dave. You can’t make him wait for an hour while you ‘optimize the configuration of the tracks.’” I’d note her advice in my Journal of Best Practices and try not to repeat my mistakes.

By summer, we were picking our battles together; if I felt strongly about watching the first few minutes of
Live with Regis and Kelly
uninterrupted, then I’d lock myself in our bedroom and watch until the segment was over while Kristen sat downstairs with the kids. By fall, I had learned that I could simply force myself out of certain habits, irrespective of how critical the habit might seem:
My children are downstairs screaming; maybe I don’t have to review the symmetry of my face right now.
So I’d step away from the mirror, making a mental note that the sky had not fallen in as a result of doing so. Then I’d go downstairs to tend to the kids before logging the moment as a success.
So
this
is what neurotypicals are up to. Crazy.

Managing obsessive behaviors was one thing; convincing myself to become obsessed with laundry to ensure that it would get done would have been something else entirely. That’s not to say that it would have been impossible. Kristen and I had made cleaning the kitchen one of my special interests, but that was something that sort of evolved. In 2006, about two years before I was diagnosed, I had started an argument not unlike our discussion of laundry. My point had been that I expected Kristen to keep the kitchen clean at all times. “You’re here all day with Emily anyway,” I said. “It’ll give you something to do.” (Sometimes I use words, but I choose them very poorly.) Her counterpoint involved the F-word, and the next day, I became permanently responsible for keeping the kitchen clean. “As clean as you want to make it, dear,” she specified. For over two years, I honored my responsibility under severe protest.
This is bullshit. I hate this.
But in 2008, with my commitment to restoring our marriage came a new philosophy:
Do this one daily chore for your family, and don’t be miserable while you do it.

The inspiration seemed to come from nowhere, although it’s possible that I was just trying to score that day—proof that necessity is the mother of invention. In any case, I gave it a shot one evening.
Just clean up and be happy about it. See how she reacts.
I expected Kristen to laud my cheery disposition and was surprised when she didn’t seem to notice it. I would have accepted a standing ovation or even a cookie for my efforts, but Kristen’s reward system is far more subtle. Cuddled up together later that evening, I realized my reward was the absence of resentment, and after she fell asleep, I logged the lesson in my journal:
Harboring resentment is more fatiguing and less rewarding than simply completing the task. Plus, she seems to like being around you more when you’re not miserable.

The more I practiced cleaning the kitchen without being angry, the easier and more natural it became. I’d begin clearing the table, and an hour later (I never said I could do it quickly), I would have a perfectly spotless kitchen in which I could pace around and clear my head, and my great mood would make Kristen want to spend time with me, which was what I wanted more than anything.

But the question remained: If this sense of discipline is possible, then why can’t I just fold that frigging laundry?

This is the question that Kristen finds herself asking, albeit in different forms on different days.
If he can arrange our mail by envelope width, why can’t he just open it? If he can spend ten minutes relacing his shoes so that the strings are of perfectly equal length, why can’t he just put them in the closet when he takes them off? If he can call me on my way to work to ask if I’d planned to make the bed, why couldn’t he have just made it himself?
When Kristen enters the kitchen and finds me still cleaning an hour after I’ve started, the answer is clearly revealed: I tend to complicate things.

“Are you still cleaning?” she’ll ask. Prior to my diagnosis, I would hear this question as “Why is this taking you so long? Why are you so stupid? Someday I will leave you because of this.” I would go nuts, throwing my hands into the air like a maniac and barking back, “I’m sorry that what I’m doing still isn’t good enough for you, sweetheart. How’s this?” Then, in an immediate and dizzying rage, I’d slam every dirty dish straight into the dishwasher, some of them missing completely and crashing to the floor, while she stormed out of the room, saying into the air, “I am so . . . fucking . . .
done
with this shit.”

Now, though, having come a long way in our communication, I take the question for what it really is: natural curiosity about a process—a process that, I like to think, is the product of genius. I understand that she’s surprised, as anybody would be, by how long it takes me to clear a few dishes and wipe down the counter. I usually respond with a nod, if I can pull myself away from my focused cleaning efforts long enough to do so.

Sometimes she’ll come over and give me a hug, and as I freeze in place to accept her affection, I can feel her observing my operation. First, it’s all dishes into the sink, carried one by one from the table and inspected for remnants. Then they are separated by group: plates and bowls in the left basin; glasses, cups, silverware, and utensils in the right. All silverware is then inserted into a single glass, which is filled with water (I call this “presoaking”). Next, the bowls and plates are hand-scrubbed one at a time and deposited into the dishwasher, followed by glasses and silverware. Loading the dishwasher takes me a while—it’s an iterative loop designed for ease of unloading, the goal being to arrange the plates and bowls just as they are grouped in our cupboard: dinner plates, salad plates, soup bowls. Glasses and silverware are subjected to the same organization. All this effort pays off when I unload; I can simply grab entire groups of dishes and place them in the cupboard.

When Kristen loads the dishwasher, the process is far less optimized—it doesn’t matter to her if plates and pots share a row or if bowls mingle with glasses. I find myself having to put dishes away one at a time, rather than in clusters, which is so tedious, frustrating, and unnecessary that my head begins to hurt and I find myself questioning her thought processes, if not her motives.
Forks and spoons bundled together? Is she trying to kill me?

After I finish the dishes, the counter gets wiped down, as do the chairs and the table. I leave the cooktop alone most nights because the first minute spent cleaning a cooktop inevitably leads to fifteen more. I wash the sink, line the toaster up parallel to the edge of the counter, wash my hands, and—sixty minutes after I’ve started—I call it a night.

Folding clothes presents a similar set of challenges. Whereas Kristen can fold a shirt, then a pair of boxers, then a towel, and stack them all together while watching TV or talking, I am forced by my own logic to take a different approach.

Again my objective is the most sensible strategy for putting things away, so I stack everything in groups: boxers, T-shirts, pajamas. Because stacks are involved, they must be straight, requiring each fold to be precise and creased hard, like a paper airplane. I can’t have any distractions, and still a basket might take half an hour to fold, or longer if, heaven help me, socks are in the mix. (I only purchase one style of white sock, so those are easy. It’s the dress socks that need special attention—they’re all such little individuals.)

Folding takes me forever, so I just don’t do it. Kristen does, and I’m always hesitant to inform her that she does it incorrectly. Due perhaps to carelessness, her hectic work schedule, or the fact that two children and a fully grown husband are constantly hanging off her and begging for attention, Kristen’s method is much more haphazard—there’s no telling how the boxers might be folded, and my T-shirts are always folded in on themselves, making it impossible to determine the color of the size label located just below the collar without unfolding the whole thing. This is a problem, as I’ve reserved shirts with red labels for casual dress and those with black labels for important occasions.
Is she kidding?
I’ll wonder as I unroll a white T-shirt.
Who folds shirts like this? It would have been easier to pick through the dryer.

I always have the option of unfolding all my shirts and refolding them, so long as I accomplish it in such a way that Kristen never, ever, ever finds out, because if she did, nothing of mine would ever be folded by her hands again. And sometimes, locked inside our bedroom closet after she’s gone to work, I do.