Reading · SENDinMama · RSS Amplifier

When called into the Headmasters office ‘for a chat’ when you work in a prestigious family of private schools in England, most teachers I know would succumb to minor panic and momentarily reflect upon any possible reasons they may be in trouble. The walk to the office would be fraught with finger twisting and mild sweating as they mutter ‘I’m sure everything’s fine.’

Not me. I am certain that everything is fine because my mind is an encyclopaedia of everything I have ever done and these things are checked against the strict ethics committee that lives in my head. I am up to date with everything. I am a beacon of organisation. My children are doing well and to my knowledge I haven’t got on the wrong side of the parents. So what is this all about?

These meetings have happened to me in most settings I have worked in. I have come to expect them. They also (to my knowledge) don’t happen to most of the other teachers. I have come here to have my brain picked. Vigorously. Usually on the same topics: Special Educational Needs and Disabilities (SEND), neurodivergence, Social, Emotional and Mental Health needs (SEMH) and behaviour management. I am sat down and presented with cases of children who display particular (usually unwanted) behaviours and I am asked for my advice on ‘sorting this out’. This became so frequent in one setting that I created the position of ‘Resilience Mentor’ and the SENCO and Safeguarding team would refer children and their families to me for weekly support sessions. I was included in Pastoral team meetings and went to represent the voice of the child in multidisciplinary safeguarding meetings and my session notes were used in court. I have not once got a predictive diagnosis (what I think a child will be diagnosed with when professionally assessed) wrong in fifteen years of working with children. One day I will be wrong. I just haven’t been yet.

I became Data. You know? Data, from Star Trek. I was a self-aware, sapient, sentient and anatomically fully functional android who serves as the second officer to the Senior Leadership Team. I worked tirelessly behind the scenes to gather information that was crucial to decisions made, but was not given a position on the Senior Leadership Team. Why? Well I’m glad you asked…

Hi, I am Natalie and I am an autistic, PDA, ADHD adult who most likely has OCD but is dealing with one bombshell at a time at this point. To most people (including Senior Leadership Teams) I am considered abrupt, abrasive, argumentative and I overshare pretty badly. I may say inappropriate things to you and I won’t always pick up on the fact that you’re not enjoying this conversation. I have executive functioning difficulties and demand avoidance and managing teams of people is apparently above my skillset. I tell my management when they are wrong (which they often are about neurodivergence) in their decision making and I offer a detailed explanation with supporting evidence as to why - this is not appreciated, apparently.

Don’t get me wrong, I am a really nice person. It is deeply important to me to be kind. I will never mean to upset or hurt anyone and I will go out of my way to help you, sometimes to my own detriment. But I have always struggled in the workplace… Apparently, I’m not alone.

We know that autism is a lifelong diagnosis and while we all spend a lot of time discussing children with autism, sometimes I think we can all forget the adults. Around 20% of autistic people are knocking about in the workforce, and it is a pretty choppy sea, my friend. Many of us barely above the surface as we wade through the floating, half obscured expectations that occasionally boff us on the back of the head while we gasp for air. Bumping into the bodies of others that didn’t quite make it and no matter how much we blow our whistle, we are rarely pulled out and onto the Leadership Rafts of Rescue.

There’s no space on the floating door for Data.

So what else are we struggling with out there? Why is the workplace an area of difficulty for autistic and PDA adults?

Something to consider is the sheer scale of the demand ‘load’ on an individual. Demands aren’t just tasks, they are interwoven into the tapestry of the day so seamlessly that you don’t even know the stitches are popping until they whole things on the floor. Let’s break it down:

I don’t just mean in a teaching lesson observation context, I mean in all contexts. Regardless of whether you’re a teacher, hairdresser, or you work in Boots, there is always someone watching or looking at you and when you have a fear of being perceived and are demand avoidant it means your nervous system is always on edge.

Examples include (but are not limited to):

Performance reviews
CCTV
Lesson observations
Appraisals
Someone watching you work
Being monitored
Photographs/videos
Assemblies or leading meetings
Your appearance
Your tone of voice
Social Media (in a work capacity)

Many PDA adults struggle more with externally imposed timing than with the work itself.

Deadlines
Timetables
Clocking in/out
Meetings
Punctuality
Being able to complete something in the same amount of time as someone else
Using time effectively
Knowing what the bloody time is

For those of us who also have ADHD I would like to offer a virtual hug because this section is our arch nemesis.

I mean this is a personal area of difficulty for me and I really try my best to work on it but its overwhelming to be honest.

Replying to emails
Phone calls
Returning messages
Small talk (God help me)
Team meetings
Speaking in an appropriate way
Requirements to use particular language (e.g. subject specific)
Non-verbal communication
Marking work
Pleasantries
Social Media platform upkeep (responding to comments etc.)

A particularly important PDA demand. This one’s a doozy. But it can be like carrying a building on your shoulders when people start to ‘know’ you for being a certain way…

For example:

Being known as competent, knowledgeable, kind, funny, interesting, organised, punctual, kind, etc.
Being expected to lead
Being relied upon

Okay so what you’re thinking right now is that I am an absolute nightmare ‘hire’ and that you’re waiting to hear about whether I’m actually good at anything.

Then a crisis hits.

I am spectacular in a crisis.

I am going to give you an example from early in my teaching career when I was working in a pupil referral unit for 11-16 year olds with severe Social, Emotional and Mental Health problems. Many of the children in this setting were dangerous and most of them were bigger than me. The majority were males and had a history of violence, sometimes against women. I was the Head of English in this school and responsible for getting these kids into the classroom and interested in learning English. Upon taking this job it was explained to me by the Head that the attendance rate for English lessons was around 9% and that his only expectation of me was that I increase that number and get the kids to stay in the room.

Expectations were low. Resources were scarce. Money was tight and we had an ISI inspection coming up that we couldn’t afford to fail. There was a hell of a lot of pressure on me to turn this department around, and I was only 22. I am not using real names in this story and I would like to make you aware of a Content Warning - This section discusses a young person in crisis and is graphic with discussions of SH.

Fast forward five months. I have been working harder than I’d ever worked and built relationships with these kids that felt more important to me than breathing. I learned everything I could about them, tailored their learning to their interests, made fun of myself, used humour in everything and we all had a great time. I prioritised them, the learning came naturally afterwards. My average class attendance was around 85% and we were preparing for GCSE’s.

It’s a Tuesday and in my class my Year 10’s are working away on their laptops and I am bouncing between them supporting where needed. I take a moment and look at Bobby and he is in the zone. I allow myself a moment to smile and feel really proud of how far he’s come. A couple of minutes pass and Bobby puts up his hand and politely says ‘Miss can I go to the toilet?’, to which I reply, ‘of course’.

I tell my TA to keep an eye on the kids and that I will be back in a moment.

“What’s going on, Nat? Where are you going?” asks Auntie Ann, the nicest Teaching Assistant to ever grace God’s green earth.

“Something’s wrong.” I whisper as I open the door and slide out.

My head darts left and right as I move through the corridors checking rooms, toilets, cupboards, the roof (you would not believe the amount of time I spent on the roof) and nothing. I asked the staff and children, no one had seen him. I stop and decide to think like Bobby, where would I go if I don’t want to be found? I sprint for the far end of the school, up the unlit stairs to the exam rooms and as I turn the corner he is there. Smiling. A smile so broad it meets the white of his eyes. My spine ran cold and I took a step back.

“How did you know? Nat. How did you know where I was?” His unbroken eye contact was like an alarm in my head as he took slow steps towards me. Both hands behind his back in an unnatural bend.

“You’ve never once called me ‘Miss’, bud. Now, I’m going to need you to take your hands out from behind your back so that I know that what you’re holding won’t hurt me. Can you do that?” I opened my hands at my sides as I spoke, showing him that I meant him no harm. I radiated calm, reduced and relaxed my facial expressions and spoke softly.

His manic smile slowly slipped down his now tear stained cheeks and he drained of colour. My gaze moved down to his arms. He held them out trembling in front of him and his eyes bored into my soul as he whispered “please, help me”. He stumbled forward.

The extent of what I saw on his wrists and forearms will stay with me forever. The ‘tink’ of the blade from my classroom pencil sharpener hitting the floor brought me back from disbelief into action and beginning emergency care. I shouted and shouted for help but no one responded. I tore off my cardigan and top and wrapped them tightly around the wounds, laid him down and elevated his arm. He was in shock and his eyes were rolling into the back of his head. “Bobby, talk to me mate! Stay with me!” I kept pressure on his arms but it was coming through too fast. I had nothing left to use.

The welcome sound of the clattering of shoes on stairs filled the air, and we were surrounded. We lifted him as a team and carried him to the medical area and awaited the ambulance. Paramedics poured in and asked me a catalogue of questions. I was able to recount everything precisely and they returned to care for him. He was carried out and the staff dissipated. I stood in silence, topless, in the middle of the staff office, covered in blood and alone.

That was Tuesday.

Why was I better able to deal with that situation than responding to an email? Because the nervous system often responds differently to genuine necessity than routine expectations. The task is meaningful, autonomous, there is a sense of urgency and clarity.

It’s Tuesday evening and I need to process this day. I have arrived home and I see that I am still covered in blood. My mind turns to practical solutions so I immediately phone my Mum.

“Hi Mum, I just need to ask a quick question. How do you wash blood out of clothes? Like a lot of blood?” I remember this call so vividly. I had my clothes in the sink, running hot water to fill it and had one hand pressing and squelching the clothes in the water, trying to loosen them up. To a bystander, it was the remains of a murder scene. But I remember feeling nothing.

Which is the reason my mother screaming “WHAT DO YOU MEAN A LOT OF BLOOD?!?” took me by surprise. I hadn’t processed it. I hadn’t considered that she didn’t know why there was blood in my clothes. I explained. She didn’t relax. I ended the call.

I then took time to watch a movie, ate some dinner and had an early night. I didn’t need to recover from Tuesday. Because it was a crisis.

But after a regular Wednesday of responding to emails, marking exams and work, planning and teaching lessons and making sure I wasn’t late or poorly prepared for three different local authority meetings, I had a meltdown when I got home that took me out of the game for the rest of the evening.

We can find the things difficult that other people find easy, and vice versa. PDA adults in particular don’t cope well with:

Micromanagement
Rigid hierarchy
Lack of autonomy
Meaningless tasks
Constant monitoring
Lack of flexibility

WHICH IS WHY I am now where I am…

I am now my own boss. I have the flexibility to work how, when and where I need to… or not at all! I am working in an area that is my special interest and something I adore doing. I work in ways which fit my neurological needs and for that reason my productivity is through the roof. I never have to recover from work, I look forward to it.

Now I am not saying that self employment is the answer to all PDA and autistic adults problems. I am just saying that the goal was never to become better at tolerating distress. The goal was to build a life that required less distress in the first place. This is how I do that. So what can we take from this?

PDA employees are often:

Highly creative
Excellent problem-solvers
Strong in a crisis
Deeply committed to meaningful work

But may struggle with:

Arbitrary rules
Micromanagement
Excessive monitoring
Lack of autonomy

The issue is rarely capability. It is often nervous system threat.

Well, thank you for reading this far. It was a lot, wasn’t it? See, I told you I overshare.

Anyway, tell me your thoughts on all this and how you manage in the workplace, I’d love to read your story.

With Love

~~Data~~

SENDinMama

From ‘Difficult Employee’ to Business Owner: Navigating Work as a PDA Autistic Adult

The Invisible PDA Child

Comments