I was not where I said I’d be on the night of the eclipse. I did some messaging, tried to mitigate complications it may have caused but wasn’t one hundred percent successful. That happens sometimes. I know my limits, and on the whole, I function – that’s what decades and decades of practice in coping strategies does for a person. It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.

Autism

I wasn’t having an autistic meltdown. That doesn’t generally happen to me, because I know when and how to (really or metaphorically) run for the hills and anyway, like most people my age, I’ve never had an official diagnosis (and have noted the fashion for self-diagnosis and its consequences) but I’ve found and practised the coping strategies. I didn’t even know what to call the difficulties I had until a family member did the research to get a statement for another family member (it took years). She then gradually worked out the lines of neurodiversity that run through our family and friends – yes, it doesn’t just run in families, it runs through friendships too – we find each other.

No, I was having a genuine, one hundred percent justified rage, because I know just how much work, how much grief, how much finding and applying of extraordinary courage it takes for a person with autistic or ADHD or any of those dys-things traits to break through into adulthood in a way that allows them to learn a trade, or a skill, or build a social or professional network, so they can apply their whole selves to a worthwhile life.

I know what doing all that has cost some close family members and friends. I know someone who took a struggling kid out of school, worked solidly for over a decade to educate that kid – not just academically, because autistic kids need a lot more time on study skills, and a degree of social skill and emotional intelligence that most people don’t achieve until their forties, many never achieve at all – autistic kids need all of that just to get through, for example, a day at college. This particular kid, thanks to their courage and their mum’s hard work, achieved GCSEs, then A levels, then entrance to their first choice university. I also know a fair few people who are spending hard cash on tutors and other aids to get their kids over the line for the tertiary courses they want, be that college, uni or trade. I know how badly some schools fail them, and how others offer them the bare minimum to survive the day, rather than the quality of support that would allow them to thrive.

And how will the world react if they succeed? The world will shrug and say ‘well, there’s obviously nothing wrong with you.’

Mobility aids

I met a woman once, who came to a discussion circle in an electric wheel chair, with a PA, and, some way into the session, got up (carefully) and walked (slowly) to the loo and back, her PA walking alongside. She told us later in the session, the nature of her disability put harsh limits on her strength and endurance. Sometimes, she can walk a bit and likes to. Occasionally, she risks getting up and doing a little bit of something that’s physically fun – a little dance, perhaps. But it’s a huge risk. If she miscalculates, if she spends energy she can’t afford – even by a mis-timed walk across a hall, she can end up in bed and in pain for days as a result.

What’s extraordinary is that people like her will rarely risk getting to their feet in front of an unknown audience because there are people who will whisper behind their hands, ‘she’s not really disabled!’ They’ll pass it around and laugh, and add to the number of people in the world who wouldn’t help her if she were in difficulty, because ‘she’s a fraud’.

Invisible disability

There isn’t really any such thing as invisible disability. If you’re disabled, or in pain, or autistic, or whatever your thing is, it makes you act differently, and people won’t see your condition, but will take that difference as a character-flaw, and judge you for that. It’s embarrassing. In my case, it’s a tendency for sudden departures and occasional no-shows — either I wasn’t up to it or my ability to keep tabs on a diary got the better of me — and the time I spend worrying about the consequences of those mess-ups.

Someone told me recently that what most people think are the visible signs of autism are actually the visible signs of trauma, distress or embarrassment, all the things chronically disabled people feel trying to make their way through a stunningly judgemental world.

And as if it wasn’t bad enough our country suddenly suffering a huge up-swell of racism and violence, we also have a rash of finger-pointing at autistic and other varieties of neuro-divergent people.

Shame

So shame on the Times, shame on the ‘someone’ who said what they said, and shame on everyone who’s repeating it all over social media, presumably because they can’t think of any other criticism to make of Chris Packham’s most excellent work, bringing the truth about the climate crisis to thousands, giving us the opportunity to finally share that grief and worry with roomfuls of others who know we have an urgent problem, and need to take action.

And shame on anyone who enjoys all those disparaging stories about other people they don’t even know but who they now want to flag up as ‘frauds’, because it’s easier than actually thinking about what those people are actually doing.

If you need any further persuading that the climate crisis Packham is campaigning about is real, just look at the state of us, and look up end-times in the history-books. When a civilisation knows it’s up against the wall, there are wars, witch-hunts, weird cults, murderous prejudices, political extremes, scapegoating mobs and outrageous beliefs flying around everywhere (and eclipses and shooting stars? — oh yes, but some things really are just coincidences).

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