Burton David - How to be happy: a memoir of love, sex and teenage confusion

Contents

Meet Cameron. He has his hands around my neck, holding me splayed across a tablein visual arts. The class is full of noisy kids who arent really fazed by the factthat Im about to die. Its only a couple of weeks into high school, but theyreused to Camerons antics.

The bohemian art teacher has only worked at the school for six months. In fact, shesonly worked in teaching for six months. At the end of the year shell throw in thetowel on a career that was obviously never her idea in the first place. But rightnow shes standing on the opposite side of the classroom, uncertain what to do, asCamerons hands grind tighter and tighter around my neck.

I provoked this attack when I said that Cameron was an idiot. In my defence, he was.Or, at least, he was acting like one.

I had muttered it in a cowardly manner, jeering back at him when he called me a faggot.In his defence, I was. Or, at least, I was acting like one.

Unlike Cameron, I couldnt catch a ball and I wasnt interested in the quantity offroth that could be produced from shaking a coke can for five minutes. I had provenadept at understanding some things that Cameron couldnt, however. Like basic mathsand English. And so I was a faggot.

I could snap you like a twig, he slurred into my face.

I was used to bullying, and Cameron was the typical bully in every way. He was tall,had spiky hair, and he had received an extra kick of testosterone before a lot ofthe other thirteen year olds around us had. He even had a sidekick: Trent. Trentwas the weakest kid in the whole of our year level. He was round, he feigned stupidityand he hero-worshipped Cameron. Unlike me, he had made a wise choice, early on, tomake himself Camerons best friend to prevent the inevitable arse-kicking that hewould receive if he didnt.

Who had I made my best friend in the high-school game of thrones?

Dearest, darling Ray.

On the very first day of high school, I was standing outside a classroom, waitingfor class to start or for someone to give me orders.

Do you like cheese? said a deep voice from behind me.

I turned around and met Ray. We proceeded to have a ten-minute conversation aboutcheese. We resumed it over lunch. And then we picked it up again the next day.

I would come to both despise and love Ray. He was my instant ticket to the bottomrung of the social ladder, but he didnt judge me. As long as we were talking aboutcheese or Pokmon, I was an amazing friend.

It took Ray slightly longer than most people to get his sentences out. He had long,greasy hair, which he tied in a messy ponytail. His skin was shiny and unwashed,and his clothes sat on him like theyd been thrown on from a distance. There wereno lockers at our school, which meant that we carried the days textbooks aroundwith us. So the new students were weighed down by a bag almost as heavy as themselves.But Ray seemed more weighed down than everyone else.

Ray had Aspergers. I diagnosed him within seconds and immediately felt comfortable.I knew Aspergers Syndrome intimately through my younger twin brothers.

I suppose I should try to explain Aspergers. Its not easy.

Have you ever been a sober person at a really messy party? Around you are loads ofpeople having fun, singing and making out, occasionally stumbling over to you andslurring nonsense in your ear. There are moments of lucidity, maybe even enjoyment,when their drunkenness doesnt matter and youre able to feel part of the fun. Thereare other times where you feel completely alienated from the madness around you.You might even feel that youre in significant danger, and youre being driven towardsan anxiety that no one else can understand, as theyre too busy riding high on somethingthat youre not a part of.

Thats kind of what being Aspergers is like. Its not a brilliant explanation, butits a start. There are countless others.

My favourite is an unconfirmed story I heard long ago that originates in the nineteenthcentury somewhere. Its said that people with Aspergers Syndrome tend to have innocentfeatures, with gentle contours and unblemished skin, sometimes described otherworldly.(It helps to think of the elves from The Lord of the Rings here.) This, combinedwith their general demeanour, led them to be called Angel Faces. This title isstill around today. Search Aspergers and angels and youll get a myriad of sitesthat claim theological proof that people with Aspergers are reincarnated angels.

I like this bizarre deduction, not for its validity (although whatever floats yourboat is fine by me), but for the idea that there is nothing inherently wrong withAspergers kids. Its not them who need to learn from everyone else; its everyoneelse who should learn from them.

But I fear Im not getting any closer to an explanation.

Aspergers Syndrome is, fundamentally, a social and communicative disorder. AspergersSyndrome kids have a great deal of trouble connecting with the world. They find itextremely difficult to read emotional or social cues. The subtle signals that weuse everyday to demonstrate how were feeling can be completely lost on them. Tosurvive, many learn to mimic emotional states.

Aspergers folks have a low threshold for stress and anxiety. So things need to stayin a strict, predictable routine. If that routine is broken even slightly it canlead to an unforgettable trauma.

My brothers were born two years after me, and diagnosed with Aspergers Syndromesome time before they were five years old. The doctors originally thought they wouldnever speak. This turned out to not be the case, and the twins have grown up to be,in most ways, functioning members of society. But it is unlikely that theyll everhave jobs, and they stay at home, full-time, with my parents.

What makes my brothers effortlessly charming is their coping mechanism. They can,at will, recite any of the following television programs in their entirety: FamilyGuy, most of The Simpsons, Thomas the Tank Engine, Friends and The Adventures ofLano & Woodley. In addition, their video-game library spans an entire wall. Askthem to recite any scene from these and youll be met with an incredibly enthusiasticmonologue.

For a long time when they were growing up, ninety-nine per cent of what the boyssaid came directly from a film or television show. Their dictionary was pop culture.

Feeling angry? Their voices would flatten, deepen and take on the exact intonationof Homer going off at Bart. Disappointed in somebodys naughty behaviour? The FatController would suddenly possess them, and theyd give a lecture to a very naughtyengine.

Over time, theyve found their own voices. These days they can articulate their inner-emotionalstates without resorting to television shows. Its the result of a lifetime of hardwork.

So I grew up with Frank Woodley, Colin Lane, Peter and Stewie Griffin, Chandler Bing,and the Fat Controller. Somewhere in there are Andy and Chrissy, my brothers.

Cue sentimental indie acoustic guitar, and enjoy the following montage of my life,growing up.

Chrissy is six when he collapses in the backyard. He is breathing and his eyes areopen, but hes completely unresponsive. Desperately worried about some kind of brainfailure, Mum throws him in the car and we rush to hospital.

Upon arrival, Chrissy wakes up from his catatonic state and immediately goes backto playing. Mum nervously interrogates him, and Chrissy mildly replies, I was Superman,affected by Kryptonite. His commitment to the role was stunning.

Mum plans an innocent surprise for Dad. A professional photograph of his wife andthree children for his desk. Its a nice thought: Andy, Chrissy, Mum and me all beamingat him. But the teenage photographer lacks the social skills to deal with the twins,who are not up for being told where to sit and how to smile or being ordered to keepstill. Theyre only six or seven. The result of half an hour of failed photos isa tantrum from both of them. Its exceedingly public. Mum eventually gets them intothe car. Just before she drives off, someone knocks on her window.