Freshers Week reflections: There is no good middle ground for those with autism

Words by Laila Szykuta

My phone lights up with another email detailing all the Freshers events in the upcoming week that I know I won’t be going to. These events were designed for people in the same situation I was in – that is, bored and in desperate need of an excuse to socialise and make new friends because I would never do it on my own free will.

The events are diverse enough, ranging from binge drinking in bars to pottery classes. I try to picture myself in a crowded club, surrounded by people that are stood too close and forcing a drink that I don’t really like down my throat, and it just doesn’t seem right. I try and picture myself sat in overalls and an apron, painting daises on a clay mug – that doesn’t seem right either.

Another email comes through, this time from the DASS, with events that are specifically catered for autistic people like me. Again, I try and envision it. This time I’m stood in a room with a small group of people who think like me, but this somehow doesn’t feel any easier.

A social gathering of autistic people is still a social gathering after all. It is not so much the people that make me uncomfortable, but more the fact that during conversations, I have a tendency to focus on the amount of times I’ve blinked in the last minute, than engage socially.

It seems clear to me that there is not enough middle ground when it comes to Freshers events. Either I was put into a situation of partying where I would feel entirely uncomfortable, or I was made to participate in a tailor-made event for neurodivergence, which feels alienating and forced.

It is not that I am not appreciative of the inclusivity, or ignorant to the fact that this event was probably very helpful and welcoming to a lot of people. It may have even been helpful for me, had I gathered enough courage to go.

But when the time came to pull myself out of the door and into that room, my stomach turned at the thought of being anywhere that didn't have pillows and a duvet. And so, I can’t help but wonder if my problem with Freshers Week was that the events weren’t catered towards me, or if it was the endless loop that I often find myself in of wanting to be different, but failing to do so.

There was a part of me that wanted to be out at a bar that I didn’t know – listening to music that I didn’t like, and drinking something that tasted like nail polish remover mixed with lemonade. It was something that my old friends, and my big sister, and the person that I wanted to be in my head, would have done.

The week before starting university I had looked in the mirror every night and promised myself to be different. I swore that I would be at that bar, and I would smile at the right time, and I wouldn’t seem awkward or anxious or overwhelmed. I failed to remember that just because I was in a new city, it did not mean that I was in a new body, or had a new brain.

I think of the bar with its crowds of people. Of the clay mugs with their wonky handles and dried paint. Of the room with the autistic people.

I fear that the only thing that we might have in common is the fact that our brains function a little differently, and I don’t know if that’s enough to form a meaningful relationship. I think of my friends back home and if they’re out dancing at a club and forgetting all about me. I think about my old room and how empty it must look without all my posters up on the walls.

My Freshers Week consisted of avoiding the kitchen whenever I heard noise, and fighting off the occasional panic attack when I remembered how big the city on the other side of my window was. It was not what I wanted it to be, but perhaps that’s okay. I have the next three years to be at the bar and face the music first hand, rather than just hearing the bass of a song from the room underneath me and the occasional lyric when someone sings along.

There will be another week of events that terrify me to my core, and maybe next time, I’ll have the courage to go.