Childhood, Autism and Disney
Everyone loves Disneyland, right?
My parents must have scrimped for our big vacation there when I was ten-years old. Knot’s Berry Farm, Disneyland, and the most ’80s destination of all, some kind of Cabbage Patch Kid nursing station. This wasn’t BabyLand General Hospital, which is apparently in Georgia, but a weird Southern California offshoot. Needless to say it was anxiety-producing experience to hand off my doll to a total stranger for a “check up,” only to get it back about 5 minutes later. I was told everything was fine. This was a relief.
(As a side note, even though I was a girl who would transition to being a guy later on in life, I loved dolls. Still do. I should finish that Barbie movie soon… darn Apple TV for such short rental times. Blockbuster was kinder, folks.)
Going to Disney was a huge deal, like a pilgrimage to Mecca. It was the only time my parents attempted the feat, maybe because I was a “difficult” child. In this case, “difficult” means undiagnosed autism, including severe sensory pain. These days I wear two forms of ear protection to go to Target, while back then I had… well, nothing. They tried, I tried. We all tried. But zero structure and routine, the extreme noise levels, and a total lack of understanding, accommodations or emotional support, plus a long trip that just kept getting longer, took its toll.
It was the end of the day. My parents tried to haul me to the big Disney parade and fireworks show that happened every night in the ’80s. Sticky, tired, sweaty, cold, overwhelmed, and shorting out due to pain, I was out of options and “spoons.” It was too much. As anyone who has autism — and any understanding adult who has a child with autism — can tell you, what happened next was simply logical. I melted down. The memory is visceral. I cried hysterically while sitting in a dirty gutter while the parade happening maybe a block away. It was exquisitely painful, yet my whole family was undoubtedly pissed and disappointed at me. Bootstrapping and its fall out doesn’t even begin to cover a childhood in which you are to blame for your own suffering.
Earlier during that trip, everyone got a prize of some sort while riding the monorail — it must have been some kind of promotional gimmick. My parents and brother received a commemorative pin, and I received a free trip back to Disneyland. A golden ticket, a la Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
I have carried that ticket with me through every move and upheaval in my life. It went with me to Portland, Oregon, and it was shipped in a box to Albany, New York. It was with me when I was fired — multiple times — due to autism, and it was with me when I went homeless. Though I am now a professional who makes enough money to actually take Disney up on their offer, it’s sat in my files, growing dusty, for years.
The last few months I’ve been in intensive therapy due to other circumstances of my childhood which were, shall we say, less than ideal. The Disneyland trip has been part of this emotional processing. Certain things my parents did were probably justified as I was a horrible kid, from their perspective, who melted down at Disneyland. The other day I fell into a deep funk thinking about the trip, and decided…
It’s time to give the ticket away.
Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE new life experiences. I want to try things, taste new treats, enjoy myself, yet everything has to fit within the confines of my disability. And, frankly, I’ve been to Disney. It was painful. Yes, you can get disability passes these days, but the experience was traumatic. Going back might be cathartic, yet there would be all kinds of variables outside my control — my teeth clench and anxiety, my oldest friend, shows up at the thought.
I have a young niece, outgoing and neurotypical. Her parents, my stepbrother and sister-in-law, love to travel. Last night I texted the offer of the free ticket. They agreed wholeheartedly, and this morning I put it in the mail. My main emotion isn’t exactly relief. More like deep acceptance, a letting go. Regret, sure, that too. But not of the trip. Just… the ticket’s been with me for so long, and it’s the potential to go.
Sometimes the happiest place on earth isn’t worth it. Sometimes the best thing you can do for your inner child is to understand, accommodate, and emotionally support, because no one else did. ❤
