Autism - The Olympics of Mediocrity

The Olympics: The ultimate celebration of effort and dedication.

There are activities so normalized that people do them effortlessly, but there are others that require dedication and training to master. A select and small number of people have chosen to practice an Olympic sport. The closest example I have is my brother, a Parapan American medalist in swimming.

Others win marathons, hurdle races, and there are even those who manage to hit the center in pistol shooting at the Olympics, with one hand in their pocket. Reaching the level of an Olympic athlete has a cost. Each athlete dedicates a quantity of time and effort that goes beyond what ordinary people could imagine. A failure in the execution of their routines can mean being out of the competition or even suffering an injury.

The world recognizes their importance, so no time or resources are spared. It’s natural for someone who has managed to stand out in a discipline to feel deeply proud of their achievement.

The Paralympics: A celebration of the best, regardless of their barriers.

The world human rights organization has defined the concept of a person with a disability as:

Any person in a body who, in some situation, faces barriers that prevent them from developing in the same way as a person without that barrier.

Suppose someone with cerebral palsy decides to compete in the Olympic swimming events. The person in question faces a barrier that, despite years of dedication and their effort in the competition, will prevent them from achieving a result that approaches what is neurotypically acceptable. Is this person mediocre for not achieving what others consider normal? Is their effort for some reason less valuable than that of neurotypical athletes?

No. Of course not.

So, recognizing that not everyone is on equal footing, given various circumstances and barriers, the Olympics have been adjusted to allow fair competition. That’s why the same event (100m crawl, for example) exists in multiple categories determined by the barriers people face.

The important thing to take away from this is the understanding that a person’s barriers are not a reason not to celebrate and recognize their achievements, dedication, and effort.

Anyone who dedicates their life to the pursuit of some perfection in their art or discipline is someone who, in my opinion, should feel proud of it. After all, that’s what has helped evolve the sciences, arts, and humanity itself.

The contempt for dedication and effort.

The counterpart to the celebration of achievements reached through dedication and effort is the contempt for the lack thereof. For less than acceptable results. For mediocrity.

Returning to our athlete with cerebral palsy, suppose that event took place. They competed in the 100m crawl category and came in last place. And unlike last time, let’s add another assumption: No one on the jury or in the audience knows about their condition and the barriers they face. There was no way to know. Suppose their condition was effectively invisible.

What would happen? Would they be celebrated for their effort and dedication? Would they be recognized for having managed to compete in an event that is much more difficult for them than for others?

No. Of course not.

They didn’t meet the expectation of normal. They didn’t achieve what was expected of them. They didn’t do well.

So the real difference isn’t in the barrier, it’s in the recognition of the barrier as something legitimate and real. And, therefore, in the visibility and knowledge of others about that limitation.

"Autism is not a visible disability; it’s an invisible disorder." ~ Dr. Tony Attwood

For autistic people, communication and social interaction are not natural. Therefore, it’s necessary to study and learn to detect details that may be invisible to us autistics, but that neurotypicals perceive easily, naturally. However, reading and studying theory is only useful when combined with practice and training.

And then a harsh reality is revealed: just as an athlete without feet will realize that the theory about ankle position at the start in athletics is not designed for them, an autistic person will learn, often through consequences, that all theory about social interaction is made by and for neurotypical people.

Therefore, autistic people not only have to understand and apply the theory, but also develop their own that allows them to interact with neurotypical people acceptably, through trial and error. The reward for 'winning' the event is that nothing bad happened.

Developing that incomplete and defective theory in most cases is a task that takes years, even decades. As I write this, I am 28 years old. Of which, I have spent 12 constantly participating in the 'Olympics of mediocrity'. Training every day, competing without rest, and being forced to do so. Having work meetings, trying to date someone, talking on the phone with a friend. In a quantity that, at least in my experience of being close to professional athletes, far exceeds the training they do daily.

The stakes are high. Failing a routine can be disastrous. My best effort in a wide variety of events often results in performance that doesn’t reach what’s acceptable. The public will see it that way, judge it that way, and the people you deal with will see it the same way.

In my 12 years of participation in these Olympics, I have accumulated multiple injuries, often hard to recognize. Without knowing exactly when I was injured, this year I received the diagnosis of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD), a result of being forced to participate in these events and of society’s treatment of someone with "mediocre" performance.

That’s the result of losing. But, what happens when you win? At best, nothing. At worst, commonly when people find out about your autism, comes the invalidation of your person and condition: "I don’t believe you have autism", "But how? You seem to have emotions", "You look normal", ...

Faced with this adverse scenario, eventually, an Olympic athlete retires. Whether due to injuries, age, or the weight of competition. Either way, they consider their future, the effort invested, and the rewards obtained. They weigh that against the possible future, and that it’s no longer worth it.

At this point, you may think that maybe this comparison isn’t fair, that it’s not the same. And you’re right. It’s not the same and much less fair.

Because in the Olympics of mediocrity, there are no medals. There’s no recognition. There’s no celebration. There’s no retirement. There’s no rest. There’s no end: 2 out of 3 autistic people think about retiring, 1 out of 3 autistic people attempt to retire, autistic children are 28 times more likely to attempt to retire before age 10 compared to their neurotypical peers.

And what is this retirement from the Olympics of mediocrity?

For autistic people, suicide, naturally.