Stimulation and Solace

How pushing heavy furniture can make you feel new

I’ve written this piece as part of a series curated by Jackie Schuld entitled The Joys of Being Autistic. I really enjoy Jackie’s writing, and it’s helped me understand myself post-diagnosis immensely.

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I’ve snuck out of ‘fun’ times more often than I can count. I’m skilled at finding back doors and seeing friends all the way to the coat check before disappearing. I might say goodbye to an understanding friend, and ask them to pass my apologies on to everyone else. Before realizing I was autistic, I thought I was a kill joy for hating loud noise, bright lights and heaving crowds.

The book that unlocked an Autistic understanding of myself, Invisible Differences, helped me see why parties are so hard for me. It is also the only book I’ve found to mention my most passionately held special interest: I’ve been rearranging furniture since I was 9. I like to study a floor plan as though it were a Rubix cube. It started during a play date. I went to a friend’s and found their house turned inside out. The dining room was now the living room and everything was in a new configuration.

“We like to switch things up now and then” his parents said.

After that, there was nothing my parents could do to stop me moving furniture. I would try to rearrange my bedroom as quietly as possible but any slight thud would alert my parents to what I was doing. They’d shout from downstairs ‘STOP MOVING FURNITURE!’. I loved the proprioceptive input from pushing heavy things as much as the wonderful feeling of a totally new space once I was done.

Eventually, I’d tried every possible bedroom layout and scuffed enough floors that my parents let me move to a room in the attic. It offered fewer possibilities for rearranging but enticed me with its wonderful quiet. My uncle called it my music box. I began studying floorplans and drawing imaginary houses on graph paper. I loved studying pictures of Riads (Moroccan courtyard houses). Their windows and doors faced inward – a square of calm in a busy urban centre. I dreamed about living within such stark contrasts. The stimulation of a city when I wanted it, and a cocoon to retreat to.

I started walking to the nearest thrift store. I brought back a gilt mirror, pottery and anything else that struck me and was under $10. I hauled a chest of my great Aunt’s from the basement and displayed my wares on them. I built a window seat out of cushions and blankets so I could look out over rooftops to downtown. I took my bunk bed apart with my dad’s help and continued to rearrange furniture to suit my latest big idea.

I sensed all this rearranging was strange. I had no intention of studying architecture or interior design, I just wanted somewhere to myself. I once hesitantly brought up my passion for floorplans to my best friend in college. I felt betrayed when she mentioned it to a group of friends, shaking her head as she said “it’s so weird…”

I was nervous to show my drawings to my partner when we first met. I offered to rearrange his living room instead. His flatmate took one look at my work and said ‘no, change it back.’ I had gone out on a limb that time.

My partner didn’t find my drawings weird though. Our first Christmas together, he got me thick graph paper and fine point felt markers. The next Christmas he got me a book of abstract color combinations. He likes to see what I come up with. He sometimes sends me a unique house he’s seen online and asks me to map our furniture onto the floorplan. I have my own system of symbols for couches, windows, doors, everything! I sometimes imagine a long-term home for us: a place where we can enjoy our passionate interests, and share them with people.

I sought a diagnosis two years ago. I felt embarrassed telling my assessor about the joy of a good reshuffle. My partner’s acceptance hadn’t replaced the feeling I was odd. At the end of day, the assessor told me it was the thread that brought everything together for their understanding of my AuDHD. It lets me balance stimulation and solace, allows me to build systems and control my environment. It lets me plan for my sensitivity to light, sound, color, fabrics and my own body. I had never understood it as sensory until then. I couldn’t yet describe what my sensory issues were but I knew what felt good. I realized I had been making spaces feel good for myself over and over again.