Secret Decoder Ring
“Autism gave me music. It gave me a band.” — For Glitterfox’s Andrea Walker, a late Autism diagnosis unlocked not just self-understanding, but a way to connect with the world through songwriting and the road.
My name is Andrea, and I’m the guitarist and primary songwriter for Portland outfit Glitterfox — an indie band scratching our way across America by way of every dimly lit rock club from San Diego, CA, to Provincetown, MA. I’ve lived in a van, in packed hippie artist community houses, and in commercially zoned office spaces. I’ve driven 20-year-old cars, worn hand-me-down clothes for a decade, and done everything possible to survive and eke out another day trying to support myself with a guitar in my hands. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve accepted that it’s probably the only work I’m truly cut out for — and it’s absolutely the only job I want.
Three years ago, I was diagnosed with Autism at the age of forty-one. The diagnosis came after another meltdown in the Safeway near my house — overwhelmed by noise and lights, my system shut down. I stood frozen in the self-checkout line, unable to move, talk, or think, tears welling in the corners of my eyes. (I still hate the grocery store, though I manage better these days with noise-canceling headphones, a very supportive girlfriend, and extremely short trips.)
A battery of assessments from my therapist followed as I finally began to get honest about the isolation, array of struggles, and quiet desperation that I had been living in for years. Even with two immediate relatives on the spectrum, I couldn’t believe it. The diagnosis blindsided me — landing like a ton of bricks — and at the same time, it felt like being handed a secret decoder ring. For the first time, I could begin to make sense of the social confusion, sensory sensitivities, food issues, memory lapses, and processing difficulties that had shaped my life since childhood.
“Please don’t ruin my birthday party too…”
“Can you take this quiz? I’m worried you’re a sociopath…”
“You just said the exact same thing to me four times in a row — can’t you remember?”
A lifetime of hearing things like that — while straining with everything in you to fit in, to connect, to act “normal” — wears you down. I used to count in my head how many seconds I was supposed to hold eye contact with someone. Eventually, you give up trying. You stay home.
But then, I had music.
After earning a bachelor’s degree in Music Therapy with a concentration in classical guitar (and practicing three to eight hours a day for four years), I devoted everything I had to songwriting. What I lacked in natural talent, I made up for with stubborn perseverance and laser focus. I’ve since learned that one of the hallmark traits of Autism is the pursuit of “special interests” — areas of intense focus that are sought with enthusiasm and extraordinary dedication. Music has always been that for me.
It’s difficult — almost impossible — for me to get deeply interested in anything else. Why hike when you can write a song? Why garden when there’s GarageBand? Nothing lights up my brain like music. Nothing even comes close.
In addition to the joy and relief I get from playing and writing music, songwriting became a way for me to connect with — and actually start to understand — how I feel about things. Autism affects my ability to pick up on both physical and emotional cues, leaving me often blank or confused about what I’m actually feeling. But when I write, my songs show me. The lyrics and melodies reveal what’s going on in my heart in ways I could never articulate in conversation. I’m not great at talking about feelings, but I sure can write about them.
Being in a band, however, can be hard when you’re Autistic. Touring disrupts the routines I depend on to stay grounded. I like to eat the same foods every day, and that’s impossible on the road. Even something as simple as deciding what to wear on stage can be agonizing. I want to wear the same thing over and over, and certain fabrics, textures, and colors give me the ick in ways that I can’t overstate.
Being in a band is like being married to three people (and in my case, one of my bandmates I was actually married to), and after a lifetime of isolation, social confusion, and — at times — ostracism, I’m highly sensitive to conflict, disagreement, and the feeling of upsetting others. I have an overly rigid way about me that sets me up for constant conflicts with my bandmates — but in reality, it’s just part of my Autism: an energy-conservation strategy to cope with the daily strain of having a disability that others can’t always see or understand.
When I began writing the songs for decoder, I wasn’t trying to make an album about Autism, divorce, or searching for belonging. But that’s what came out. The songs always come first; the meaning comes later.
As I write this essay, the band is halfway through a nationwide album release tour. We’ve had some high highs, some low lows, and now we’re gearing up for the home stretch. I’m dreaming of the day that I can get back to my bedroom studio to write some songs and figure out what I make of it all.
Someone once told me that my Autism made me fundamentally broken — that it meant that I could never truly connect with others — an idea that I wholeheartedly reject. My Autism gave me music. It gave me the passion and focus to write songs that not only make my life better, but maybe make someone else’s a little better too.
Autism gave me a band. It put me on stages in front of thousands of people, doing the thing I love most. The songs I’ve written for Glitterfox have been streamed over two and a half million times — reaching people I’ll never meet, yet somehow, we’re connected.
While my Autism presents daily struggles that oftentimes still best me, they pale in comparison to these — and the many other gifts — that decorate the seconds of my life as I continue to press forward with otherworldly dedication and a guitar in my hand.
Photography: Jason Quigley