Control as Care for Oneself

ASC, Routines, and the Need to Know Where One Is

Control is a difficult word.

It can sound harsh. It may be associated with power, coercion, rigidity, and the need to govern other people. Control can become something that closes things down. Something that pressures. Something that makes others less free. I also know this side of control. When I become insecure, stressed, or overwhelmed, I may try to gain control over my surroundings, over the conversation, over the situation, perhaps even over other people’s actions.

That is not always good.

I know that.

But control does not only mean this.

For me, control is first and foremost about orientation. About knowing where I am. About knowing what is happening. About knowing what is coming. About having a way forward. Control does not necessarily mean deciding over others. It can also mean having enough overview to be in the world without falling apart.

When I lose this control, the chaotic thoughts come. They do not always come as clear sentences. They come as restlessness, pressure, confusion, fragments, and inner noise. It is like losing my way in the forest. The paths disappear. The landscape looks the same in every direction. I no longer know where I came from, or which direction will lead me back.

Then I cannot simply “pull myself together.”

First, I have to find out where I am.

For if one does not know where one is, one does not know where one is going either.

This is a simple sentence, but for me it contains a great deal. It is not only about maps and geography. It is about everyday life. It is about the body. It is about conversations. It is about stress. It is about life with ASC.

I do not need control because I want a narrow life. I need control because the world often comes towards me as too many impressions, too many sounds, too many choices, too many voices, and too many unpredictable events all at once. When everything becomes open at the same time, it is not freedom. It is chaos.

For some people, freedom may mean letting go of plans. Taking the day as it comes. Improvising. Allowing oneself to be surprised. I too can enjoy the unexpected, but only when there is a basic sense of safety underneath. Without such safety, the unexpected does not become an adventure, but a rupture. Not an opening, but a threat to overview.

That is why routines matter.

Routines are not merely habits. They are not merely repetitions. They are not merely fixed patterns in everyday life. For me, routines are a way of holding the world together. They tell the body what is coming. They reduce the number of choices. They create a rhythm in which the day can rest. They give me a beginning, a direction, and a possible ending.

When the day has rhythm, the body does not need to remain in constant alert.

I can write. I can read. I can drink coffee. I can walk. I can rest. I can draw. I can be in silence. I can know that this comes first, and then this. Not because everything must be mechanical, but because the body needs an order it can trust.

Routines do not give me less life.

They give me more life.

They free energy. When the basic structure is predictable, I do not have to spend my strength orienting myself all over again. I do not have to invent the day from the beginning every morning. I do not have to assess everything anew. I do not have to ask: Where am I? What am I doing now? What comes next? What is expected of me? What have I forgotten?

The routine answers quietly.

You are here.

This is the day.

This is the next step.

That is why control can be care for oneself. Not control in the sense of shutting the world out. Not control in the sense of controlling others. But control as a form of self-care: a way of giving the body enough safety to live.

This became especially clear to me when I walked the pilgrimage route to Santiago de Compostela.

I walked about eight hundred kilometres. For many people, a pilgrimage is an image of letting go of control, opening oneself to the road, taking the days as they come. I understand that. But for me, it was different. I was able to walk precisely because I had prepared. For a whole year before I left, I memorised the route. I read about the stages. I knew where the path went. I knew where I would begin and where I would end each day. I knew where I would sleep. I knew which villages lay ahead. I knew what the next stage would demand.

For some, this may sound excessive.

What happens to spontaneity?

What happens to the adventure?

But for me, it was precisely the preparation that made the adventure possible.

Because I knew where I was, I could walk. Because I knew where I was going, I could be present. Because the route was memorised, the body could rest in the rhythm. Each day had a beginning and an end. Each day had direction. Each day had one simple task: to walk from one place to another.

I did not have to spend all my energy figuring out where I was.

I could use my body to walk.

I could use my eyes for the landscape.

I could use my mind to be there.

The pilgrimage was therefore not less free because it was prepared. It was free because it was prepared. Control was not the opposite of freedom. Control was what made freedom possible.

This is an important point for me.

I think many people misunderstand the need for routines in people with ASC. They may think routines are compulsive. That they restrict. That they make life narrow. That one ought to practise being more flexible. And of course, routines can also become too tight. They can become a wall. They can make it difficult to tolerate change. They can make other people tired if they must constantly adapt to my needs.

I have to take responsibility for that.

But that does not mean that routines themselves are the problem.

The problem often arises when the surroundings do not understand what the routine does. It is not only a habit. It is a bridge over chaos. It is a path through the forest. It is a way of knowing where one is.

When a routine is suddenly broken, it is therefore not merely a small change. It can feel as if the map disappears. Someone moves an appointment. A plan changes. More people arrive than expected. A sound cuts through the room. A shop has been reorganised. A conversation takes an unexpected turn. Something that for others is a minor detail may, for me, create a collapse in overview.

Then the stress comes quickly.

It is not always visible at first. Often I notice it as inner pressure. The body tightens. Thoughts lose their sequence. Sounds become stronger. Details come too close. I may become irritated, not because I want to be irritated, but because the body is searching for a way back to control. I may try to explain too much. I may become too determined. I may withdraw. I may become silent. I may need darkness, rest, or drawing.

From the outside, this may look like rigidity.

From the inside, it is often work of orientation.

I am trying to find the path again.

This is why I like the image of the forest. When I lose control, it is like getting lost in the woods. I see trees, stones, moss, roots, shadows, paths that divide, small signs that may mean something. But the whole disappears. Where did I come from? Where was I going? Which direction is right? What was the plan? What is happening now?

Then it does not help simply to say: Relax.

I need a point of reference.

A map.

A familiar path.

A routine.

A next step.

The next step is often more important than the great solution. If I know what to do now, the rest can come later. That is how routines work. They do not always give the whole answer, but they give a next step. And sometimes a next step is enough.

This is also true in daily life. I do not necessarily need large systems. Often it is the small things that carry me. A cup of coffee. A particular time for writing. A walk. A dark room. A prayer rope in the hand. A drawing. A familiar sequence. A pause before I answer. An appointment that is not changed at the last minute. A message written down, not only spoken.

Small things can be large when they create orientation.

Control is therefore also about knowing one’s own limits. I have hit the wall many times in my life. I have pushed myself too far. I have continued because my interests, my work, or the expectations around me pulled me onwards. I have endured more than I should have. I have thought that I could manage just a little more. A little more noise. A little more social contact. A little more work. A little more responsibility.

In the end, the body said no.

That is a hard way to learn.

Before I received my ASC diagnosis, I did not understand the pattern well enough. I knew that I reacted to stress. I knew that I could become overwhelmed. I knew that I needed calm. But I did not always understand why. I could interpret it as weakness. As lack of will. As not mastering life well enough.

The diagnosis did not remove the challenges. But it gave me a language. It made it possible to see connections. It showed me that routines, silence, preparation, and control were not merely personal peculiarities. They were strategies. They were ways of living. They were the body’s attempt to create sustainability.

There is a great difference between thinking: I am difficult.

And thinking: I need orientation.

The first creates shame.

The second creates responsibility.

Responsibility does not mean that I can demand that the world always adapt to me. Nor does it mean that others must always understand. But it does mean that I can learn to recognise my own patterns. I can speak up earlier. I can withdraw before it becomes too much. I can use routines without shame. I can explain that this is about overview, not about deciding over others.

I can also ask for help in keeping everyday life understandable.

For control as care for oneself is not lonely control. It can also be relational. When the people around me understand that routines create safety, it becomes easier to live together. Then we can plan. Then we can give notice of changes. Then we can write down messages. Then we can give time. Then we can distinguish between what truly must change and what can be allowed to remain stable.

There is care in predictability.

There is dignity in being taken seriously.

This does not mean that life should be without change. Life is change. No routine can protect us from everything. Days are interrupted. Plans change. Bodies become ill. People come and go. Roads close. Flights are delayed. Sounds arrive suddenly. The forest becomes dense.

But precisely for that reason, I need some fixed points.

Not in order to escape life.

But in order to meet it.

The pilgrim knows this. One cannot control the weather, the body, the pain in one’s feet, the people one meets, or everything that happens along the way. But one can know which path one is walking. One can know where the next village lies. One can know that the day has a stage. One can know that one step follows another.

That is not small knowledge.

It is knowledge of life.

I think this is how I can best understand my own routines. They are not the wall around my life. They are the path through it. They do not make the world smaller, but more habitable. They make it possible to enter the day with some confidence that I can find my way back.

Control can be harmful when it is used to govern others.

But control can also be necessary when it helps a person not to get lost.

For me, control over everyday life is essential. Not total control. Not rigid control. Not control that refuses to let life be life. But enough control to know where I am. Enough control to find the next step. Enough control for the body not to remain in constant alarm.

When I know where I am, I can also begin to know where I am going.

And when I know where I am going, I can walk.

Not always far.

Not always quickly.

But in the right direction.

When I know where I am, I can also begin to know where I am going.

Author’s Note

This essay is based on my own experience with ASC, routines, stress, the need for control, orientation, and the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. It is not written as a clinical explanation, but as a personal and practical-philosophical reflection on how routines and predictability can be forms of self-care, freedom, and dignity in a life on the spectrum. This essay was written in a conversation with OpenAI/ChatGPT, which also created the illutration.