Felt the need to get this out. I think this will help my friends and family understand a little bit of why I am the way I am. I am still not exactly comfortable saying that I do have autism, or what type, or to what extent, without a diagnosis; even if I was, that doesn't give most people much information, anyway. So I started writing. It's difficult for me to extensively discuss my personal feelings and experiences in the first person, so I addressed it to myself. Hopefully this will have the added benefit of helping others to really imagine what it would be like. This isn't a comprehensive description of every single one of my symptoms, but it is a description of the most prominent/bothersome. This probably isn't relevant to anyone on here, but I didn't want to just post it on Facebook or something. I figured I can always direct people here that I feel should read it.
The world is strange. Listen to the mumble, the hum, the buzz, listen all you want; you still won't get it. You only have one-third of the equation. You can only listen. Another third is looking, and occasionally you manage to look. You look at a girl across the room. Then she looks back, lighthouse-beam gaze burning into your eyes. Your heart leaps into your throat. You look down. Your eyes sting. No looking. The other third, you can't attempt. It's simply gone. You're not sure what it is, but you know that it some essential piece, some understanding. Without these things, the world is incomprehensible.
Not only that, it is also terrifying. Open spaces are bad. In an open space, you have the constant, teetering sensation, the nagging feeling that you might suddenly fall off of the Earth, up into the sky, up into that intolerable brightness. Shade is better. Something to anchor you. Something to shield you from the burning light and other eyes.
But as uncomfortable as an open space can be, crowds are worse. Crowds are suffocating, horrid, infuriating. Touch, touch, touch. Brush. And the roar. Why are they screaming? Why can't they just shut up?! Your chest seizes up. Can't breathe. Keep your head down. Weave through. Get out as quickly as possible, even if that means more of them have to touch you. You might knock a few over, but you have to get out. They don't see why you're in such a hurry. They don't really see you. Period.
The fewer people, the better. Less noise to keep track of. Easier to pay attention. Easier to make sense of things. Easier to find better words.
Did I not mention that?
You have trouble with words. Not with other people's words. You are a convincing actor. A parrot with an extensive repertoire of pleasantries and small-talk. If you can write yourself a script, or use someone else's, you seem just like one of them. So you have been told. You wouldn't know, yourself, because you have no idea what they're like. People. You're a parrot. You're an alien.
You have trouble, however, finding good words. The right words are a lost cause for you. But most of your words are inappropriate. Offensive. Hurtful. Nonsensical. Strange. So you try to find words in their language, which apparently isn't the same as yours. You know you're speaking English, and they're speaking English, but you must have learned some foreign dialect, some alien interpretation, because your words don't mean the same as theirs. Their language seems unlearnable.
This has given you a strange paranoia that everything they say is an insult, because everything you have ever said, they find insulting. Everyone hates you. Everyone knows that you're not one of them. Better not to speak.
And sometimes, you can't. Sometimes, you try. Sometimes, you really ought to, you really NEED to, but there's this invisible hand that presses down over your mouth.
Sometimes you scream. At nothing. Sometimes you're just being too loud.
Other times, you are genuinely angry. You never know why, but suddenly, out of nowhere, you will fly into a rage. Your control of this machine shuts off. It goes off on its own. It will throw things, it will hurt people.
Then you come back. You don't know why you were angry. You're calm now. You suspect that this machine, this body that you puppet from somewhere behind, is one of them. Because like them, it makes absolutely no sense.
You like touching things. The way they feel. Objects, walls, clothing. Just not people. People are difficult. Sex is especially difficult. Sex makes you feel sick. There has only ever been one exception to this rule. You can touch him. He can touch you if he's careful. If he does it the right way. Sometimes. You can occasionally look him in the eye. He is almost as confounding as the rest of them, but there is trust between you. Even if it is not always complete, it is something. And he can speak a little of your language. He can get through. Just a little.
You often wonder why you are like this. You wonder what went wrong, and when? But it's no good. As far back as you can remember, you were like this. Strange child. Very shy with strangers. Refused to talk. Noises bothered you. And smells. Cooking, especially. They still do. You took everything literally, as children often do. You didn't understand jokes or sarcasm. You were often alone, sometimes lonely, but for the most part, you preferred the company of objects to that of people. Even then, they were strange. Difficult to understand. To your parents, you were just a shy child, a difficult child. A brilliant, but strange child. You suspect that this is still how people perceive you. Intelligent, but eccentric. Shy, withdrawn. Sometimes rude and inconsiderate. Sometimes angry. A *****. Scary. Someone called you that in high school. You didn't understand why. People always think that you are angry or sad. But if you're not screaming or crying, you are not angry or sad.
It's just that you have trouble with your face, your body. Making expressions is difficult. When you do, they are often not the right ones. You sometimes smile or laugh inappropriately. Scowl when you are thinking. You blink too much.
?Don't flutter your eyelashes like that!? That's what your parents used to say about it.
Body language is difficult, too. Your gestures are vague, sweeping, and excessive. You stand with your arms crossed, or wrapped around you. This is an anchor. It keeps you grounded. You have been described by several dance teachers and theater directors as ?awkward?.
Despite what people think, you do not consider yourself intelligent. You are fascinated by certain subjects. You can easily spend hours learning about something as long as it interests you. If it doesn't, you simply can't stand to hear about it. You move on. Your grades were all over the place in school. You were often told that it was a shame that you refused to live up to your potential. You are not intelligent. You simply have a mind for facts and patterns. A decent memory for certain things. But no sense of logic. No dedication. No true understanding.
Empathy. That's the other one. The other Major Challenge. Along with Expression, Empathy (or rather, the apparent lack of either) is the reason that you have been called several things, including ?sociopath? and ?psychic vampire?. People think you have no emotions. People think you have no regard for theirs. What they tend not to grasp, is that you feel as vividly as they do. Your emotions grip you, sometimes take hold of you and refuse to let go. Sometimes they make you scream and sometimes they shut you up. Most of the time, they shut you up. You shut them down, push them back. Parrot. Control. Follow a script. Try not to screw it up. You are sure that you are not a sociopath or a psychic vampire. You are not sure what, exactly you are, but you tend to know what you are not.
It takes too many words to describe what you think you might be, because no single word, no single sentence, is quite enough. As usual, you don't have the right words.
You can only describe what is wrong with you by the effects.
You know that it is a dichotomy of sensitivity and numbness. Of extremes of intruding on the world, and receding from it. It is screaming and silence. Need and don't-need. Must and can't. It is obsession and disinterest.
You have learned how to manage a little of it. Let other people talk sometimes, but don't fall completely silent. Smile at the right times. Say hello and goodbye. Look at someone's face, even if you can't look them in the eye. Rehearse what you might say beforehand. Explain everything so you can't offend.
It is tiring. It is exhausting. It is like a constant tight-rope walk. Sometimes, it is too much. Sometimes, you must let go of your facade of normalcy, give in and recede or intrude. Scream, or fall silent. This is very startling to them, because you have so often been so very good at pretending to be one of them. They thought you were normal, if a little quiet or melancholic, or a *****. Now they just think you're crazy. Strange.
But, most of the time, unless you have listened to them a little too much, you don't find yourself to be strange. You work in an orderly fashion. You say exactly what you mean, and say nothing unnecessary, unless you are in a rage. They would do the same, if they had been thrown into some foreign country with completely irrational customs and an unlearnable language. They would think that country very strange and frightening and confusing. That is what their world is to you.
Strange.
The world is strange. Listen to the mumble, the hum, the buzz, listen all you want; you still won't get it. You only have one-third of the equation. You can only listen. Another third is looking, and occasionally you manage to look. You look at a girl across the room. Then she looks back, lighthouse-beam gaze burning into your eyes. Your heart leaps into your throat. You look down. Your eyes sting. No looking. The other third, you can't attempt. It's simply gone. You're not sure what it is, but you know that it some essential piece, some understanding. Without these things, the world is incomprehensible.
Not only that, it is also terrifying. Open spaces are bad. In an open space, you have the constant, teetering sensation, the nagging feeling that you might suddenly fall off of the Earth, up into the sky, up into that intolerable brightness. Shade is better. Something to anchor you. Something to shield you from the burning light and other eyes.
But as uncomfortable as an open space can be, crowds are worse. Crowds are suffocating, horrid, infuriating. Touch, touch, touch. Brush. And the roar. Why are they screaming? Why can't they just shut up?! Your chest seizes up. Can't breathe. Keep your head down. Weave through. Get out as quickly as possible, even if that means more of them have to touch you. You might knock a few over, but you have to get out. They don't see why you're in such a hurry. They don't really see you. Period.
The fewer people, the better. Less noise to keep track of. Easier to pay attention. Easier to make sense of things. Easier to find better words.
Did I not mention that?
You have trouble with words. Not with other people's words. You are a convincing actor. A parrot with an extensive repertoire of pleasantries and small-talk. If you can write yourself a script, or use someone else's, you seem just like one of them. So you have been told. You wouldn't know, yourself, because you have no idea what they're like. People. You're a parrot. You're an alien.
You have trouble, however, finding good words. The right words are a lost cause for you. But most of your words are inappropriate. Offensive. Hurtful. Nonsensical. Strange. So you try to find words in their language, which apparently isn't the same as yours. You know you're speaking English, and they're speaking English, but you must have learned some foreign dialect, some alien interpretation, because your words don't mean the same as theirs. Their language seems unlearnable.
This has given you a strange paranoia that everything they say is an insult, because everything you have ever said, they find insulting. Everyone hates you. Everyone knows that you're not one of them. Better not to speak.
And sometimes, you can't. Sometimes, you try. Sometimes, you really ought to, you really NEED to, but there's this invisible hand that presses down over your mouth.
Sometimes you scream. At nothing. Sometimes you're just being too loud.
Other times, you are genuinely angry. You never know why, but suddenly, out of nowhere, you will fly into a rage. Your control of this machine shuts off. It goes off on its own. It will throw things, it will hurt people.
Then you come back. You don't know why you were angry. You're calm now. You suspect that this machine, this body that you puppet from somewhere behind, is one of them. Because like them, it makes absolutely no sense.
You like touching things. The way they feel. Objects, walls, clothing. Just not people. People are difficult. Sex is especially difficult. Sex makes you feel sick. There has only ever been one exception to this rule. You can touch him. He can touch you if he's careful. If he does it the right way. Sometimes. You can occasionally look him in the eye. He is almost as confounding as the rest of them, but there is trust between you. Even if it is not always complete, it is something. And he can speak a little of your language. He can get through. Just a little.
You often wonder why you are like this. You wonder what went wrong, and when? But it's no good. As far back as you can remember, you were like this. Strange child. Very shy with strangers. Refused to talk. Noises bothered you. And smells. Cooking, especially. They still do. You took everything literally, as children often do. You didn't understand jokes or sarcasm. You were often alone, sometimes lonely, but for the most part, you preferred the company of objects to that of people. Even then, they were strange. Difficult to understand. To your parents, you were just a shy child, a difficult child. A brilliant, but strange child. You suspect that this is still how people perceive you. Intelligent, but eccentric. Shy, withdrawn. Sometimes rude and inconsiderate. Sometimes angry. A *****. Scary. Someone called you that in high school. You didn't understand why. People always think that you are angry or sad. But if you're not screaming or crying, you are not angry or sad.
It's just that you have trouble with your face, your body. Making expressions is difficult. When you do, they are often not the right ones. You sometimes smile or laugh inappropriately. Scowl when you are thinking. You blink too much.
?Don't flutter your eyelashes like that!? That's what your parents used to say about it.
Body language is difficult, too. Your gestures are vague, sweeping, and excessive. You stand with your arms crossed, or wrapped around you. This is an anchor. It keeps you grounded. You have been described by several dance teachers and theater directors as ?awkward?.
Despite what people think, you do not consider yourself intelligent. You are fascinated by certain subjects. You can easily spend hours learning about something as long as it interests you. If it doesn't, you simply can't stand to hear about it. You move on. Your grades were all over the place in school. You were often told that it was a shame that you refused to live up to your potential. You are not intelligent. You simply have a mind for facts and patterns. A decent memory for certain things. But no sense of logic. No dedication. No true understanding.
Empathy. That's the other one. The other Major Challenge. Along with Expression, Empathy (or rather, the apparent lack of either) is the reason that you have been called several things, including ?sociopath? and ?psychic vampire?. People think you have no emotions. People think you have no regard for theirs. What they tend not to grasp, is that you feel as vividly as they do. Your emotions grip you, sometimes take hold of you and refuse to let go. Sometimes they make you scream and sometimes they shut you up. Most of the time, they shut you up. You shut them down, push them back. Parrot. Control. Follow a script. Try not to screw it up. You are sure that you are not a sociopath or a psychic vampire. You are not sure what, exactly you are, but you tend to know what you are not.
It takes too many words to describe what you think you might be, because no single word, no single sentence, is quite enough. As usual, you don't have the right words.
You can only describe what is wrong with you by the effects.
You know that it is a dichotomy of sensitivity and numbness. Of extremes of intruding on the world, and receding from it. It is screaming and silence. Need and don't-need. Must and can't. It is obsession and disinterest.
You have learned how to manage a little of it. Let other people talk sometimes, but don't fall completely silent. Smile at the right times. Say hello and goodbye. Look at someone's face, even if you can't look them in the eye. Rehearse what you might say beforehand. Explain everything so you can't offend.
It is tiring. It is exhausting. It is like a constant tight-rope walk. Sometimes, it is too much. Sometimes, you must let go of your facade of normalcy, give in and recede or intrude. Scream, or fall silent. This is very startling to them, because you have so often been so very good at pretending to be one of them. They thought you were normal, if a little quiet or melancholic, or a *****. Now they just think you're crazy. Strange.
But, most of the time, unless you have listened to them a little too much, you don't find yourself to be strange. You work in an orderly fashion. You say exactly what you mean, and say nothing unnecessary, unless you are in a rage. They would do the same, if they had been thrown into some foreign country with completely irrational customs and an unlearnable language. They would think that country very strange and frightening and confusing. That is what their world is to you.
Strange.
